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Ivy Liu takes a slow drag of her cigarette, watching Sherlock with those sharp, unblinking eyes that seem to s...
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The Uninvited Guest
Baker Street bustled as usual, its narrow lanes filled with the hum of city life. John Watson limped his way down the road towards 221B, eyes scanning the street as he reached his destination. Just as he approached the door, a black cab pulled up at the curb. Sherlock Holmes exited the vehicle with an air of casual confidence, slipping money through the cab's window.
"Hello," Sherlock greeted, stepping towards John.
"Ah, Mr. Holmes," John replied, extending a hand.
"Sherlock, please." They shook hands briefly.
John looked around the area, taking in the quaint atmosphere. "Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive."
Sherlock grinned. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."
"Sorry—you stopped her husband being executed?"
Sherlock's smirk widened. "Oh no. I ensured it."
John blinked in surprise but had no time to respond before the front door of 221B swung open. Mrs. Hudson appeared, beaming.
"Sherlock, hello!" she greeted warmly, opening her arms for a brief hug.
"Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson," Sherlock introduced.
"Hello," John said with a polite nod.
"Come in, come in," Mrs. Hudson gestured, ushering them inside.
The men entered, and John followed Sherlock up the narrow staircase. His limp was more pronounced on the stairs, but he managed to keep pace. Reaching the top, Sherlock swung open the door to the flat, revealing a cluttered living room, boxes and papers strewn about.
"Well, this could be very nice," John commented as he looked around. "Very nice indeed."
"Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely," Sherlock said, clearly pleased with his choice of residence.
John raised an eyebrow. "So you've already moved in."
"Obviously, I can, um, straighten things up a bit," Sherlock said absentmindedly, tossing papers into boxes with little care for organization.
John's eyes roamed the room before settling on something peculiar on the mantelpiece. He raised his cane and pointed. "That's a skull."
Sherlock glanced over. "Friend of mine. When I say 'friend'..."
Before John could respond, something in the room felt off—an unfamiliar presence, a slight movement that hadn't come from Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson. John turned his head towards the worn leather couch, and there, seated casually, was a woman. She looked at them both with a mix of mild disinterest and calculated observation.
