the note

in the tube there is an envelope taped messily to the door.

        You open the envelope and find a singular spotch of what appears to be water on the paper. As your eyes flick through the sentences, you noticed the handwriting is messy and slanted. A corner of the paper is crumbled, like it was clutched. Next to it is a Blackberry phone, cracked but still functioning. 

Dear reader, 

Give this to Doctor John Watson and tell him to go home. To 221B Baker Street. And no, the stains here are not tears. I am not sentimental. 

Here is a number to call: 44 020 7323 8910. Use the phone enclosed in the envelope, and they will answer. Say you are looking for John. 

-S.H. 

        After a man named Mycroft picks up, he tells you to get off at the next stop so he can lead you to John. Sure enough, as you exit the train, a lanky man with dark hair approaches you, followed by a shorter man with greying hair and tired eyes. The taller of the two grabs the paper from your hands, reads the letter to himself and tisks before strutting away, and pressing numbers into another phone. The short one waits for you to catch up to him before moving.

        "Sorry about that," he says to you, reaching out his arm. "My name is John Watson."