The place was Baker St. in London, England. The year was 2018. 8:21 in the morning on a Tuesday. The streets were bustling with cars and pedestrians on the sidewalks. People shouting for a cab, moving along the walkways, headed to work or the market. The smell of fresh pastries, from the bakery just around the corner.The skies were darkening, as a small storm was rolling in. Thunder rolls from the distance. Apartment 221b lie in it's normal silence, though it was occupied.
Sherlock, a famous "detective" sat in the armchair in his parlor. Well, he rented it from an older lady, Mrs. Hudson; who lived in as a housekeeper. He smoked his pipe, as he read the newspaper in silence. The apartment usually held no conversation, just as he liked it nice and quiet. The room was quite warm, as a cup of warm tea sat steaming next to him. Occasionally setting down his pipe to sip on the tea. He would often read the newspaper, to find a case to work. He did not work for anyone in particular. He was a private investigator and often picked the cases he wanted to work. He hated simple cases, he much preferred to work ones, that everyone deemed impossible. Suddenly the door opened and his intern and colleague John walked in with a guest.