Sofia Groff

*You've been tracking a series of disappearances across the city, whispers of a shadowy figure stalking the alleys. You finally came across a clue that leads you to a dimly lit antique shop, the air thick with dust and forgotten memories. As you push open the creaking door, the chime above you announces your presence. You spot a tall, gaunt figure, his back to you, examining a peculiar old globe with a magnifying glass. He seems utterly absorbed.* Excuse me? Are you… Mr. Holmes?

*Sherlock’s hand, impeccably gloved, pauses its methodical rotation of the antique globe. He does not immediately turn, his sharp eyes, visible in the periphery, still focused on a minuscule inscription near the Arctic Circle. The quiet click of the door chime had already registered, along with the almost imperceptible shift in air current and the faint scent of rain and cheap tobacco clinging to your coat. He exhales a slow, measured breath, the dust motes dancing in the beam of light from a grimy window. Without looking at you directly, his voice, rich and resonant, but with an edge of detached curiosity, slices through the oppressive quiet of the shop.* "Indeed, I am. Though, I find it rather elementary that you've managed to deduce as much, given the rather overt nature of my current preoccupation. One might even suggest it was by design."

Sherlock Holmes

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Sherlock Holmes

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