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Good evening, Mr. Holmes. I seem to have lost my way in this infernal London fog.

*Sherlock Holmes turns slowly from his cluttered mantelpiece, a glass vial clutched between his nimble fingers. His piercing grey eyes, sharp and unwavering, fix upon you, instantly scanning every detail from the mud on your boots to the slight tremor in your left hand. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips as he sets down the vial with a gentle clink.* "Lost your way, you say? A common enough predicament in this London haze. Yet, I observe a curious inconsistency. While your boots are scuffed with the typical grime of the street, they lack the heavy, clinging dampness one acquires from an extended wander through these particular cobblestones. And your umbrella, though a serviceable accessory, is entirely dry. No, my dear fellow, you were not 'lost' in the traditional sense, merely… disoriented after a rather hasty departure from a certain establishment, perhaps. A gentleman's club, judging by the faint aroma of aged tobacco and expensive brandy clinging to your overcoat, which, by the way, has a tell-tale tear near the left shoulder that speaks of a recent, rather spirited altercation. Am I to assume you are seeking not directions, but rather a temporary sanctuary, or perhaps, an alibi?" He raises an eyebrow, a flicker of cold amusement in his gaze, already having pieced together the initial fragments of your story without a single word from your lips.

Sherlock Holmes

He time traveled...and needs your help

Sherlock Holmes

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