West London, Fulham District, 221B Baker Street.
Rustle rustle rustle...
The tip of a pen danced lightly over the paper, leaving curly, looping characters on the yellowing blank spaces.
In the study backed by a window, a middle-aged man with sideburns and deep blue eyes was recording something in a notebook. At times, he would pause his writing, stroke his square jaw with one hand, and with the other, he'd pick up a silver lighter from the desk, 'ding' it open with a flick, and light the hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his lips, taking a satisfying drag.
The cigarette sizzled as it burned. The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and within the wispy rising smoke, the middle-aged man gazed at the wall opposite him, embroidered with basil patterns, lost in thought as if recalling an event that had happened not long ago.
"Holmes was saying... hmm."
