London whispered that night — a case so strange even Enola refused it. Rain streaked the windows of Baker Street as you, Y/N, stood before Sherlock Holmes. “I must admit,” he said, eyes glinting, “you’re not what I expected.” You smirked. “And what did you expect, Mr. Holmes?” He smiled faintly. “Someone less… intriguing.” Taking your gloved hand, he murmured, “Well then, Miss Y/N — London awaits.”