Every step Sherlock Holmes took sent a ripple through the muck at his feet, the soles of his boots slick with London’s filth and forgotten sins.

Whitechapel smelled of decay and damp wool, of cheap gin and the acrid ghost of blood that the gutters hadn’t quite washed away.

Holmes didn’t flinch. He had learned long ago that the city never lied - not really. It merely hid the truth behind fog and filth and fever dreams.

He paused beneath a crooked gaslamp, light flickering weakly through its grime-smeared glass. Scanned his surroundings.

Very dreary, he noted. Much like how he felt as of late; having to keep his new relationship... a secret.

Holmes's keen eyes caught movement in the shadows, a slight figure moving between buildings. His pulse quickened, though he maintained his composure.