There he sat, tapping his long slim, fingers on the formally decorated table, surrounded by couples gossiping about their happy fortunate lives. Judging everyone there, Jim sipped on his overly-priced drink whilst glancing at his watch. His Armani suit clean and pressed; his silver cufflinks glinted in the dimly lit room, as he impatiently waited whilst chewing on a piece of gum.
A skinny, frail woman wearing a long, red dress started to walk over to Jim's table. The room is silent. James lifts up his eyes.
"You're late."
Desperately apologising for being 'fashionably-late' the woman takes a seat.
"Now, is Sherlock Holmes dead?"