In a quiet part of London, there sits a beautiful mansion. This mansion is owned by the Holmes family. The mansion has two stories, and one of the second-floor windows is being opened silently by a pale hand. There is no light on in the room the window displays, but there is a boy called Sherlock with pale skin, curly black hair, and bright blue-gray eyes. This boy is fourteen and possesses an IQ that rivals Einstein.
One thin, black jeans-clad leg emerges from the window onto the reddish brown shingled roof. The rest of the teen slips out of the window, his figure too tall for it's width. Moving with a grace most growing boys lack, Sherlock carefully made his way down the high-security mansion making nary a sound. He walked right past little cameras perched on the roof calmly, having hacked the security system earlier. He gracefully leapt down onto the roof of the living room, which stuck out of the rest mansion a little. From there, Sherlock hopped onto the grass of his front yard, rolling once before standing up, brushing his black sweater with a smirk, then the raven-haired super genius swaggered over to the sidewalk and made his way down the street.
He walked quickly, with an impassive expression on his face, through neighborhoods, by shops, through an alley or two, until he finally reached what seemed to be his took out a small, folded piece of paper. On it was a handwritten note:
Dear Sherry,
If you would like to conclude the blackmail business, come to Fight City, Aufdenhund Rd on Wednesday, 11;30, and your husband will never know.
-C.M.
Sherlock had found the note on his way to school. One of the trash cans had knocked over, and Sherlock had spotted the tiny piece of paper. The boy knew that looking through someone's trash was against the rules, but unfortunately, Sherlock was exceedingly curious. So, he picked up the paper and read it. Then read it again. A sense of adventure had built up in him and has stayed ever since.