The fog was heavier today than any other. Though the sun shone brightly above, the thick clouds shielded London from its rays. Pedestrians brave enough to traverse the streets in such a condition, carried around lanterns and felt around like the blind. Those who chose a safer route for themselves called up the nearest hansom and set off. It was a recipe for some sort of disaster to happen.

In the Marylebone district of the City of Westminster, 221b Baker Street, a tall, sharp man stared out his window at the gray canvas before him with a thoughtful look on his face and a pipe in his mouth. His dear friend, Dr. John H. Watson, sat across the room before the glowing fire in a cushioned throne chair, reading the morning paper. There had been a lack of stimulating cases lately, and though that was good for the sake of London, it made the busy-body, Sherlock Holmes, anxious.

At the sound of Dr. Watson turning the page to the tribune, Holmes let out a sigh. "Watson, please, there is nothing in the Star today. The noise is for naught."

Watson looked to his friend. "But Holmes—"

"But nothing, Watson." Holmes pulled the pipe from his lips and turned his back to the window. "The only news you will possibly find in there today are petty little crimes. Nothing that will satisfy this hungry mind."

"Holmes," Watson frowned, "if you're thinking of even touching that syringe of yours, I swear I'll—"

"You'll what, Watson?" He raised his eyebrow in a challenging and playful manner. "Will you fight me? I doubt I'll even use half my strength for a sack of potatoes such as yourself."

"Holmes!"

"Calm yourself, my dear Watson. I only tease." With a long-legged stride, Holmes made his way over to the fireplace. He emptied out his pipe into flames and set it on the mantle. "If I'm not to settle back onto my bad habit, I need something to stimulate my mind. Watson, go to Barnes's bookstore on Glentworth Street and get me something to read."

"Me? Why can't you go yourself?"

Holmes let a sigh escape his lips as he sat himself down on the throne chair adjacent to the one Watson sat upon. "My dear Watson—" he began.

"Holmes, every time you begin with that, I end up having to do something which lands me in an incredibly ludicrous situation. Surely I will not be doing so this time!"

"I only ask that you go the neighboring street and get your dear old friend something to keep himself busy with. Is that such a trying task?" Holmes looked at Watson with those sharp eyes, daring the man to deny him.

Watson let out a sigh as he got up. He balanced the paper on the armrest of his chair and headed for the door. "Is there anything specific you wanted?"

"Surprise me."

After putting on his coat and hat, Watson left the flat. He continued down the stairs, out the front door, and into the foggy streets. It was like he had walked into an unfinished painting. Nothing was drawn except for his hands and the door to 221b Baker Street. Not only was getting to the bookstore going to be complete and utter Hell, but Holmes was also incredibly picky about his literature. One trip might not be enough. Watson was sure to make more than one trip to and from the bookshop before finding something that satisfied the old bookworm. Still, Holmes needed something for his brain or else he would turn back to his nasty habit and as his doctor and friend, Watson had to keep him away from the syringe.

Barnes Bookseller was located a street over from Baker Street. Only a street over and across. It could be done if he followed the sidewalk. Though, when it came to crossing to the other side, he could only hope that there was no cart speeding by.

Watson followed his feet with his eyes, going on, step by step, towards the street corner. He stopped at the corner and sighed. This was the moment of truth. If he was lucky, he could continue on living in order to get that blasted book for Holmes. Watson took in a deep breath and ran across the cobblestone road. Focusing more on his fate than his surroundings, Watson failed to see that he had indeed made it to the other sidewalk and tripped over the curb.

A woman was heard giggling nearby.

Cursing his terrible luck, he felt his cheeks get warm from the embarrassment as he got up. "Ahem, um, I—" He ran his fingers through his hair, trying desperately to calm his nerves.

"Sir, you dropped your hat." Watson could only hear the woman's voice. She spoke softly and slowly, drawing her words out ever so slightly. It was pleasant to the ears, and Watson could only imagine how beautiful she was. "Sir, are you alright?"

"Oh!" Watson blindly reached out and fondled around for his hat. He felt his hand brush up against something fabric and instinctually grabbed it. "Thank you kindly."

"It would have been wise to bring a lantern out here."

"Yes, but I was in a hurry."

"Please, be careful getting to wherever you're in a hurry to." A long, thin hand reached out from the fog and lightly touched his hand.

"T-Thank you," Watson stammered at her kindness.

There was no response from the woman. Watson only heard the footsteps of her passing by and saw the faint glow of a light of some sort floating past him. He stood there mesmerized for a moment. There was some sort of flowery aroma that followed the mystery woman. It was not the smell of any perfume he ever smelt before.

For a brief moment, Watson contemplated on following her, but it was going to be hard enough to get to Barnes's bookshop. Plus, Holmes would probably wonder where he went off to.

Drawing his focus back onto the sidewalk, Watson continued on to his destination.