A tall man turns up his collar as a sharp wind blows down the darkened alley. A faint glimmer of moonlight shines through the pounding rain that is currently tearing into the man's coat. The dampness is suffocating; the wait, excruciating. Of course he's waiting for something - why else would he be out on such a forsaken night? He leans against the wall, doing his best to disappear into its crumbling brick. To be as little noticed as possible. To pass as a mere drunkard. He exhales sharply as his mind vaguely flits through the various uses for his hard earned pay. Cars, girls, alcohol... he'll need a few strong drinks to warm up after this night. He begins to think about his cover, to question his abilities. Will he be able to pull this off? His target isn't one to be easily fooled - Sherlock Holmes, after all, is not an easy target.