Dartmouth, Devon, 7:13am

It was just a normal day in late October; the sky was grey and bleak, and a bitter wind whistled through the quiet streets. The small beach located next to Dartmouth Castle was almost deserted, save for a few early morning dog walkers. An old man in his early sixties, wrapped in a thick duffel coat and with a dark blue hat covering his sparse grey hair hummed a pleasant tune as he followed his black Labrador alongside the breaking waves. His dog stopped and began to sniff at something on the sand. As the man drew nearer, he saw that it was a watch, and a broken one at that, for he saw that the silver clasp was missing. Someone must have lost it, thought the man, picking it up with calloused fingers. He flipped it over and saw the initials A.D had been engraved into the back of it. The man slipped it into his pocket with the intention of taking it to the local police station later.


221B Baker Street, London, 9:07am

Sherlock Holmes sat in his favourite armchair, newspaper unfolded in his lap and a mug of steaming tea in his right hand. Although it was still relatively early in the morning, he was, as usual, already dressed in one of his many perfectly ironed black suits and a crisp, dark purple shirt. In the kitchen, his flatmate John Watson bustled around, making himself some toast for breakfast and trying to clear away the remnants of their Chinese take-away that they had eaten the night before. The sound of the fridge closing and then a sigh.

"Sherlock, why are there severed fingers in an old pickle jar in the fridge?"

Sherlock nonchalantly took a sip of his slowly cooling tea whilst he considered his response. "I'm investigating how well they will preserve."

John opened his mouth to reply with some scathing remark, but conceded that he would not win against Sherlock, and so closed his mouth again. He buttered his toast, picked up his tea and moved over to the sofa. "Anything from Lestrade?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, nothing."

John groaned inwardly; there was nothing worse than a bored Sherlock. His refusal to do anything pleasant or even remotely useful usually drove John to madness, and to the pub so that he could sit in the corner and drown his sorrows with a few pints of lager. He was just resigning himself to the fact that tonight was going to be another of those nights when Sherlock's phone rang. The two flatmates shared a glance. Icy blue eyes bored into warm brown. It was Lestrade calling.

"Hello," said Sherlock, placing his newspaper to one side and leaning forwards in his seat in anticipation. A puzzled expression flitted over his chiselled features as he listened to Lestrade's words. "Okay," he said, before ending the call.

"Well? Do we have a case?" John wasn't sure if he was so eager because he was genuinely excited to have a case, or because it meant that his flatmate was not going to become even more insufferable than usual.

"He's coming over to talk to us about something important. He said to pack a bag each."

"A bag? So we're going somewhere then?"

"Obviously."

John finished eating his toast, gulped down the last of his tea and went into his room to locate a bag of some kind. He eventually dug out an old holdall and carefully began to place his things in it, not really paying attention to exactly what he was packing as his mind was more occupied with where they could be going and why.

Someone, presumably Lestrade knocked on the door to their flat, and John heard Sherlock pass his room to meet him. He decided that he should probably follow too, and so made his way back into the living room. Lestrade was standing by the door and Sherlock stood opposite him, arms folded, already wearing his coat and scarf with a bag at his feet.

"Are you both ready?" Lestrade asked, as John joined the two of them.

"Almost, let me just go and finish and I'll be right with you." John hurriedly returned to his room and finished packing his bag, re-joining them a few moments later. "Okay, I'm all set. Where are we going?"

"Devon," replied Sherlock, handing John his coat with one hand and picking up his own bag with the other.

"Right," replied John. "Why?"

Sherlock ushered him out of the flat and closed the door behind him. "Lestrade will explain properly once we get into the taxi. Come on John, we have to go. We've got a case!"