"…hello?" a nervous man, with a head of mousy brown hair, looking as though he was in his late thirties, possibly late fourties, called from the bottom of the stairs. His nervous tone didn't match with his confident stance, caused by his years in the army. "I was told a Mr Holmes lives here? Mr Sherlock Holmes?" Awkwardly coughing after gaining no response, he turned to walk away…

He then heard footsteps. Then an unfamiliar voice. It called down, "Yes, Sherlock Holmes does live here, who's asking?" The man who was obviously Mr Holmes himself, the Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street, stepped into the light and the whole house went silent. An astonishingly attractive and staggeringly tall man stood at the top of the stairs. His amazing yet natural brown curled hair shone whenever the light got the opportunity to catch its attention. And then there were his cheek bones, they framed his entire face; he was chiselled to perfection, like a marble sculpture.

"I'm John Watson, and I believe you are Sherlock Holmes. Am I correct?" John tried to remain as cool as possible in the presence of Sherlock, the most perfect person he had ever laid eyes on. He knew he had to get to know this man.
"Yes, you are." Sherlock smirked as he noticed John's discomfort; he revelled in knowing he made people uncomfortable simply by being in the same room as them.