Disclaimer: I don't own anything belonging to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or Warner Bros.

Chapter One: A Foggy Day in London

A single black train plowed through the dense layer of fog hanging over the countryside just hours outside of the London metropolis. Not a soul was out for it was very early in the morning, everyone who was within distance of the train would have been tucked away in their country home, comfortably sleeping. Hills upon hills rolled off into the distance, should anyone have been awake to venture into such hills, he would have been lost in the thick layers of moisture looming over his path.

Amongst the sparse passengers on the train, only two were awake at such an hour. One appeared to be a young businessman, whose latest project seemed to be perching itself soundly atop of his shoulders, weighing down his whole aura. The papers pushing out of the brief case at his feet hinted at a very bulky task waiting ahead of him in London, where the business would prove to be no better than it had been in France. He sat alone in his compartment, with only the smoke from his pipe, as he peered out the window into the foggy abyss that lay outside his window.

The other passenger awake was a woman, who appeared to be in her late twenties or perhaps even early thirties. Unlike the man, whom was burdened with a tedious work load, she appeared to be more alert or perhaps, eccentric would have been a more accurate description. One single trunk was stuffed under the pull-down bed in her tight compartment in the economy class, the word R. Dubois sketched onto the front of her brown, bulky trunk. Had she not been so paranoid about the luggage system the train had, she would have rid herself of the burden, but it was not worth the extra hassle.

In front of the woman, sitting upon her lap, was a pad of paper, or a sketchbook rather. The pen in her hand nearly flew all over the parcel as she sketched a woman's shirtwaist, careful with the layers and shadows, for she could not afford to break another one of the prized pens that her father had gifted her. Tucked inside her bags, were many sketches similar to the one that she zealously worked on. Her attention, for the time being, was set solely upon her work and nothing more.

It was not long before a yawn escaped her lips and she found that her hand could no longer hold even the miniscule weight of the pen. Reluctantly, she shut the pen and tucked it away into her luggage before changing from her maroon dress into a much more casual dressing gown. Not that she would be wearing it for long, since she assumed that the train would be arriving to a foggy London morning within only a couple hours.

Though she appeared to be young, she had much experience in the world of business for she had been determined to run her own dress shop since the ripe age of five, when she would run around her home, changing outfits nearly every hour upon the hour. Her mother hardly minded the child playing "dress-up", but when she began to grow older the cleaning of the clothing became more expensive; therefore, the outfit switches were very limited.

One thing that fascinated her nearly just as much as sketching the latest fashions was people. Every day, she would sit in her store (she had just been able to rent out an innovative, slightly superior space with her profits) and greet whichever clients would stop in to see her, requesting a hem be sewn or a piece be sewn or something else of the same matter.

People were what added the extra flavor to her typically lackluster day-to-day life. Not to say that she didn't enjoy her job, because she did, but it, like anything else, became mundane after awhile. Her schedule was rather predictable and even the sewing could be humdrum to certain extent, nearly all patterns were repetitions of the other; however, human beings were not. Plenty could be told of a person by the way the dress or perhaps the type of clothing that they request to be made. Though she had only been a seamstress with an official business for a little over six years, she had been able to pick up on patterns amongst women rather quickly.

Nearly an entire theory in itself could have been developed over the complications with women and their fashion and this particular seamstress could have written a novel's worth of those details, but there was something much more important, or interesting rather, that had happened to this woman during her life in Paris.

Though she would not have been proud to admit such a thing, she had been married once, while she lived in Paris, where her store was located. Typically, she found most men to be dull and rather bland as far as keeping a riveting conversation went. However, Adrien Dubois had been different altogether.

He was nearly everything that she was looking for in a partner. From the moment that the tall, slender, dark haired, yet bright eyed man entered into her store, asking if she had any knowledge of a tailor in town, she knew that he was unique. From simply a trivial conversation she could already tell that he was someone who was intelligent and interesting. After a conversation or two more, she could add the words comforting, and of course, handsome (and to her, this trait came after the emotional relationship was secure) to the list. There was hardly any other way to describe the relationship with the French man other than: gen parfait**.

She fell so quickly under love's spell and after knowing the man for only five months, she agreed to give her hand in marriage. All was well, until the darkness of reality came to hit immediately after the 'honeymoon' stage was over. This man, whom she had held in such high standards, crushed each and every one of her plans for the future. In reflection, she would have said that five months was foolish to make such a grand decision, but in the moment, it had been very right. No other man had left such an impact on her heart as he had. The news of his true persona was devastating and after only a year of marriage, they ended it.

From the exterior, no one would see a flaw in this seamstress, who's name was Rebecca Dubois (she had kept his last name, for her business had begun to peak in that year they were together and it would have been confusing to her clients for a name change). Not very often was it that she would share this tidbit of information with anyone, in fact, there was a single person with whom she had shared this information. It was that very person whom she was going to visit, who had written her days before, asking her to come and visit to not only revisit the memories of the past, but also catch up on the others future.

This friend of hers was Mary Morstan, someone whom she had been close with for several years. Therefore, when the opportunity arose for Rebecca to take a short break from her business to come see Miss Morstan for a week or so, she hardly hesitated. Mary had acted as a confidant for Rebecca as she suffered through the heartache of essentially losing a loved one without actually physically losing them, but emotionally rather. They exchanged many letters and Rebecca had saved nearly all of the letters that she had received. The trip to London was going to be nice in order for her to reminisce with her old friend.

Sleep, as she suspected, came and was only nice while it lasted, which was only a short while. All too soon, she was awakened by an abrupt halt of the train. Initially, she had intended to wake up well before the train docked at London in order to change and get dressed for the day, but that was before she had been sparked with inspiration so late at night to draw another latest trend and chose to stay up so late.

Quickly, she changed into more suitable attire, a green dress that she herself had sewn. The forest green was by far one of her favorite colors to work with. Her pale skin contrasted nicely with the shade of green; however, she had little time to check her appearance much for there was only a certain amount of time that the train would stay at the depot.

With her dark brown hair strewn about, and boots scrappily tied (nearly falling off her feet), she gathered any of her stray belongings and left the compartment. She had booked a room at the Claridge's in London town and was en route to the hotel as soon as she could find the exit to the depot. It had been many years since she had last been to London and Mary had been helpful in recommending accommodations for the trip. In fact, she was to meet Mary in the hotel's restaurant for tea at eleven, which was five hours away.

Stifling a yawn, Rebecca pushed through other passengers gathered along in the tiny hallway of the train before finally being exposed to fresh air once again. Inhaling deeply, she stepped foot on the sully ground of the train depot. Looking around, she noticed that it was, indeed still gray in London, just as she remembered it with a thick fog hanging above.

"Ah, London," She muttered to herself, pausing to take in the scene. "You haven't changed a bit, I see."

It was common knowledge that London could very well be foggy any day of the year, but she had rather hoped that the end of spring would bring a sunny day. It was for this reason that Rebecca preferred Paris, nevertheless, it was pleasant, in a way, to be back in her hometown.

Keeping a tight hold on her trunk, she continued through the crowd exiting the train depot. Upon exiting, she could see the dirty street corner and hustle and bustle of the city unfold before her eyes. Just as she arrived at the street corner to call for a carriage, she felt a tap on her shoulder and jumped nearly to the sky, ready to attack.

"Ma'am, it appears that you dropped this," A man with a rather nice suit on approached her, and in his hands what appeared to be her sketchpad, and a smile on his lips.

Quickly, replaying the events in her head, she knew that she had securely tucked the pad into her bag. It was impossible, or improbable rather, that she could have dropped such a prized possession.

She scrutinized him for a long, hard moment before smiling, playing along with this little show that he was putting on and grabbing the notebook from his hands. With a hint of sarcasm, she replied," Why, what a gentleman. Thank you, sir."

The man returned with an even wider smile before nodding cordially to her and walking away without another word. Rebecca stood there, watching the man closely as he disappeared around the corner.

"Now, let's see if you actually did return my belonging," She mumbled, once again to herself as many civilians passed by.

Carefully, she turned the front flap of the sketch pad, identical to the one that she owned, and found a blank page. A smile (not in humor) came to her lips as she flipped another page and another, only to find all of them empty as the first one had been. Her sketchpad had been full of her work that she had been working on since the year before.

Biting down on her lip, she released a dry laugh before tossing the notepad to the ground as she wondered the reasoning behind the man's actions.

"London," She said dryly, under her breath. "It has been far too long."

Author's Note: Okay, so here I am in the realm of Sherlock Holmes. I've always loved the short stories and the movies! I do not know how much I will write of this story because I am currently writing a Harry Potter story (which is my priority), but if this is more popular then perhaps I will change that. With that being said, please let me know what you think of this! I would love to hear opinions :D

**gen parfait= perfect

A rough translation :)