Present

The doorbell rang, the enquirer was brought up, the problem explained. John sat in his bedroom, immersed in a novel - at least that is how he appeared to the outside eye. In reality, he was escaping the stifling weight that his dream (if it was such) had added to his soul.

"John, standard case, murder, stabbed through the back, no way to get in or out of the room, come with?"

The detective's mop of dark hair popped through John's doorway, and John almost said no. But what if this is how Sherlock dies? He finally sighed and stood up, grabbing his coat, and the pair headed out their front door.