"So no coffee." The brown haired, dozy man clarified.
"No, we're not having coffee."
"But..."
Evelyn's eyes rolled dramatically. "I'm sorry but coffee is out of the question."
"Are you sure? Because-"
"Oh, God! Shut the fuck up!" She shouted, dumping an enormous amount of aged files on the table. Her face held a look of haughtiness and distaste.
A woman (a few years older than Evelyn herself) with vaguely ginger hair and a white labcoat strutted in. "Oh. W-was I interrupting anything?" She asked in a nervous yet sickly sweet way.
"Yes" "No." They both said at the same time, looking at eachother in a wry way afterwards.
The woman spotted the files on the table and smiled, rushing over to inspect it. "Oh, marvelous. You've brought them. I'm Molly, by the way." She added, looking through the paper carefully. "So, uh, why did you want these again? They're from 221 years ago." Molly shrugged. "Something to do with a recent murder of someone. Scotland yard think it will prove useful. Somehow." Evelyn was skeptical. To be perfectly honest, she'd feel content letting the law rats just get on with it. The door creaked open and suddenly three men and a woman walked in.
"Anderson, there you are." The first of the men said, grey hair and yellowed fingers. Clearly a smoker probably been in the job for years and appreciated the stress reliever.
The woman, dark skinned and bouncy, black curly hair with a heavy frown walked over to Anderson, relieved to get away from the other men around her.
A short, blonde/grey haired man who was practically the poster boy for warmness.
Finally, an interesting looking man. Very tall and imposing, he had sharp cheekbones, blue-green eyes and a mass of dark curly hair. His gaze on Eveyln was sharp and hardened, although she suspected he was like that with everyone.
His eyebrow raised by an incredibly small measure.

Short isolated
temperamental drug abuse spiteful naive

shortsighted insomniac power loving quite intelligent

trust issues new wave music fan chess loving
basic combat skills secretive

Sherlock adjusted his coat collar. "So," he began, a his deep, baritone and slow yet quick cadence drawing Evelyn's attention from across the room. "I need to find a specific death record, find A.B James. I need to know how he died.
"Strangulation." Evelyn said. Though loud, it didn't have the same commanding essence as the man just then. She felt quite underwhelmed at how she sounded. "I'm in the process of remembering the death records."
The silence truly was deafening.
"It's more convenient that way."
The tall man gave a strange smile (although that may be because the man himself seemed so stoic and seemed as though he was not one to suffer emotions) and took a step forward, arm extended. Evelyn looked at the hand before her and took it hesitantly. "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."
"Evelyn Cook. Historian. Kind of."
And from that point on the others introduced themselves. "John Watson. I'm a doctor."
"Lestrade. But uh, call me Greg."
"Why?" Sherlock interrupted.
"It's my name." Greg stated plainly.
Finally, the woman with a slight scowl stepped forwards and suddenly gave Evelyn an incredibly fake smile. "Donovan. My friends call me Sally."
Evelyn coughed. "So, Sally, how-"
"It's Donovan."
Evelyn's dark eyes widened considerably and her lips formed a tight line.
As if by divine intervention, Sherlock's voice broke through and he cheerily (yet smugly) exclaimed "Well, isn't obvious?" To the room although, unfortunately for him, it seems no one was listening. "It's a code." He continued.
Interesting. Either he didn't notice nobody was listening or he didn't care. Either way it seems to be a regular occurance.
"221B is where I live and the AB in the name, well the first letter in the alphabet is 1, the second 2. He died 221 years ago so the answer is 221B."
John rolled his eyes. "Yes, you already knew that. We all already knew that."
"I'm not finished. He died from strangulation and they were bruises, were they not?" He asked, looking at Evelyn. He was speaking so fast that for a second or two she had aptroble understanding what he'd actually been saying. "Um, yes. There was blood across the neck but no lacerations were found." He chuckled lowly.
"If there were no lacerations, then the blood didn't belong to him. But, if there were bruises that would indicate some sign of a struggle. It was the murderer's blood. So, why would he smear his own blood across the body? To make it look more gruesome? Why would he do that? So then he could show other people. He was part of a crime gang and liked to show off his victims, judging by the rather theatrical way he killed him. The bruises were light, considering the girth of the man so the murderer had done this many times. He was prolific and presumbly, so were his friends. This mimics a few underground gangs, almost mafias, if you will, today and my address would indicate something to do with me. Something personal, something to scare me. To conclude, a gang in London would like to kill me horrifically."
There was a heavy silence in the room. Evelyn, as ever, took out her phone to check her texts.
"Why would someone want to do that?" Asked Molly, confused and a little scared.
Yes, Evelyn thought, she had a crush on Sherlock. "Hm, why would someone want to do that?" John asked sarcastically.
Evelyn snorted. "Well," he began explaining but his voice slowly tuned out of her ears. She focused on the paper in front of her.
There was a drawing, a sketch of a man which was unheard of in death records of that day and age. That was part of the reason she didn't show it to Mr. Holmes. She was learning the records, yes but the picture shook her.
Abraham Bernard James. It said and below, a drawing of a man with his eyes open.
Sharp features, slick hair that would've looked out of place back then, large eyes and sharp eyebrows. He had a sinister yet charming smile. Below his neck was the very beginning of a suit collar.
Evelyn frowned. The man looked familiar but it was hard to place him. The fact it wasn't very accurately drawn didn't help.
A.B. James... James?
Evelyn dropped her phone.
The man smiling devilishly, one eyebrow raised wearing a suit was her Uncle Jim.
Her heart raced, she had to get rid of this. There must be some reason this was here... Oh, who was she kidding? He did things like this all the time, forever worrying and upsetting Evelyn. To keep her on her toes, he said. Still, she had to get rid of it, or Sherlock will find out and all hell will break loose. He'll think Uncle Jim was doing something wrong and misunderstand things. She couldn't let that happen.