The moonlight was pale, and a street lamp on an ancient stone road in London cast its dim yellow light through the open window of an apartment building across the street, reflecting two people lying on a large armchair smoking indoors. In the swirling smoke and flickering sparks, I frowned and squeezed out a few words from the corner of my mouth: Watson, I'm afraid I have to go once. A fat man opposite nodded: If I don't hinder you, I would be willing to go with you. I extinguished the cigarette butt in my hand, put on a black windbreaker, put on a beret, my eyes were bright: let's go! Set off! Bang! Directly above the wooden door we bumped into behind us, there was this sign: "221b, Baker Street." He's so handsome that he's so handsome...
