221B Baker Street is the address of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. It is his residence, and also the location of his home office, when he is not out solving crimes for the local authorities. He shares his residence with his dedicated companion, Dr. John Watson. An assistant to them both, Molly Hooper, is often on the premises to answer calls, greet visitors, and attend to her employers', and their clients', needs.

Need answers? Have a case? Stop in at 221B Baker Street for the solutions to your problems!

Molly checked the advertisement over carefully. The sketched magnifying glass and smoking pipe was a nice touch, she thought. Sherlock would have her head if there was a typo, though, so she read it through one more time before the flyers would be printed and distributed all over the city. With a satisfied nod, she handed the page back to the printer and received a receipt. Then, she walked several blocks back towards Baker Street, and stopped into the sandwich shop next door to the apartments.

"Ham and swiss, no mustard, and a- oh. i see you already have it there," she chuckled. John must have called ahead; marked on a paper sack on the counter in front of her were the words 'Jerlock Special'. Sniggering, she paid, grabbed the bag, and headed out. At the door to 221, there was a woman pressing the buzzer. 

"Hello? Do you have a case for Mr. Holmes?"

"A case? Oh, no. There's an advertisement here in the paper saying there's an apartment available for rent. A basement one? 221...um." The blonde looked down at the real estate section in her hand. "D. 221D. Do you know if it's still for rent?"

"I think so. I'll have to ask Mrs. Hudson, she's the landlady, just give me a moment to fetch the keys, you can come in and ask her yourself if she's in, or leave a number for her to reach you?"

"That would be great," Chelsea Uccello answered, as her eyes focussed on something, or rather, someone, approaching from down the street. 

With a flourishing sweep of his toga, Biggus climbed out of his four-wheeled carriage and strode across the sidewalk to the door of 221 Baker Street. One of his men lived and worked here, a Sherlock Holmes, known for his skill in solving cases. Another of his underlings, a Chelsea Uccello, also had recently taken up residence in the building, but Biggus did not see her today as he walked down the hallway and knocked upon Sherlock's door.

"Sherlock! Are you here?" The door was opened by a young woman, who stared up at Biggus, blinking. Molly had heard about the crew leader of Detroit, but she'd thought Chelsea had been pulling her leg when she said he wore a toga and a laurel wreath upon his head. Stepping back to let him and his small entourage into the tiny apartment, Molly grabbed a pen and a notebook, perching on the arm of Sherlock's chair while Biggus took the only other available seat in the room.

"What can we do for you, Biggus?" Sherlock asked from his seat. His eyes had already seen, observed, every man which had entered the room with the crew leader.

"My finest beast is missing!" Quiet descended, as no one knew exactly what he was referring to. Knowing Biggus, it could have been a cow, a dog, or a woman.

"My horse! Gluteus is missing! Stolen, I'm sure of it, and I'll pay good mon-" Sherlock, noticing his tea cup was empty, abruptly stood and went into the kitchen. Pots and pans could be heard clashing as his voice filtered back to the rest of them there in the living room.

"What did he just say?!" Biggus asked Molly, who was scribbling furiously in her notebook.

"He says it's that fellow, right there behind you. The one furthest away, and closest to the door. He's the only one who hasn't made eye contact since entering the apartment, and there's- well, there's horse shit on his boots. He's the one who stole your horse." 

Biggus flew up and out of his chair, lunging at his attendant. From within the folds of his toga, he pulled a dagger and ran it through the chest of the poor fellow who hadn't had the chance to get two steps towards the door. His body slumped to the ground, and Biggus wiped his blade clean on the seat of the dead man's trousers before replacing it.

"Thank you, Sherlock! I'll have a courier bring you a risible payment. Sorry about the mess, old chap!" He called out towards the kitchen, then left with a whisk of his toga. 

Chelsea had just put the finishing touches on her basement apartment at 221 Baker and was in the process of pouring herself a glass of wine when she saw a familiar set of legs go past her street-level window. A very familiar pair. Seconds later, there was a quiet knock at the foyer door. Chelsea ascended her apartment steps and walked down the hallway towards the front door. It was daytime and presumed safe; she held only her wineglass in her free hand as she opened the door with the other.

"Kates! I wasn't... oh. Well I suppose you can't exactly call, I don't have a phone yet, do I," she said with a silly smile as she stepped back and allowed Keats 's assistant inside. "I'm all the way down on the end, there. Basement apartment. Excuse the paint fumes, it still smells in there and there are only the two windows to air it out. I like it though, what do you think? And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? Work or play?" She asked, and of course it worked; Kates' cheeks went cherry red. The girl would never need blush.

"Early for a drink, I know, but I'm celebrating getting the apartment finished. Can I get you something?"

Often the one being investigated and never the one hiring an investigator, it made Taiga someone uneasy as she stepped inside 221B Baker Street. She'd heard a brilliant detective named Sherlock Holmes lived here and had a rather delicate job for him that she needed handling. You see, there had been a man following Taiga for the last couple of weeks and the man was no stranger to her. It was the very same man who scammed her family to be able to bring her here from the Philippines, only to sell her to a whorehouse as soon as she got here. Thankfully she'd escaped right on time, but she never got the satisfaction of seeing a bullet enter his head because he escaped as well before she had the chance to do so. And now it seems he's popping up wherever Taiga was at, trying to scare her and send her a message. She'd been running like a mouse scared of a cat the past few months, but now it was time to go to the offensive, which was why she visited Detective Holmes. 

"Good morning, Sir," she politely greeted the man behind the desk. He looked rather contemplative and didn't greet her as she came in; as if he was deep in thought about something. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Uhh, Sir? I'm in need of your services. I need to track someone down."

He turned his gaze from the window to my face sharply, with an almost furious expression on his face. "Track... someone... down?" Taiga was taken aback at how intense he was and nodded slowly. "Miss, do you know who I am? I am Sherlock Holmes. I won't just... track someone down. You've got to give me something more interesting than that."

Taiga thought for a moment before opening the duffel bag she had with her and dumping its contents on his table, exposing millions of dollars worth of bills. "Is this interesting enough for you, Mr. Sherlock?" Taiga asked with an innocent smile. She sat down as Sherlock sighed and nodded, asking her about the details of the case. How she wanted to find where that son of a bitch lived, where he went for a drink, what his daily routine was like. She wants to know everything about him so she can finally get the job down.

"I'll be calling you back here when I've gathered all the information I can on him," Sherlock said, shutting his notebook, standing up and shaking her hand with a paper with her number written on it on the other. "Silly me and my manners, what did you say your name was again? And why do you need this information on this Renzo Martinez?"

She shook his hand and put on her coat. He didn't know what she was going to do to Renzo, that was between him and her. So she bowed her head and started towards the door. "I look forward to our next meeting, Mr. Holmes. If you're worth your salt, you'll find out who I am in the process of looking for him."

"So, the last tenant has been dead for a year."

"Yes."

"But you've seen at least one person go inside."

"That's correct."

"And they talked to the air and left seven figures in cash inside."

"Also correct."

"Wh- did you arrest them? Have them committed?" The migraine Dani had felt creeping into her skull since arriving in Detroit threatened to crush her skull. 

"Well, no... they left as quickly as they'd arrived, and no damage was done."

"Uh huh. I bet you left as quickly as you'd arrived, too, but you were roughly a million heavier, eh?" Dani was starting to really wonder about the law enforcement around here. Why even bother calling her, when he could have just kept on collecting random cash from anyone that insisted on throwing millions away amidst some delusion? She stared at the cop standing next to her for a long moment, then gave up trying to figure his nonsense out. It was time to leave.

"Put a sign up saying it's closed, get the address changed, then sell the place. Can you do that?" Can I trust you to do that, was what she'd been about to ask. Inept and dishonest was a bad combination.

"Yeah yeah, sure thing. You sure you don't want to just leave it o-"

"No, I do not want to leave it open. If any more money was abandoned here, I'd never see any of it anyway, now would I?"

He had enough sense to look embarrassed, at least. Maybe there was hope for him yet.

FOR SALE

222 BAKER ST.

~this isn't the detective agency you're looking for~