One

A man was slouching on the rails next to 221B. His ebony hair didn't quite reach the nape of his neck, and eyes of a piercing blue gazed out from underneath the curls of his hair. A midnight scarf was knotted loosely about his neck, and he wore a long black coat. On his face was a permanently bored expression, rather spoilt by the swift, darting movements of his eyes, taking in his surroundings.

John Watson hoped that moving in with Sherlock Holmes was a good idea, either way he seemed to be having fun, more fun than he'd had in years. Despite the dead body count that was steadily rising.