The streets of London were washed by the rain that had happened a few minutes ago. It was night. The pale crescent moon hung in the sky, partly obscured by the clouds that were yet to dissipate. It was a pleasant site to watch. The streets were more or less deserted at this hour.

A distant ringing of a clock revealed that it was midnight. Everyone was peacefully asleep, their curtains drawn, without a care in the world. Everyone without a care in the world that is. A candle burnt at the table in 221B Baker Street, in the rooms of Dr. John Hamish Watson. Papers were strewn across the room and the half drunk cup of tea stood as a paperweight on a stack of newspapers. The date on the topmost one was stated to be 25th January, 1895. A blond haired man was working hard, the pen in his hands rapidly writing down his deductions. Granted, he was nothing like his friend, not even a little bit, but he wasn't an idiot either. Tired blue eyes stared at the stack of papers that had to be read. A groan escaped his lips as he sighed and leaned back in his chair, putting a hand over his eyes.

"Oh God Holmes, what did you get yourself into again?"

A picture of said person stared at him through the newspaper, grey eyes still managing to give one that feeling that they were being watched. Watson felt a warmth in his heart looking at it, which was immediately replaced by a terrible ache because the person wasn't there anymore, atleast not where he could see him. He missed the sudden soft notes of the violin at night, the flush upon his face when he solved the case, the way he could fascinate people with his perfect deductions, the-

Watson jerked up from his chair, the tea cup falling down and breaking, tea soaking the yellowed pages. Mrs. Hudson would probably be angry when she saw this but now wasn't the time to think that. He had seen a shadow, he was sure of it. A single tall shadow move across the curtains. His breathing grew shallow as he realized that someone was in the room. His hands moved to his revolver, ready to shoot if necessary. He stood tense in the middle of the room, not daring to call out immediately due to the fear of giving up his position.

A soft rustling attracted his attention. It came from Holmes's room. Watson's breath hitched in his chest. No, not THAT room. It wasn't like there was a bomb that would go off or anything, but the thought of any stranger violating his flatmate's possessions in his absence made him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

He crept up to the door, trying to not make any sound. There was no sound in the room anymore. Closing his eyes and uttering a prayer to God, he slowly opened it, prepared for the worst.

He stood in shock.

There was no one in the room. His brow furrowed in confusion, he looked around, looking for any signs of escape. There was none. Not a single trace to identify that someone had been here. Only a thin mist hung inside the room, which was to be expected owing to the cold weather.

Looking at the room brought back a lot of memories. He shook his head and went to check if anything had been taken. Nothing had been taken. He frowned until his eyes landed on the open violin case.

Holmes's beloved violin.

It was there no more.

His eyes widened in horror, as he looked about, trying to find the musical instrument, the wooden object which the detective often took to calming himself in order to think logically.

It was an inseparable part of the flat, it had always been there. Even during Holmes's long absence following Moriarty's demise, it hadn't been moved. It had been kept the same as ever.

He sought it in vain.

Finally he sat down on his bed, head in his hands, a strange feeling in his heart.

He didn't know what to think.

"Think Watson, think, you have to think," he muttered to himself.

Whoever had entered the room, had done so without a trace except for the shadow which he saw earlier and the missing violin. He had left without a trace as well, no footprints, as was to be expected from having walked through the muddy roads after the rain.

Then what?

Frustrated and annoyed, he looked up at the ceiling.

There had to be a connection, there had to be an answer.

Because all questions had answers.

Holmes used to say, "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be the truth."

But what was the impossible here? It was impossible to enter and exit the room without a trace like in this case. But, it had still been done. How????

He pulled at his hair, frustrated.

What the hell had just happened?

The mist seemed to get thicker in front of him and then dissipate totally. He fancied he saw something in it, but ruled it out. There was absolutely no way he could have seen anything in the mist.

"Oh God Holmes, where on earth are you?"

A/N: This picture belongs to me, please don't steal.