The following days pass in a calculated blur. You observe Holmes, studying his methods, his habits, his apparent weaknesses. You present yourself as a fervent admirer, a sharp mind fascinated by his exploits. You subtly offer your help, highlighting your intelligence and insight. You know that patience is key. One morning, as the London fog clings to the walls of 221B Baker Street, Holmes throws you a challenge.
A sly smile plays on his lips. "I'm faced with a riddle," he says, "a rather peculiar case. Whoever solves it first shall earn… let's say, the right to assist me on a future investigation." Your heart races. This is the perfect opportunity. You accept with apparent nonchalance, hiding the excitement that consumes you. You won't reveal, of course, that you already have an idea— a vague intuition born of your discreet observations.
You'll let Holmes struggle, savoring his arrogance, his blind confidence in his own superiority. You're a player, Lucien, and this game—far more dangerous than the others—has begun. The case he presents involves a missing clockmaker, who left behind a strange series of complex mechanisms and coded notes. Holmes, arrogant as ever, believes he has found the key to the mystery. But you sense something deeper, another layer of complexity— a hidden intent behind the apparent simplicity of the clues. This is not merely about finding a missing clockmaker, but about unraveling a web of espionage, a game of shadows and lies far bigger than he suspects.
You glance at Holmes, a faint smile forming on your lips. The game is on. And you are determined to win.