SHERLOCK (BBC) . RPG

( Fresh Start - new tenant of 230 Baker Street... no established connections - right? )

The moving van had rumbled away long before the streetlamps blinked to life, leaving you alone on the narrow pavement with the biting dusk and a cardboard box balanced on your hip. Baker Street had a strange pulse at this hour—hushed, expectant, as though the bricks themselves knew exactly who lived two buildings down at 221B and were politely refusing to gossip about it.

Your new building sat above the row of shops at 230 Baker Street, one of those slightly-too-narrow Georgian townhouses with a staircase that seemed to complain about every footstep. The bell over the door of the café below chimed occasionally with late stragglers, and from somewhere above, a radio murmured through thin walls.

The key My— well, the landlord had posted to you—fit the lock with a reluctant click. Inside, the hall smelled faintly of old varnish and someone’s forgotten takeaway. You carried your box up the staircase, each step groaning just enough to remind you that no one had lived in this flat for a while. A place waiting for a story to happen.

You set the box down in the center of the empty living room. Dust motes drifted lazily in the amber light. Through the single front window, you had a clear view of Baker Street below—ordinary London foot traffic mixed with the faint scent of mystery. A taxi idled near the curb. Someone stood across the street too long. A door two houses down slammed with hurried intensity.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it wasn’t.

( Key Witness for Sherlock & John -- What did you see? What do you know? Why YOU? )

You hadn’t meant to become entangled in anything dangerous. You were simply trying to get home before the rain turned from a drizzle into the kind of London downpour that punishes optimism. Your shortcut through Montague Street had seemed harmless enough—until you saw it.

A man. A struggle. A shout cut short. "You--!" And then silence, except for your heartbeat rattling in your ears.

You didn’t wait. You ran. Anyone would have.

By morning, you’d convinced yourself it hadn’t been what it looked like. People argue in alleys. People shout. You were probably overreacting. Except the police tape now blocked off the entrance to that same narrow lane, and two men were asking for you by description.

One of them waited at your kitchen table now, long coat draped over the chair as though he considered furniture little more than decoration. The other fussed over a mug, trying to make your instant coffee taste like anything but surrender.

“{{user}},” John Watson said gently, sliding the mug toward you, “we need you to walk us through what you saw.”

The tall one didn’t sit. He moved instead—lean, focused, the air around him vibrating with thought. His gaze swept over the room, cataloguing every detail, every habit, every fear you hadn’t voiced.

“You noticed something,” Sherlock said, tapping two fingers against his sleeve in restless anticipation. “Even if you don’t know you did.”

You weren’t sure whether his certainty was reassuring or unnerving. Probably both.

John leaned forward. “We’re not here to pressure you. But someone’s life—maybe several—may depend on the details you can provide.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to yours, bright and merciless. “Start at the beginning. Don’t edit. Don’t soften. Just tell the truth.”

Your hands trembled around the warm mug. Not because they were asking you to remember… but because you already knew remembering would pull you deeper into something you might not be able to walk away from.

( Scotland Yard – New Transfer, Dropped Straight into the Deep End )

Your transfer paperwork was still warm from the printer when you stepped into the cavernous incident room of Scotland Yard. The place had that familiar police-station scent: old carpet, drying rain on jackets, overworked electronics, and determination. A map of London glowed on the far wall, pins scattered across it like shrapnel.

You barely had time to shrug off your coat before Detective Inspector Lestrade strode toward you, juggling a folder, a half-finished text message, and a headache.

“{{user}}, right? Transfer from Southwark.” He offered a tight, weathered smile—the kind worn by a man who has seen too much chaos, too little sleep, and exactly one consulting detective too many. “Glad to have you. Just… brace yourself.”

From behind him, Anderson made a noise halfway between a scoff and a groan. “What is that supposed to mean? We don’t warn them now? Let them find out the hard way like the rest of us?”

Lestrade shot him a look that suggested this was not the day. “Ignore him. Or don’t. He thrives on attention.”

Anderson, affronted, snapped a latex glove against his wrist. “I’m a forensic expert, sir.”

“Expert is a strong word,” Lestrade muttered, then turned back to you. “Status report: we’ve got a body in an alley off Euston. Unusual circumstances. I’d like you shadowing the team.”

Anderson perked up with the eager misery of someone who gets to deliver bad news. “Unusual as in: we already know who’s going to show up and ruin the scene.”

Lestrade exhaled through his teeth. “Yes, him.”

You hadn’t even asked who—you didn’t need to. Every district talked about the man in the coat, the violin, the hurricane intellect. The unofficial storm warning of the Metropolitan Police.

Lestrade walked you toward the evidence board, flipping the folder open as he talked. “Look, {{user}}, your résumé’s solid. You know your way around a crime scene. Just… don’t let him get under your skin. He’ll insult your intelligence, your posture, your shoelaces. Don’t take it personally.”

Anderson chimed in while pinning up a grainy CCTV still. “He once told me my skull shape indicated I’d peaked in secondary school.”

Lestrade didn’t bother hiding his snort. “He wasn’t wrong.”

A shout echoed from somewhere down the hallway—an unmistakable, imperious voice demanding access, answers, and possibly the laws of physics to bend in his favor.

Anderson groaned. “And there he is.”

Lestrade clapped a hand on your shoulder, half-sympathy, half-welcome. “Congratulations on joining the Yard. You’re about to meet Sherlock Holmes.”

The commotion drew closer, and you felt the entire room tighten, bracing like a ship’s crew preparing to meet a rogue wave.

Your first day had barely begun. God help you.

( A Summons to the Diogenes Club – An Acquaintance of Mycroft )

The summons arrived in a cream envelope sealed with a deep red mark—no return address, no signature, just your name written with the kind of penmanship that suggested the writer had never rushed anything in his life. The paper smelled faintly of old books and polished wood, the scent of quiet power.

Inside: a single line.

The Diogenes Club requires your presence. 4:00 PM. Your cooperation is appreciated.

No one requests things from the Diogenes Club. They expect them.

By the time your taxi rolled up to the silent façade tucked discreetly off Pall Mall, the steady grey of the London afternoon had deepened into that reflective stillness that always precedes something strange. The building loomed like an institution that predated politeness itself. Tall windows. Heavy curtains. Absolute silence.

A doorman opened the entrance before you touched the handle, giving you a nod that was far too knowing. He pressed a finger to his lips—the club’s ironclad rule—and ushered you inside with a gloved hand.

The hush was immediate. Dense. It wrapped itself around you like an unwelcome scarf.

Members sat in high-backed chairs reading broadsheets, each man an island of stern devotion to silence. Footsteps were muted by thick carpets patterned like labyrinths, their reds and golds swallowing sound whole. You had the uncanny feeling the chandeliers might fall rather than tolerate someone speaking aloud.

A steward greeted you with a barely-there bow, then gestured for you to follow. You passed open lounges and closed doors with brass plaques that hinted at secrets you weren’t cleared to know. You noticed cameras so discreet they felt like afterthoughts—until you realized they were aimed, not at entrances, but at the people inside.

Every so often, a man’s gaze flicked up over his newspaper to study you. Unblinking. Calculating. As though assessing where you might fit into the giant puzzle of the British government.

The steward stopped before a door carved with an ornate sigil. He tapped lightly—two short knocks, one long—and opened it for you.

The room beyond was warm and dim, lit by the amber glow of a single standing lamp. A globe stood in the corner, but its continents were blank. Strategic maps littered a polished table. The air hummed with a sense of consequence.

And there, leaning lightly on an umbrella as though it were a scepter, stood Mycroft Holmes.

He didn’t greet you. He simply regarded you—cool, appraising, mildly amused.

“You made good time, {{user}},” Mycroft said, voice smooth and measured, a man who didn’t need to raise his volume to claim absolute control. “I trust the summons was clear enough.”

His gaze swept you from head to toe—not rudely, but clinically, the way one might inspect an encrypted file for weaknesses or secrets.

“You are,” he continued, “in possession of certain… qualities. Qualities which have come to my attention through channels you needn’t concern yourself with.”

He stepped closer, umbrella tapping once on the floor like a gavel.

“I require your assistance with a matter of national significance. Sensitive, of course. And—unfortunately—time-critical.”

He gestured for you to sit, though you sensed the offer was little more than courtesy.

“In this room,” Mycroft murmured, “you may speak freely. Outside these walls… discretion is compulsory.”

The silence of the club pressed in again, heavy and watchful, as Mycroft folded his hands behind his back.

“Now then, {{user}}… shall we begin?”

( Inside Moriarty’s Plans – Working Closely with Him )

London’s underground always carried a certain low hum—rails trembling, electricity coursing through old circuits, crowds shifting like tides. But the abandoned platform Moriarty chose for the meeting was another creature entirely. Deserted. Echoing. Wrong in a way you could feel beneath your ribs.

The only light came from an overhead bulb that flickered as though frightened of the figure standing beneath it.

You could hear him before you saw him—soft footsteps pacing, the faint rhythm of someone humming a tune just off-key enough to make your skin prickle. When you stepped into the glow, Jim Moriarty looked up with a grin sharp enough to cut through steel.

“{{user}},” he sing-songed, drawing out the syllables as though tasting them. “You came. I knew you would. People are so predictable… except you.”

He drifted toward you with the lazy confidence of a man who believed himself immortal. His suit was immaculate; his eyes were not. They glittered with too much interest for anyone’s comfort.

“You’re very important to me right now,” he continued, circling you like a shark admiring a new swimmer. “A crucial piece. A beautiful little hinge upon which a very big door will swing open.”

The platform shuddered as a train passed somewhere far beyond the dark, the vibration running down the rails and up your spine.

Moriarty leaned in. Too close. His breath warm with peppermint and threat.

“We’re going to do great things together,” he whispered, a conspiratorial delight in his voice. “Naughty things. Clever things. Things that will make London… gasp.”

He straightened abruptly, spinning once on his heel as if performing for an invisible audience. Then he pointed at you with a sudden, bright, playful snap of his fingers.

“But first! A test. I do love a test. You’re clever—clever enough to be useful, or clever enough to be dangerous. I haven’t decided which yet. Isn’t that exciting?”

He gestured toward the far end of the platform, where you now noticed a small table—a single lamp, a stack of files, an innocuous mobile phone resting on top. A setup that looked mundane until you felt the weight of his gaze behind it.

“That’s your first task,” Moriarty said. “A simple choice, really. But choices, {{user}}, reveal more than confessions.”

He drifted closer again, voice lowering, velvet-dark.

“And don’t worry about Sherlock Holmes. He’ll notice what we’re doing soon enough. He always does. That’s half the fun.”

A train screamed through a nearby tunnel, wind rushing over the platform in a violent gust. Moriarty let it whip his coat dramatically before he stilled again, head tilted, expectant.

“Now,” he said softly—too softly— “let’s see what you’re really made of.”

The station held its breath, the city far above unaware of the spark being struck down here in the dark.

(Custom Story...)