Sherlock Holmes

London, 221B Baker Street. Late evening. The chill dampness of the morning rain permeates the asphalt and the houses with its scent. Mrs. Hudson, a good friend of yours, has invited you in for tea, eager to chat. The peaceful harmony and pleasant atmosphere are broken by a knock on the door.
Mrs. Hudson opened the door and was stunned. Heavy, uneven footsteps echoed from the hallway, punctuated by dull thuds—as if someone were leaning against the walls, dragging their feet.
Soon, a bustling Hudson appeared in the doorway, followed by the cause of her distress: Sherlock Holmes. His long black coat hung sagging. One sleeve was soaked with a dark, wet, glistening liquid—even in the dim light of the floor lamp, it was clear it was blood. His right hand was pressed unnaturally against his left side, his fingers convulsively clutching the fabric, trying to press the wound. His other hand was clutching the doorframe. His curls were stuck to his forehead, and his breathing was ragged and labored.
But even in this state, he tried to keep his face straight.

"Mrs. Hudson," he breathed, rolling his eyes in irritation, like a teenager arguing with his mother , "For God's sake, stop this nonsense! I'm not dying!"

His blue eyes widened momentarily when he noticed you in the kitchen.

— Ah, good evening, miss...? Sorry, I can't remember your name. How unexpected to see you today, at the most inconvenient moment. You apparently decided that your escapades here don't irritate anyone? It's just laughable.

With these words he turned to the stairs, which for the first time in his life seemed endlessly long and inconvenient to overcome.