Dr. Kim and Mr. Jeon

Prologue: The death of Mr. Holmes

(Play the music above)

London, 1927

Below the clouds and under the haze of fog caused by the bumbling hordes of automobiles; through the pattering of grey raindrops falling unto the stony pavement below - there was a small, wooden sign swinging from above a door.

The painted letters of mahogany appeared to be chipping as they lay on the surface of the sign, spelling out the famous resident's name.

That name was none other than Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective London had ever known.

Alas, as if the rain were any telling of what was to be, the town was dreary and grey. Hustles of men and women quietly stood outside the door as the maid ran back and forth to tell them the news.

Inside the house was not much better. The walls lined in the finest colours of deep chocolate and beige appeared dark and grey, so much so that even the light of the lantern could not eradicate the darkness from upon them. A faint tickle of the ivories was played and it echoed through the house hauntingly along with the dull dripping of rain that washed along with the glass windows like cold tears.

As one neared Sherlock's own bedroom, they were immediately met with this horrible sensation – one that sunk its teeth into the soul of each person that entered. One could almost smell its foul stench in the air; could hear it's cries as it preyed amongst the night.

Death was lingering and lurking for it's next meal - and it had surely found it - for there lay Mr. Sherlock Holmes, as pale as a ghost on his bed, surrounded by a throng of faces anticipating the moment when he breathed his last.

Whimpers sounded from women Sherlock couldn't even remember meeting, and bows of heads from men he'd never shook the hand of. He thought it ironic that these people only came to visit at a time when he was to die.

There were all but three people in the room he truly knew and cared about. Dr Watson, who sat upon a chair in the corner, looking old and worn and quite near the same place Sherlock was headed, and there was Irene, sobbing as she held unto his limp hand. Her gorgeous russet locks had lost their shine after so many years, now being replaced with dull grey hairs that encased the sharp angles of her face. Her deep, ocean like eyes had become rather jaded in her aging, yet still managed to save the caring they'd always held.

Oh Irene, Sherlock thought to himself as his eyes danced upon her face. She had far surpassed any mystery he'd been privy to. The two had met on one of his quests, and Irene had managed to find herself ensnared in just the thought of him. Sherlock himself was quite fond of the woman, and though neither would call their bond love, neither had been able to let each other go.

As the populace always anticipated as a product of such a bond, a child came. She came much, much later than what Irene had expected, and Sherlock had not expected her...at all. His eyes had seen the signs of pregnancy from his wife, and still yet his ears would not comprehend the news. Sherlock was convinced no one could.

His perspective on women had been rather untrusting, and yet now, he was married, and his wife with child! The crowds could hardly believe it. Sherlock had been certain that he could have made a pretty dime if he'd been paid for all the newspapers that had the news of his wife and child's birth printed upon them.

But alas, that time was through now, and he was left with the young woman standing at his bedside. She bore the same obnoxiously curled tresses as he; hers being lighter than his black ones. She had the bright, blue eyes of both her parents - eyes that previously sparkled, yet now were glistening with tears. Sherly Holmes was her name of course, courtesy of her father's brilliant mind and list of names therein.