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Preface

Sherlock Holmes was a man made out of stars. He was an enigma of constellations; an iota of bright light in peoples' lives. But he was only stars in a foggy, polluted city of assholes. He was utterly invisible to the world around him, and he was okay with that. He was disguised in tattoos and piercings, hidden behind dark music and dark colours. This was Sherlock Holmes, a divine creature, but yet so undiscovered, and that was that.

Then John Hamish Watson arrived.

He was a man made out of gold. Some thought he had been blessed by Midas or maybe dipped into the sunlight. But he was unnoticed, too, even though he shone past everyone and anyone. He excelled in all of his studies, but was not athletic and preferred to hide away in the music room, practicing piano. His fingers were calloused, and his oceanic eyes were hidden behind glasses. This was John Watson, and he didn't matter.

Sherlock met him on a Friday at three PM. They had never been aware of each other until then, and the essential meeting of the two would either be catastrophic or wonderful.

It was both.