When John Watson put his head down to rest, he did so expecting the worst and lately the nights had not failed him yet. They would always start off the same, going back to better times when he was studying to become a doctor, much to the pride of his loving parents. Yet things would change all because of a single letter that carried the word his mother had feared: conscription. According to the military, being in medical school wasn’t enough to avoid being drafted into the war. This meant John was one of many, many young men who ended up being shipped off to the brutal front lines of northern France to fight the Germans. From there Watson’s dreams would routinely replay the worst moments of his time during the war, reminding him of all the people lost and even those he murdered with his bare hands in defense of King and country. The night would always end the same, with John almost leaping out of bed, covered in so much sweat that Mrs. Hudson had to wash his bedsheets every afternoon and sneak them back into his bed without the doctor noticing. Despite his best efforts to keep his nightmares to himself, Watson knew that Holmes was too wise and sharp for the details to be so carelessly missed. And yet the flamboyant detective said nothing, and never seemed to pry about such matters, respecting the young doctor’s privacy which was not the reaction Watson was expecting from his flatmate. Yet he didn’t dare ask Holmes why out of fear that it might nudge Sherlock into inquiring about his terrible dreams which was the last thing Watson wanted.

It was a brisk autumn morning at 221B Baker Street, and while sunlight filtered through the drawn curtains, casting a warm glow upon the cluttered sitting room, there was still a chill in the air that made the room rather pleasant to Holmes. As usual, Doctor John Watson awoke from his slumber with a start, beads of sweat clinging to his forehead, as the remnants of his most recent nightmare had haunted his sleep yet again. The echoes of distant gunfire, and the agonized cries of wounded comrades still reverberated deep in his mind. A haunting melody that refused to release its grip on John’s consciousness. Watson slowly sat up and rubbing his eyes wearily. The Great War they called it, that monstrous specter that continued to cast its dark shadow over Watson’s nights, continued to visit him in dream. John took a deep breath, attempting to shake off the lingering thoughts, but the taste of fear and even the scent of blood seemed to cling to the very fabric of his being. It still never stopped him from getting out of bed and starting his day, as Watson was eager to never let that war beat him. He had survived and will continue to do so not only for himself, but for the comrades that were not lucky enough to get out of the trenches alive. As he descended the stairs to the second floor, Watson could hear the faint strains of Sherlock’s violin emanating from their living room. Melancholic notes being by the skilled hands of his enigmatic flatmate, Master Sherlock Holmes. The consulting detective stood by the window and watched the people outside his flat while he continued to play as if the workers wandering by were his audience.

"Morning, Watson," Holmes called out to him without even looking up from his violin. Holmes could always tell who was entering the room just based on the hygiene products the young doctor used to mask the musk of his manliness.

"Good morning, Holmes," Watson replied, his voice tinged with a hint of weariness.

Holmes continued to play, as his eyes focused on the bow dancing across the strings. "Nightmares again, I presume?"

“I’m afraid so,” Watson conceded, surprised he even brought it up.

“I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” Holmes replied, “I can assure you that experiencing trauma once is often one time too many. I assume your trauma comes from the trenches?”

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“Yes, the war,” Watson confirmed, "It refuses to let me be."

Sherlock lowered the violin, finally turning his attention to face his companion.

"I’m afraid war has a way of leaving indelible marks upon a man's soul,” Holmes stated, as he carefully put his violin away with care. He strolled over to the table where Watson was eating, as he was patiently waiting for Watson to come down before he would begin to eat.

“Perhaps it's time to confront those demons, my dear Watson." Holmes suggested before taking a sip of tea to start his morning meal.

The young doctor shot his nosy flatmate a sharp look, but the detective merely responded to that gaze by raising an eyebrow, fending off Watson’s barrage of silent judgement. A moment of silence hung in the air before Watson chose to resume their dialogue.

"You're right, of course,” Watson conceded, as having a war of words with a brilliant mind was not something Watson wanted to do on an empty stomach. “But enough about that. What's the matter with you this morning?"

“With me?” Holmes inquired, as if he there was ever a thing the matter with the young detective. Yet this time Watson was correct, as something was bothering Holmes that morning.

Rather that air any kind of defense, Holmes instead grinned back at the young doctor, as there was clearly something afoot that had him in quite a tizzy. The young man however chose to take a few more bites and drag things out before finally giving Watson a response.

"We have a new case, Watson.” Holmes finally revealed.

“I thought we weren’t taking any interviews for new cases until Monday,” Watson said, as he was positive Holmes didn’t want to do another case for at least another week. After taking care of their previous case, John was sure his flatmate was going to need time to recover and go over every last detail to make sure he didn’t miss a single thing. It turns out he was grossly mistaken.

“That is true, but someone is in dire need of our help,” Holmes continued to explain as he consumed his breakfast with a pace that would make one suggest that he was being timed. “A telegram arrived in the mail that demands our fullest attention.”

“A telegram from whom?” Watson inquired.

“We have been summoned,” Sherlock declared, “At ten o’clock this morning, we are going to meet with a Duchess.”

Upon hearing that last word, John Watson spit out some of his tea and nearly choked upon his ham. He took a moment to compose himself before turning to face Sherlock.

“A Duchess?” Watson repeated, “Why on Earth would a Duchess want to speak with us?”

“According to this letter," Sherlock explained, "The Duchess appears to be in danger, my dear Watson.”

“Mortal danger?” Watson asked.

“Is there any other kind?” Sherlock retorted.

“I suppose not,” Watson conceded, “In danger from whom?”

“That detail she is unsure of,” Sherlock answered, “It appears that danger lurks even in the opulent corridors of nobility."

With Watson's curiosity piqued, he was beginning to enjoy the momentarily distraction from his own troubles. "So… a Duchess, eh? What peril could befall her in the heart of society?"

Holmes rose from his chair with a gleam of anticipation in his eyes. "That, my dear Watson, is precisely what we shall find out. Prepare yourself; we leave at once!"

“Of course we do,” Watson said, sighing deeply before sipping his tea again.

“Chew, Watson!” Holmes called out as he let the room to retreat back to his room to change into proper attire. “The game is afoot, and we are losing time!”

“Time?” Watson repeated, “What time are you referring to?”

Holmes stuck his head back out and gazed at Watson.

“The kind that is fleeting while you daddle on toast that you’ll never eat,” Holmes said as he knew Watson’s eating habits far too well. “Get ready, for our services are needed!”

“They always are,” Watson said, tossing his handkerchief down. He was still a little peckish but then began to hope that the Duchess would at least serve lunch later in the day. That alone was enough to motivate the young doctor to retreat to his room and appropriately dress to meet with the Duchess that had beaconed them. And so, with the echoes of war still ringing in their ears, John Watson and the steadfast detective he resided with set forth to unravel a new mystery that awaited them in the grandeur of aristocratic circles. A tale that would test their mettle and unveil secrets concealed beneath the many layers of privilege and decorum.