[Second Floor Master Bedroom – 128 King's Road – Kensington and Chelsea]
[To: Mr. Sherlock Holmes]
Sherlock had received a most peculiar letter.
What made it strange was not just its contents, but the way it had been addressed—specifying the "second floor master bedroom" as the recipient's location. No one sends a letter with such exact detail. Surely they didn't expect the postman to deliver it straight to his bedroom?
And yet, somehow, that's precisely what had happened.
Which led to the second oddity—the letter had been delivered by an owl.
Yes, an owl.
Sherlock glanced toward the top of the coat rack. Perched atop it was a black-and-white Eurasian eagle-owl.
Just moments ago, this owl had flown in through the second-floor window, circled the room once, and then precisely dropped the letter right into Sherlock's hands.
It was almost... sentient.
Naturally, Sherlock had been startled at first—who wouldn't be? But unlike most, the initial shock was soon overtaken by curiosity and excitement.
He turned the envelope over. A deep crimson wax seal bore a prominent crest: a capital "H" surrounded by a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a serpent—each exquisitely detailed despite the limited space, almost as if they might leap off the page at any moment.
Sherlock reached into a drawer for his magnifying glass, examining the crest with meticulous precision. His grey eyes sparkled, and though his expression remained composed, his trembling hands betrayed his inner thrill.
At last, he chuckled aloud.
"Finally, something interesting! Crime in this city has been dreadfully quiet lately…"
It was the summer of 1991. With the European Union integration gaining momentum, member nations, including the UK, were ramping up internal measures, especially law enforcement, in a bid to retain dominance over continental rivals like France and Germany.
By the end of the 20th century, organized crime in Britain had all but vanished, leaving only small-time street gangs clinging to relevance. London, as the capital, bore the brunt of this heightened policing. Criminals had largely gone into hiding.
To make matters worse for Sherlock, he'd recently recovered from a serious illness, and his parents had enrolled him in a preparatory school. For someone like Sherlock—who thrived on adrenaline and loathed monotony—being stuck at home waiting for term to begin was torture.
Until today.
Despite his excitement, Sherlock examined the envelope carefully before opening it. It was a habit ingrained in him.
"No stamp. Emerald green ink. Parchment paper—unusually thick. Intriguing."
A preliminary analysis, but he'd need to read the letter itself to confirm his theories.
---
[Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class; Grand Sorcerer; Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards)]
[Dear Mr. Holmes,]
[We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.]
[Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1st. We await your owl no later than July 31st.]
[Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress]
---
"…"
Before reading the letter, Sherlock had considered many possibilities—but certainly not this.
Hogwarts?
School of witchcraft?
Grand Sorcerer?
So… this was an acceptance letter?
The absurdity of it rendered even the highly rational Sherlock speechless.
As the letter had stated, there was indeed a second page listing school supplies—wands, spellbooks, robes, and other items one would expect to see only in fantasy novels or films. The books even included credited authors.
It was all very elaborate.
Sherlock held the parchment up to the light.
"Ha!"
His eyes gleamed even brighter.
Another child might have already been swept away in wide-eyed wonder. But Sherlock Holmes, at eleven, was no ordinary child. He was far more mature than his peers—and an unwavering devotee of science.
Magic?
The stuff of myths and fairy tales. Certainly not real.
Which meant this had to be a prank.
A finely crafted envelope? Easily forged.
The letter? A creative effort, no doubt.
The exact address? Child's play—far easier than writing the rest of the letter.
The only real mystery was the owl. He'd never heard of owls delivering letters—pigeons, yes—but not owls. Still, unheard of didn't mean impossible. With enough training, anything could be taught.
The real question was: who would go to such lengths for such a pointless prank?
Unfortunately, Sherlock already knew the answer.
This wasn't the first time someone had gone out of their way to deceive him.
He once dreamed of becoming a pirate—a fanciful goal, but not entirely absurd given his nation's romanticized pirate lore.
During that phase, Sherlock had received a letter—this one delivered by a proper postman—claiming to be from "Captain Jack." The letter told a grand tale of a dashing rogue who once sailed the seas, stealing from the rich to give to the poor, until he was betrayed and lost his ship.
Captain Jack claimed he'd chosen Sherlock as his heir, believing the boy had the makings of a great pirate. He intended to train him and reclaim what was stolen.
At first, Sherlock was skeptical. But over time, Captain Jack won his trust through various means. Sherlock tested and probed him repeatedly—no contradictions, no slip-ups. Everything seemed real.
Just when Sherlock had finally believed—and resolved to join this adventure—the truth came out.
It had all been a lie.
A cruel, elaborate trick.
Sherlock inhaled sharply.
No use dwelling on the past. But one must never fall for the same trick twice.
Now older and wiser, Sherlock's deductive skills had grown sharper. He wouldn't be fooled again.
Even if owls didn't usually deliver mail, with enough time and patience, someone could train one. Especially if they had a twisted delight in toying with him.
Sherlock paced the room, deep in thought. Then, with newfound resolve, he sat down, pulled out fresh parchment, and began to write.
---
[Dear Professor McGonagall,]
[It is an honor to receive your school's acceptance letter, and I am willing to attend.]
[However, neither I nor my family have ever heard of anything concerning "magic," and we are unfamiliar with the preparations required for enrollment. Should your esteemed institution be able to send a representative to provide clarification, I would be most grateful.]
—Sherlock Holmes
---
A faint smile touched Sherlock's lips.
If this was a game, then he'd play it to the end.
The opposing side had made the first move. He'd respond in kind.
What surprised him, however, was how quickly the owl reacted. The moment he finished writing, the eagle-owl hooted and swooped down from the coat rack, landing in front of him.
Curious, Sherlock offered it the letter. The owl took it without hesitation and immediately flew out the window.
Watching its elegant flight, Sherlock was impressed.
Whoever had trained it had put in considerable effort.
That alone warranted serious attention.
Knowing that person, they wouldn't let the matter rest.
What would their next move be?
Send a reply to earn his trust?
Send someone posing as a Hogwarts professor?
Or perhaps skip the pretense and outright declare the prank?
Unlikely—the game had only just begun.
Whatever happened next, Sherlock couldn't wait.
At the very least, this summer wouldn't be boring.
What he didn't expect was just how quickly the next move would come.
Three days later, as the Holmes family sat down for breakfast—
Mrs. Holmes glanced at the newspaper and exclaimed, "Tannen, that burglary case—it's been solved! Sherlock was right—it was the one-armed man!"
Mr. Holmes smiled and looked toward his son. "Wasn't that case three months ago?"
Sherlock bit into a slice of toast, replying coolly, "Scotland Yard has always been inefficient. And blind to the obvious."
"Scotland Yard" wasn't a place, but the nickname for the Metropolitan Police Force—the main police force of Greater London, excluding the City of London. Its headquarters used to be on Whitehall, and its rear entrance opened onto a street named Great Scotland Yard, which eventually became the department's popular moniker.
Other famous examples of this kind of metonym include Fleet Street or 10 Downing Street. Countries around the world share this habit.
A young sleuth like Sherlock, of course, also knew of places like Lubyanka, the Six Gates Bureau, and the Grand Icehouse Hotel.
Hearing Sherlock's sharp critique of Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes laughed and said, "Perhaps you should become a detective one day, Sherlock."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Just then, an eagle-owl flew straight in through the open window.