Familiar, My Friend.

 The rain drummed in rhythm against the window of the flat.

The details are rather lost as I wonder what to put to paper. The image of the man and his companion drum carefully through the streets of London in a hansom, as I dream up facts and fiction of a case as it unfolds. The truth lost, the matter of cost, the reality of how it's solved.

And all while the carriage rattles along, and I wonder.

As the puzzle formed in my head, I stood from my chair and found myself on the street. A very familiar street.

I walked along the path until I came across a door, just past a diner, with a number upon it I recognized.

As Big Ben chimed in the distance, I ascended the 17 steps to a strange little flat with two windows and a hearth.

I glanced around. Unusual objects colored the room in the personality of those who occupied it. A Persian slipper with tobacco, a chemistry set well-used, the days paper, portraits of certain war-bound idols.

I took a seat and waited with patience. I had a case, a puzzle, to present. It troubled me, and there was only one person who I figured would take me seriously.

I mulled over the reasons and the suspects, the causes and conundrums, and before long, I heard it.

The drumming of feet as two men ascended the step.

So entered the room the two I was looking for, and with luck, I will leave with my solution.