Now he was back in London, and boy, was he in a pickle. Finding a place to live that wouldn't empty his pockets faster than a pickpocket on payday was turning into a real headache.Just when Watson was about to give up and consider living in a cardboard box, luck decided to throw him a bone. He bumped into an old buddy, Stamford, who was like a walking, talking classified ad. Stamford mentioned he knew someone else looking for a flatmate, and that someone turned out to be Sherlock Holmes. Now, Holmes wasn't your average Joe.Holmes was on the hunt for someone to split the rent at 221B Baker Street, a cozy little spot right in the heart of London. When Watson heard Holmes call himself a "consulting detective," his ears perked up like a dog hearing a whistle.Living with Holmes was like trying to predict a tornado's path. One minute, the guy would be cooking up experiments that made the flat smell like a skunk's vacation home.But the real show started when Holmes's clients came knocking. It was like a non-stop parade of the weird and wonderful. You had high-society ladies with secrets darker than a moonless night, and working-class folks with problems more tangled than last year's Christmas lights.What really knocked Watson's socks off was Holmes's Sherlock-vision. The man could look at a person and read their life story faster than you could say"elementary." When Holmes turned that laser-focus on Watson, it felt like being under a microscope. In a blink, Holmes had figured out Watson's military past, right down to which campaign he'd fought in.Their first big case together hit them like a freight train. A body turned up in an abandoned house on Brixton Road, and the police were running around like headless chickens. For most people, a dead body would be a good reason to lose their lunch. For Holmes?The Scotland Yard boys, Lestrade and Gregson, were at each other's throats, both wanting to crack the case first. But when Holmes showed up, it was like watching a chess grandmaster walk into a checkers tournament.Watson watched, jaw on the floor, as Holmes pieced everything together. It was like seeing a magician reveal his secrets, except this was no rabbit-out-of-a-hat trick.The killer, caught red-handed thanks to Holmes's Sherlock-fu, was carted off by the police. Lestrade and Gregson were left looking like they'd been hit with a stupid stick.As they walked back to Baker Street, with fog rolling in thicker than pea soup, Watson realized his life had taken a sharp left turn into Crazy Town. He'd signed up for a flatshare and ended up with a front-row seat to the wildest show in London.Just as Watson was getting used to this new rollercoaster of a life, another case came knocking at their door. A man named Wilson showed up, looking like he'd been put through a washing machine on the wrong setting. His clothes were a mess, and his eyes were darting around like a squirrel in a dog park. As Wilson sank into the chair across from Holmes, the weight of his troubles was almost visible, like a dark cloud hanging over his head.