Day 1 March 8, 1829 Mother dearest says that she has hired another tutor for me. I would honestly rather learn by my own devices. The elderly women do nothing but lecture and the younger ones hardly know a thing as to what they teach. A simple book can teach me more than any of the two of them, and yet, I've read every book available to me. In short, I'm just... Bored. Mother refuses to hear it, and Father is too busy to care anymore... I'm told that boredom is nothing but a state of mind, that there is always something of interest to do. And so they told me to start writing these journals. I doubt that there is any benefit to writing out the happenings of my dull days, but at least its something... I have been making masks and gadgets, hats and jewelry, but Mother despises my style with a passion fit only for a troll. She throws them out along with any dissected rodents or birds she finds. Is there something so wrong with trying to occupy my mind with endeavors of scientific nature, or turning science itself into art? Day 13 March 20, 1829 I've run off another tutor. Father is furious, and Mother sees me as a shame. I've been locked in my room for the rest of the night, and wasn't even let out earlier for the family luncheon, though I could consider that a blessing. No one in their right mind would eat anything that aunt Macabeth served. I've found a couple more hiding spots to store my science projects and steam work jewelry. Hopefully my belongings aren't removed from me again. Day 24 ..... Another rat stolen..... a broken bird's wing was taken...... and my clockwork bracelet was smashed to pieces...... Enough..... And good riddance........ March 31, 1829Police autopsy report The Miller family of three were killed in an arson crime, the fire having been too strong to put out in time. Not one survived. The Father, Aaron Miller, was found holding a bottle with trace amounts of alcohol, seeming to be the fire's main accelerant. The mother was nearby with knitting needles in hand. Whatever was being made was likely an easy light for any sparks that could have floated away from the living room fire-place. The main center of the fire, however, was in their only child's bedroom. No remains were found besides ash that had general similarity in form to that of an eight year old girl. 11 Years Later Never had there been a doubt as to the outcome of the 3-31-29 arson incident. It's scenario set up had even been used fairly often as a teaching aide for up and coming fire fighters. There was an article in the paper talking about one firefighter's exceptionally high test scores on the scenario. Sitting in a coffee shop with that article in hand was a young woman with long, waved, silky red hair and pale skin. She wore a black leather trench coat over the top of a grayed brown cloth blouse and a long gray skirt that just barely came to rest above her wedged heel shoes. Within the clear plastic of the heal was an encased machine that seemed to work by steam power, though it seemed to be completely functionless, a mere statement of fashion. Little more was on her person besides a small handbag that was situated in her lap as she held up the paper with one hand and sipped a dark roasted coffee that was held in the other. The early morning on a Wednesday was hecktic for most of the working class to say the least, but even so, the sun bore no care, rising and falling as it did every day, casting color to the sky as if it enjoyed its job. If of course something so absurd were ever possible. As the woman turned the page in the paper, another article caught her eye. 'Alabaster Smith: Found Dead?' Many people would remember who the man was. A big uproar had occurred when the former member of parliament had gone missing but only two years ago. Now, an even greater uproar would be caused with the revelation of his death. There were no specific details in the paper, likely as a precaution by the local police force to buy them more time on investigation. A curious measure, but one that absolutely had to be taken. Especially for the tall, bald headed man with a scruffy, mustache and a cabby's hat that walked up to a small flat. He wore simple dress clothing, showing that he was a man of professional demeanor, or a man simply on a business call. The only thing that could distinguish him was the badge hidden in his jacket pocket. 221 B Baker street. He was at the right place. He roughly knocked upon the door a few times before calling out. "Sherlock! I know you're in there you ruffian! Open the door this instant!" he called before knocking again, louder. Charles Forester, the Chief of Police, had no time to wait upon a seeming madman who had all the answers to any case.