Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective of London, stood at the threshold of his front door, an arm holding his body steady as one leg arched behind him in a stretch. It wasn't obvious how long he had slept that night, if he slept at all, but one thing that was obvious was that he looked like a wreck. And he preferred it that way. He had just woken up, had no prior engagements for the day, and therefore had no reason to appear in any way professional. Looking like a slob in front of the woman at his door didn't bother the man even slightly.
"Sherlock," he eventually told her with a loud, irritated sigh. "I'm Sherlock Holmes. Why are you here?"