Way back then, I had black hair and multicolored eyes. What most people remembered about me was my coat. It was a black trench coat with deep pockets, and the collar was always turned up. I held many things in the coat. Every day I solved a crime, every night I went home and had dinner, which I had usually had alone until recently. Most days I walked home from the police station, as I usually help them solve crimes, and most walks were uneventful, with only my thoughts to give me company. That walk, however, was not ordinary.

As I walked home through the busy crowd towards Baker Street, a stranger with a stubble-covered face greeted me as if I were a close friend. "Hey pal!" he said, giving me a hug. I hugged back partially out of shock, which was a foolish mistake.

This stranger then pulled a gun out of his pocket and put it to my side. "Come with me if you ever want to see your pregnant wife again." He whispered in my ear, putting his arm around me and leading me to a deserted alley through the thick crowds.

Once we were in the alley and unnoticeable to the people on the streets, the man shoved me to the ground and pointed his gun at me. "Give me the coat!" He yelled.

I looked up at him. I had trained myself from a young age to analyze data, including people. I knew he was a criminal. Probably robbed for a business, but was a lower class robber, judging by the faint cigarette smoke. He had been clothed today for this job, judging by his tan lines. He was, determined by the above, a smoker who didn't have a lot of money, worked for an organized crime mob, and still suffered from the memory of his parents' death.

Once I explained this to him, he blinked, shocked I could know this much. "I'll be needing the money, Sir. I gotta family to feed. Gotta to do this to live, 'less I wanna starve to death." The man said quietly, as if he was ashamed of what he was doing to live. I shrugged at his remark and removed the coat, knowing what he would think about its contents by the way he styled his hair.

The thief rummaged through its contents, digging in the coat's outer pockets and fixing the black collar, which I always turned up. I took this as an opportunity to go to my mind palace.

The alleyway was small; the ground dark and damp. There was an open dumpster which smelled of rotting beef behind my captor. It was green, made of recycled plastics according to the sticker on its side. I then studied my captor. He was married, but was hiding that from his boss according to the raw circle on his finger. He cared about his family and loved them as I loved mine. His hands were big, but his legs were weak.

His low voice snapped me out of my mind palace. "A watch? A tin of mints and a broken watch?" He looked up at me, just in time to see me approaching. I quickly grabbed behind his knees and pulled forward. He fell backwards and I let go, securing his fate. He fell into the garbage dump, the lid closing after he fell.

"Don't worry Mark," I assured him, picking up my coat and turning up the collar. "The butcher has his garbage picked up tomorrow at one. Now, don't feel bad, most criminals in England are thwarted- by myself, no less. If only you looked in the inside pockets, you would have found things of value." As I spoke, I heard her walking towards me.

"You didn't foil me, Sherlock," she said, a glint in her eye, her bellying barely showing the child inside of her. I smiled

"I didn't foil you, I married you, Woman." I replied. Irene smirked. I wrapped my arm around my wife, one hand on her barely swollen belly, and together we walked back into the crowded streets, back to Baker Street.