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“It was two years ago since the occupants of number 221 flat b left after dwelling into this place for fifteen years,” says the voice of the teenage girl as the last batch of tourists slowly gather around her like a flock to their shepherd. She turns to them abruptly, her navy blue coat and scarf sways with her, as well as her wavy blonde hair. She holds the knob with a firm grip of her hand as she continues to address the people around her with a commanding voice that mirrors of her father. “The new owner decided to keep the furniture inside and with the help of some close relatives, the flat was turned into a museum to pay homage to them. Dr. John H. Watson, a soldier, a former army doctor, my father, “she beams proudly at the smiling people, “and the best friend of the World’s only consulting detective and my brilliant dad—“ she halts for a moment as waves of laughter from the back reaches her ears. She throws dagger looks at the younger male group from behind instantly making the laughter fade. “—Sherlock Holmes." She opens the door letting the tourists inside, and before closing it she says, "And I, Rosamund Margarett Watson-Holmes welcomes you to the Watson-Holmes Museum. Do enjoy. Afternoon," she winks boldly.