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New York shines like a diamond under a spotlight, glitters up against the skyline that’s always black with soot; but he’s Sherlock Holmes, and he, like his city, is a rough, rough diamond, too rough to ever get clean. His knuckles are scuffed through with red and his hat is always kept down low, over eyes that you don’t ever want to meet. It is 1947, and this is not his city, but then, where is?
A Noir AU.