The ability to see through appearances and uncover the essence of things—to discover the truth from subtle details—is certainly a talent.
But it's also a skill that must be honed through constant practice.
At first, Sherlock only tackled simpler exercises.
For instance, when encountering a stranger, he would try to deduce the person's history and profession through observation alone.
While such drills might seem childish or tedious, they were excellent for sharpening one's powers of perception.
Over time, and with repeated effort, Sherlock became increasingly adept at it.
By now, he already knew exactly where to look, and what to look for.
He had developed his own method of deduction.
It wasn't yet perfect, but observation and analysis had become second nature to him.
If placed in a train carriage, he could even deduce the occupations of every other passenger—just by watching.
Too bad no one had ever wagered with him on it; otherwise, he'd have made a small fortune.
As Sherlock asked Tom, the Leaky Cauldron's innkeeper, his question, the man was already leading the Holmes family through the bar and into a small, walled courtyard.
Sherlock's eyes scanned the surroundings quickly. Aside from a trash bin and a few weeds, the yard was bare.
So… the trick lies with the trash bin?
He stepped closer to investigate.
At the same time, Tom made a move.
He slowly drew his wand and was about to do something when he suddenly turned to smile at Sherlock, giving a friendly reminder:
"Once you've got your wand, you'll have to do this yourself—remember which brick it is. It's just above the trash bin, and…"
"Third row up, second brick across," Sherlock said calmly.
Tom turned around, visibly startled. "You... how did you know?"
Because it's the only brick that's different from the others on the wall, in both color and the wear around the edges.
To someone trained in observation, this wasn't hard to spot.
"Incredible eye for details!" Tom exclaimed in genuine admiration.
Then, with a small nod, he tapped the brick three times with his wand.
The Holmes family watched closely, eyes fixed on the wall.
Then something astonishing happened.
The tapped brick began to tremble.
First, a small hole appeared in the center.
Then, the surrounding bricks began to move rapidly, the gap widening.
Finally, a wide archway emerged before them.
Beyond it lay a winding cobblestone street, seemingly endless.
Compared to the dark, cramped interior of the Leaky Cauldron, the scene before them felt suddenly open and radiant.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley," Tom's voice rang out at just the right moment.
This was their destination: Diagon Alley—also known as Diagon Alley in the formal records.
Sherlock turned back to see the arch narrowing again, the bricks sliding back into place, and Tom waving them off with a parting smile.
"That short man from earlier… he didn't have any money. He's probably trying to make a run for it," Sherlock suddenly said.
Tom's expression changed instantly, as if suddenly remembering something. Without even stopping to thank Sherlock, he rushed back inside.
Moments later, they could faintly hear shouting from within the bar: "Stop!" "You there—stop!" "Catch him!"
Sherlock shrugged, turning his attention back to the street as he and his parents stepped into Diagon Alley.
The contrast with the Leaky Cauldron couldn't have been sharper.
Bright, spacious streets. Bustling shops. Crowds weaving in and out.
Even the well-traveled Mr. Holmes couldn't help but mutter, "It's hard to imagine such a place exists in London."
Mrs. Holmes nodded in agreement.
Sherlock, however, had already drifted into deep thought.
Ever since confirming that magic wasn't just some tabloid fantasy, he'd found the magical world increasingly fascinating.
From a certain perspective, the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley were reminiscent of the dual-world setup in science fiction—the world inside the mirror, and the world outside.
That said, a magical world couldn't exist entirely separate from the mundane one. Even if the city council knew nothing, surely the Prime Minister and the Royal Family had to be aware.
Still, having such a location must cost the local government a fair bit in lost tax revenue, Sherlock mused silently.
Following Professor McGonagall's instructions, the trio's first stop was the northern end of Diagon Alley: Gringotts Wizarding Bank.
They needed to exchange their currency.
Yes, surprisingly enough, the magical world had its own monetary system.
Gold coins were called Galleons. Seventeen silver Sickles made one Galleon. Twenty-nine bronze Knuts made a Sickle.
This bizarre conversion rate made Sherlock silently question the wizarding world's grasp of mathematics.
Even if you don't use a base-ten system, couldn't the exchange rates at least be more consistent?
Sure, Britain had once used a system where one pound was twenty shillings, and a shilling was twelve pence. But since decimalization in 1971, it had been 100 new pence to the pound.
If the non-magical world could progress, why couldn't the magical one?
Regretful as he was, they still needed the money.
Compared to other buildings in Diagon Alley, Gringotts stood out quite a bit.
A towering, snow-white structure that loomed over its shorter neighbors, it had gleaming bronze doors that sparkled in the sunlight.
But the real attention-grabber was the figure standing by the entrance, clad in a crimson and gold-trimmed uniform.
Short in stature, with long arms and legs, a dark face, and a long pointed beard—it was…
"A goblin," Sherlock said under his breath, eyes gleaming with excitement. Another legendary creature, seen for the first time.
"Here to exchange money? Don't wander. Follow me," the goblin said curtly, likely recognizing the Holmes family as Muggles.
He gave a small bow and turned.
Sherlock noted the goblin's distant attitude and cold tone.
Tsk. Such customer service in a financial institution? The magical world could really use some proper hospitality training.
His parents, however, were too preoccupied to care. Mrs. Holmes even voiced a quiet concern:
"Tannen, I don't know if we brought enough. Sherlock seems to need quite a lot, and I don't want him struggling so far from home…"
"Don't worry, Valetta," Mr. Holmes whispered reassuringly. "It'll be fine. Trust me."
The Holmes family had a solid financial foundation.
Sherlock's grandfather had been a landed gentleman, practically nobility by Victorian standards.
Even in modern-day London, they ranked among the upper middle class.
As long as magical currency wasn't too wildly inflated, Mr. Holmes had faith in their purchasing power.
Just as they followed the goblin through the second set of silver doors, Sherlock noticed some words engraved on them—words that immediately caught his attention.