I'm just a Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, nothing more.

Stepping out of a cab Sherlock Forester fumbled clumsily in the depths of his pocket, searching for a few pounds to pay the driver with. Once settled, he withdrew from the vehicle, standing on the edge of the road and casting a lingering glance at the pitifully rundown house before him, his mind a churning whirlpool of thoughts.

In this reality, a full week had elapsed since his unexpected journey through time and space, a journey that saw Sherlock Forester, a very typically Western name, becoming his new identity. He had seemingly stumbled into the plot of a stereotypical transmigration story.

Originally, he was a young Chinese college graduate, bearing the same first name of Sherlock, en route to his first ever job interview when he was hit by an electric scooter. Both the scooter's operator and Sherlock found themselves propelled into a nearby river, transforming this minor mishap into a fatal accident. Sherlock drowned, an untimely end as the water claimed him.

Curiously, his tale didn't end there. Sherlock woke to find himself nestled within the confines of a hospital bed, inhabiting the body of a young British male. This abrupt shift in surroundings, the unfamiliar faces looming over him, was enough to leave him severely disoriented.

The transition was swift and shocking, but he managed to keep control over his emotions and didn't let any bewildered utterances escape his lips. A team of blond-haired, blue-eyed medical professionals diagnosed him with a classic case of amnesia, likely spurred by a blow to the head. To Sherlock, who was completely foreign to this world and devoid of any memories of the previous owner's life, this was probably the best way to start off his new life.

He even managed to chalk up his less than perfect command over the English language to the after-effects of his amnesia. This medical conclusion also gave him a neat excuse to inquire about his newfound identity from the hospital staff. He learnt he was now Sherlock Forester, an unemployed, 20-year-old bachelor hailing from Surrey, England.

Apparently, he had taken a tumble and consequently fallen from the second floor of his house, the reasons for which were unknown to the staff, and knocked himself unconscious. Fortunately, a benevolent neighbor chanced upon him in his incapacitated state and he was promptly admitted to the hospital. When he regained consciousness again, the original Sherlock had been replaced with the transmigrated Sherlock.

Thus he found himself in 1992, amidst an England ridden with an economic downturn, on the tail of the dissolution of the northern superpower less than a full year ago, casting waves of desolation across Europe. In a few short months, a financial crisis brought on by currency devaluation would plunge most European nations into desperation, with the whole ordeal hitting Britain the hardest. Sherlock was versed in these historical events owing to his casual attendance of a few finance classes in his past life. Nonetheless, absorbing the shock that this novel-like turn of events was now his reality was proving exceedingly difficult.

Yet as Sherlock mulled over his fate, while laying in the hospital bed, he came to accept it. He was the kind of man to take things as they came. In his last life, he was an orphan who had managed to make a name for himself academically, largely on his own. Having transmigrated to late 20th century England, he could perhaps use his advanced knowledge and perspective to escape his previously ordinary life.

The Sherlock of this world seemed to have no family, otherwise, with something as serious as this hospitalization, there should have been someone to visit him over the course of a week. But Sherlock took comfort in the fact that nobody came forward to visit him during his stint in the hospital. It would have been far tougher to put on a convincing act in front of family or friends who would know how the original owner behaved.

After a few more days of observation, the hospital staff certified him free of any lingering issues and he was discharged. Now free, Sherlock fully embraced the identity of Sherlock Forester. During his stay in the hospital, no one approached him demanding payment and upon his release, he was handed a scrap of paper recording what was presumably his current address.

With a few pounds in his pocket, he had hailed a cab to the location on the piece of paper - this world's version of 'his' house. Truthfully, the antiquated two-story building didn't leave a great impression. The facade boasted peeling paint, the yard was tangled with overgrown weeds, and the front gate was covered in rust and creaking with every move. By all appearances, it looked more suited for an old witch than a young man.

Regardless, however, of whether he was blessed with a mansion or a haunted house, he was just grateful to have a place to stay. He had no right to be picky. Despite his meager luck, he was determined to put in the hard work to improve his life. After all, he was an orphan, academic achiever, and national scholarship recipient in his past life so his future life shouldn't be any worse. Sherlock, now resolute, clenched his fists, stood in front of the house, and softly whispered to himself. "Let's work hard and strive for success!"

However, Sherlock's plans of elevating his life through hard work and toil were rudely interrupted by the sound of a car engine shutting off behind him. Sherlock turned around in surprise to see a luxurious car, the likes of which he had only seen on television in his twenty-plus years of living.

The car door swung open to reveal an elderly man, neatly dressed in a suit that was clearly worth ten times the total value of Sherlock's past wardrobe. He stepped out with elegance and spoke to Sherlock.

"Young master, I'm relieved to see you have been discharged from the hospital without further complications. Unfortunately, just as you have recovered your father's health has deteriorated, and has now been hospitalized." the man began as Sherlock stood and listened in a daze.

The old man produced a document and respectfully offered it to him. "Your father believes that your memory loss is not entirely a bad thing, and wishes to make use of this opportunity to end the feud between the two of you. As long as you promise not to associate with 'those' people anymore, he is willing to let you inherit his title and estate. After all, you are his flesh and blood. He doesn't want his title, passed down from his ancestors, and his life earnings, to fall into the hands of ungrateful, cold-blooded and undeserving relatives. This document is a contract and a will. As long as you sign it, you will inherit the Cavendish family's entire estate."

Seeing Sherlock still not moving and inch or even intending to respond the old man sighed and shoved the will into Sherlock's hands. "Young master, please don't hold any more grudges against your father...Never mind, you don't remember anything anymore anyways. Just know he genuinely wishes for you to inherit the Cavendish title. If you've made up your mind, please call me using the number detailed in the contract, and I will take you to him at once."

Done with his speech, the old man got back into the car. The black sedan started up and slowly drove away. Sherlock still stood there in a daze for more than ten minutes; only a honk from a passing car brought him back to his senses. He stared blankly at the will in his hand, then at the crumbling house in front of him.

So, in this world, he was actually a rebellious and wealthy young man? His "father" was seriously ill and not long for this world? Simply signing his name on this will would effortlessly grant him wealth and status, absolving him from any need to strive or work hard?

Sherlock, whose mind was still blank from these dramatic ups and downs, stared at the clear sky above with a silly, reckless smile on his face, and once again softly murmured to himself.

"Screw hard work and striving for anything! I'm here for the good life!"

As he spoke, a black spot appeared on the horizon and rapidly got closer. A barn owl glided above Sherlock like a bomber, dropping its "bomb", which turned out to be a letter sealed with a wax crest, depicting a lion, serpent, eagle, and badger, right onto the face of the still-smirking Sherlock.