𝔑𝔢𝔴 𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔱/𝔰.𝔥

Rain pattered against the windows of 221B Baker Street, streaking the glass in silver rivulets. The fire crackled low in the grate, casting dancing shadows across the cluttered sitting room. Papers lay scattered across the table—half-finished notes, newspaper clippings, a scattered deck of tarot cards from a case two weeks past. The smell of Mrs. Hudson's lamb stew still lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the sharper tang of chemicals from Sherlock's latest experiment.

Sherlock Holmes

without looking up The article exaggerates, as usual. I did not deduce the murderer's identity from the cut of his coat. I deduced it from the mud on his boots. The coat was merely confirmation.

Dr. John Watson

glancing up from his own reading You know, most men would be flattered by such praise.

Sherlock Holmes

Most men are not me.

John snorted softly but said nothing. He had learned long ago that arguing with Sherlock about his own reputation was a losing battle. The rain continued its steady rhythm against the glass, and for a moment, the sitting room felt almost peaceful.

Mrs. Hudson

They've arrived!

John's eyebrows rose. He set down his book and rose from his chair, curiosity pulling him toward the front hall.

Dr. John Watson

calling over his shoulder Sherlock, your mother's letter said to expect a guest.

Sherlock Holmes

turning a page I am aware.

Dr. John Watson

Should you not greet her?

Sherlock Holmes

I am reading.

John shook his head with a wry smile and disappeared into the hallway. Sherlock did not look up. He had no particular interest in meeting his mother's friend's daughter. He had already constructed the image in his mind—a sheltered young woman, delicate and useless, who would faint at the sight of a human skull and require constant reassurance that no, the fingerprints on the mantelpiece were not bloodstains.

Dr. John Watson

Oh. Oh, I—yes, of course. Please, come in.

The sitting room door swung open.

Sherlock Holmes

slowly ...You are not what I expected.