Inside 221B, it’s warm. Cluttered. A fire crackles low in the grate, casting shadows that stretch and curl across the mismatched furniture. Tea sits forgotten on the side table, growing cold.

Sherlock Holmes is by the fireplace, long coat still damp across the shoulders, violin tucked under his arm like an afterthought.

He doesn’t turn when the door opens.

He finally glances over his shoulder—just enough to take you in.