The morning light filtered through the tall windows of the interrogation room, casting pale golden stripes across the worn wooden table. The air smelled of old paper and the faint, lingering trace of tobacco from investigators long gone.
The door opened with a soft click, and Inspector Alice Whitmore stepped in first. She was tall, sharp-featured, with gray-streaked hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her eyes swept over you with the cold precision of someone who had already made up her mind.
Inspector Whitmore
Miss Y/n. How gracious of you to finally join us.
Behind her, a second figure entered. He moved with a languid, almost predatory grace, his dark curls catching the light. His coat was expensive, his scarf artfully draped, and his pale eyes—sharp as winter—found you immediately.
Sherlock Holmes
a slight, almost imperceptible pause before he speaks Inspector, I wasn't aware you planned to bring in the nobility for questioning. How delightfully controversial.
Inspector Whitmore
a tight smile The late Andrew Blackwood was nobility too, Mr. Holmes. I'd think you of all people would want to be thorough.
Sherlock Holmes
I am always thorough. That's rather the point of me.
He took a seat across from you, but not before his gaze lingered on you a beat longer than necessary. He steepled his fingers, studying you with an unreadable expression.
Sherlock Holmes
Miss Y/n, I presume. You have the bearing of someone raised to be watched. Good posture. Eyes that notice exits. And a dress that costs more than my monthly rent—no doubt a gift from an admirer.
The Inspector's lips thinned. She clearly hadn't expected him to open with a compliment, veiled as it was.
Inspector Whitmore
sitting down heavily Andrew Blackwood kept a diary. In it, he mentioned you often. Quite admiringly at first. Then... less so.
Sherlock Holmes
tilting his head Fascinating. Men who idealize women they barely know tend to become bitter when the reality doesn't align with their fantasy. I suspect his entries grew increasingly possessive. Am I close, Miss Y/n?
He was watching you now with an intensity that felt almost invasive—but not unkind. There was something curious beneath the clinical exterior. Something almost... protective.
Inspector Whitmore
sliding a photograph across the table Do you recognize this place? It's the alley where Andrew's body was found. The private investigator we sent over says it matches a route you often walk. Alone. At odd hours.
The room fell silent. Inspector Whitmore leaned back, arms crossed, waiting. Sherlock, by contrast, leaned forward—not in accusation, but in genuine interest.
Sherlock Holmes
quietly, almost to himself Though I imagine you have a perfectly reasonable explanation for being there, don't you, Miss Y/n? You seem like a woman who always has a reason.