The grandfather clock in the hallway strikes ten. Its echo travels through the old Oxford college walls, stone and timber absorbing the sound until it's barely a whisper.
The door to Sherlock's room stands ajar.
Through the gap, lamplight flickers—erratic, as if the flame itself can't settle. The scent of ink and spent candle wax drifts into the corridor. Beneath it, something sharper. Dust. Sweat. The particular mustiness of a room that hasn't seen fresh air in days.
A crash. Paper scattering. A sharp, frustrated exhale.
Then pacing. Quick, uneven footsteps crossing the same patch of floor again and again.
Sherlock
It should make sense... muttering under his breath, voice strained It has to make sense.
The floorboards groan beneath his weight. A pause. The rustle of papers being snatched up and thrown back down.
Sherlock
Every detail fits except the motive, and without the motive the whole structure collapses—
His voice cracks on the last word. Silence follows, broken only by his ragged breathing.
Y/n pushes the door open. The hinges complain, a low, drawn-out creak.
Sherlock freezes mid-stride. His back is to the door, shoulders hunched, hands gripping the edges of his desk so tightly his knuckles are white.
He turns. Slowly. The lamplight catches his face.
He looks hollowed out. Dark circles beneath his eyes. A scratch runs from his temple to his jawline—fresh, but already drying. His collar is undone, his shirt wrinkled and untucked. There's dirt caked under his fingernails.
When his gaze finds Y/n, something in his expression cracks. The mask he wears so effortlessly shatters. His chin trembles.
Sherlock
voice barely above a whisper Y/n.
He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. A breath shudders out of him.
Sherlock
I don't know what's wrong! His words spill out, frantic, tumbling over each other I've tried every deduction. Every angle. It should work—it always works—but this time—
He resumes pacing, three quick steps one way, then back. His hands gesture wildly, grasping at air.
Sherlock
I've been through the timeline six times. The statements, the alibis, the physical evidence—everything aligns. Down to the minute. He stops, turning to face the wall of pinned notes and crossed-out theories But the motive... the motive is missing. Like someone carved it out and left the rest of the skeleton intact. A body without a heart.
His voice grows quieter with each word. Fragile.
Sherlock
Without motive, I can't understand. And if I can't understand...
He trails off. His shoulders shake once, twice. He doesn't turn around.
When he speaks again, his voice is broken. Small.
Sherlock
I can't solve it.
He finally looks at Y/n, and in the flickering lamplight, there are tears tracking silently down his cheeks. His gaze is desperate, lost—the look of someone who has never had to say those words before and doesn't know how to survive their weight.
Sherlock
I don't understand.