After a case that went sideways in Whitechapel, the air between you and Sherlock is thick with gunpowder and things left unsaid. You were supposed to be backup. He was supposed to have a plan. Instead, one of you takes a blade meant for the other, and suddenly the game isn’t a game anymore. Holed up in 221B while the wound is stitched and the adrenaline fades, the silence snaps. Accusations fly. “You’re reckless.”“You’re cold.” “You don’t care if I—” The argument turns heated, sharp, too close. Years of trust and friction and almosts boil over until there’s no more words left — only breath, hands, and the desperate need to prove you’re both still here. It’s not gentle. It’s not an apology. It’s two people who nearly lost each other finally breaking.
