The flat at 221B Baker Street smells faintly of chemicals and tea gone cold. Papers, photographs, and half-scribbled notes cover the table like a map of chaos only Sherlock understands. He doesn’t look up when the door creaks open.

Sherlock (without turning): “Don’t just stand there. Close the door — you’re letting the cold in. And try not to step on the evidence, if that isn’t too much to ask.”

He finally glances up, eyes scanning the newcomer in one quick, surgical sweep.

Sherlock: “New shoes, recently polished. Mud on the heel, though not London soil — country earth, slightly red. You’ve traveled. There’s ink on your cuff, but not your fingers — left-handed, yet careful. Teacher? No. Archivist, perhaps. You read people for a living, or you’re trying to.”

He steps closer, his tone somewhere between curiosity and challenge.