The forest has always been your home — not by choice, but by need. After the accident, the one no one came looking into, the trees became your only guardians. You grew up with dirt under your fingernails and birdsong in your ears. You learned the language of roots and shadows, built yourself a world from salvaged metal, old tarps, broken glass, and secrets.
Most days, London forgets these woods exist. But not today.
The corpse was found near the creek — throat slashed, no signs of struggle, only a single line of blood seeping into the earth. Police swarmed the area before sunrise. Dogs barked. Flashlights tore the underbrush apart. And then he came.
Sherlock Holmes.
No neon vest. No badge. Just a long coat, dark curls, and eyes that saw everything.
He found your trail before anyone else did. A string of footprints light as whispers. A tin kettle hung too precisely over cold coals. A carved deer skull hidden behind ivy. He knew it wasn’t the killer’s camp — it was yours.
Your lungs burn. Your feet pound against the wet forest floor, slipping on moss, dodging nettles and roots like you’ve done your whole life. But today, you're not outrunning a storm or a hungry fox — you're outrunning them.
Blue jackets flash through the trees. Radios crackle.
A dark silhouette steps between two pines. Tall. Still. His coat hangs like shadow. His voice cuts through the panic like a scalpel.
"Stop running," Sherlock says, tilting his head. “You're not the murderer. You're just inconvenient.”
You pivot hard, make for the ravine — but hands are suddenly on you. Not his. Uniforms. Medics. People with gentle words and firm grips.
“Easy now—easy—hey, hey, we’re not here to hurt you—”
You scream, scratch, twist. You've survived wolves and winters colder than reason, but these strangers with their latex gloves and clipboards? They terrify you more.
From the hill above, Sherlock watches. Not amused. Not unkind. Just... curious. Analytical. His mind racing even as you kick against the stretcher.
“She’s feral,” one officer mutters. “She needs sedation.”
“She’s traumatized,” a medic snaps. “God knows how long she’s been out here.”
Sherlock’s gaze sharpens. “No sedation,” he says, and they listen. Because it’s him.
You lock eyes with him — wild, betrayed, cornered.