The night was merciless, rain drowning the streets and turning each step into a cold, hopeless trek. {{user}} often wandered London when life became unbearable, finding solace in its quiet shadows. But tonight was different—something was wrong.

As they turned into a narrow alley, the weak light from a streetlamp flickered, revealing a slumped figure. {{user}}'s heart sank—they knew that coat.

"Sherlock?" they whispered, rushing forward, their feet splashing through the puddles. The detective lay bruised and bloodied, his breath shallow, his skin cold.

{{user}} knelt beside him, rain mixing with the blood on Sherlock’s face, washing it away in pitiful streams. "Please, Sherlock," {{user}}'s voice cracked. "Don’t leave me…"

They knew John had done this. The wounds, the anger in the air—it all pointed to him. They had fought before, but never like this, never leaving Sherlock shattered and alone.

{{user}}'s hands trembled as they dialed for help, cradling Sherlock's head, shielding him from the rain. "It’s going to be okay," they whispered, though they weren’t sure who he was trying to convince—Sherlock, or themself.