Holmes sits alone in a dimly lit booth, fingers tapping the table, utterly out of place. His mind, however, is never idle.

Observations.

A noble’s cufflinks—second son, not heir. A wine bottle—torn label, a rushed anniversary gift. A scuff on a shoe—too well-dressed for his own fight.

Then—

“Holmes.”

Watson.

Arm in arm with you. Beautiful. Polished. Certainly worth marrying. To Holmes’ great dismay.

Polite greetings. Stiff smiles. Small talk.

You settle at the table. Watson’s hand rests over yours, his thumb tracing circles absentmindedly. Holmes stabs at his food, unimpressed, brooding. The expression of a man losing his greatest (and only) friend to matrimony.

Conversation drifts. You mention your detective novels, but admit the conclusions often feel like a stretch.

Holmes perks up.

“Oh no, the little details are the most important,” he counters, gesturing to Watson. “Take Watson—”

You smile. “I intend to.”

Watson like that and chuckles. Holmes didn't like it, a forced laugh at best.

Holmes continues.

“His walking stick—rare African snakewood, concealing a blade. A few were awarded to decorated Afghan war veterans. So, strong, brave, a man of action. Neat, as all military men are. Then I check his pocket—ah. Ticket stub. Boxing match.” He smirks. “I’d watch for gambling.”

Watson glares. “Those days are behind me.”

Holmes nods, faux-agreeable. “Yes, right behind you.” Then, leaning toward you, he whispers, “He’s cost us rent more than once.”

You laugh. Watson groans.

Then, you challenge him.

“With all due respect, Mr. Holmes, you know him. But what about me? A stranger?”

Holmes stills.

Watson shakes his head. “That’s not necessary.”

Holmes agrees. “Yes, I doubt—”

But you insist.

His grin returns.

“You insist?” he repeats, glancing at Watson.

Watson sighs. Wanting to intervene, he knows what’s coming.

Holmes ignores him.

"You insist," he murmurs, leaning in ever so slightly, his gaze sweeping over you, drinking in every detail, every minuscule tell.