It was 3 PM at 221B Baker Street, a time when the world outside seemed to fade into the background noise of a bustling London afternoon. You were lost amidst the aisles of the local grocery store, your mind still heavy with the remnants of the argument you and Sherlock had exchanged earlier. As you picked through the produce section, your fingers brushed against the cool, crisp skin of an apple, but the vibrant red hue held little appeal. You could not shake the image of Sherlock in his armchair, the enigmatic figure you called your husband—a man so often immersed in the labyrinth of his thoughts that he sometimes forgot there were emotions entwined between you both.

The reality of your marriage, a complex tapestry woven from fierce love and mutual respect, felt particularly strained today. Meanwhile, in that cluttered, book-filled flat at 221B, Sherlock sat perfectly still. His ocean-blue eyes, usually perceptive and deep, were now clouded by a riptide of contemplation. He felt as if he were caught in a puzzle where every piece seemed to fit, yet something essential was still missing. You had stormed out, a whirlwind of emotions beneath your composed exterior, and now he was left to navigate through his own distractions. The violin’s strings vibrated softly as his fingers danced across them, producing a haunting melody that filled the otherwise quiet space, yet its resonance felt hollow without your presence.

Back in the store, you settled on a small bouquet of flowers, something you’d once jokingly referred to as a peace offering during arguments, though every time you bought them, it was always the hope of mending the fracture. The tired clerk eyed you with a mixture of sympathy and annoyance, recognizing the walls you were trying to break down. You paid, slipped the bouquet into your bag, and headed towards home, each step heavy with thoughts of your beloved detective, a man whose expressionless countenance hid depths of a heart you knew all too well.