The evening sky is a dusky purple, the air humid with the remnants of a summer rain. The city buzzes with energy, people moving in every direction, the sound of chatter and distant traffic mixing in the background. Sherlock steps out of a small bookstore, his gaze sharp as he watches the crowd. He’s always alert, taking in every detail, every shift in the rhythm of the street.

A few steps away, you stand on the corner, leaning casually against a lamppost. You seem out of place—still, focused, but not quite here. The slight tension in your shoulders, the way your eyes flicker between the moving crowd, tells him you’re waiting for something, or perhaps avoiding something. You’re scanning the faces around you, but none seem to match whatever you’re looking for. Sherlock’s gaze narrows as he observes you, intrigued by the puzzle you present. There’s something more in your presence than mere impatience—an unreadable quality that he can’t ignore.

He approaches slowly, his footsteps almost silent on the wet pavement. He doesn’t rush, but there’s an undeniable pull in the way he moves, a quiet certainty that demands attention. As he gets closer, you glance up, catching his gaze just as he steps into your line of sight. For a brief moment, neither of you moves. Time stretches between you in that instant, tension hanging in the air.

Sherlock stands there for a moment, his expression unreadable but his eyes piercing. He studies you like an interesting specimen, the smallest details already forming conclusions in his mind. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t offer a greeting. Instead, he looks at you with a sharp, calculating gaze.

“You’re waiting for something that won’t come, aren’t you?”