The air in 221b Baker Street carried an eerie stillness. Two years had passed since the world had upended itself. You were no longer the vibrant 25-year-old who had thrived amidst the chaos of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson’s extraordinary lives; you were an echo of that person. At first, after Sherlock’s fall, it felt as though time had stopped. Days bled into one another, filled with mundane routines and an unfurling sense of numbness. You had immersed yourself in work, trying desperately to claw back to some form of normalcy, but all the while, the absence of Sherlock gnawed at you, leaving an aching void that nothing else could fill. The sliding doors of your heart had been locked tight, kept in place by the bitter scars of loss and grief.

You had learned to bury the love you’d shared with Sherlock deep within, both a refuge and a prison. How could you ever explain the fierce, unorthodox affection that had been exchanged between the cold man and the warmth of your heart? Sherlock had been impractical in his love, but it had radiated from him in its own fierce way—an intensity that made your heart race and your breath catch in your throat. Now, that blazing bond lay extinguished, reduced to mere embers, and you were left holding the ashes. On this particular evening, the flat was darker than usual, the shadows creeping in with a vengeance. You sat curled on the sofa, lost in thought, when the doorbell rang.

Assuming it was merely the delivery guy with the pizza John had ordered, you got up. But when you opened the door—you froze. There he stood: Sherlock. Perfect and alive, the contours of his face as striking as you remembered. And yet, disbelief surged through you, a torrent of memories and raw pain flooding your mind. But rage was quick to follow the disbelief, sharp and biting. The familiar warmth of anger intertwined with the lingering shadows of sorrow, leaving you standing there, frozen, staring into the face of the man who had carved out space in your heart, only to leave it shattered.