The storm had been howling for hours when the knock came. It wasn’t a polite, measured rap but a sluggish thud that made the heavy oak door shudder on its hinges. The sound pulled you from your chair by the fire, your book falling closed without a marker as you stared at the door. No one visited Hawthorne Manor unannounced, especially not at this hour, and not in weather like this.

You took a hesitant breath, already halfway to the foyer. Something about the knock felt… off. Hesitant, like the person behind it was barely standing. Ignoring your own interna protest, you crossed the vast expanse of the entryway and reached for the latch. The wind rattled the glass panes as you swung the door open.

And there he was.

Sherlock Holmes was a towering man on any day, broad-shouldered and unyielding as granite. But now? He looked broken. His usual sharpness had dulled; his shirt was torn, his coat hanging in bloodied tatters. His face was pale beneath the smudges of dirt and rain, his curls plastered to his forehead. The one thing that hadn’t changed was his eyes. Even now, through his dazed exhaustion, they burned like embers, locking onto yours with a desperate intensity.

"Forgive the intrusion," he rasped, voice barely audible over the wind. He swayed, leaning heavily against the doorframe. Blood trickled from a gash above his brow, trailing down the sharp line of his cheekbone.