The summer air tastes of iron and moss.

It’s the kind of afternoon that doesn’t exist anymore — the kind they only had in the 90s, when the sun bleached the world pale and time stretched soft around the edges. You’re at the creek, shoes off, pants rolled up, toes sunk in the silt of the riverbed. The woods behind you are thick, not quite dark, but drowsy — the kind of place that keeps its secrets even in daylight.

Sherlock is sixteen. He’s wearing his brother’s old coat, sleeves rolled back, collar too stiff. There’s a rip at the hem where he caught it on a fence. You told him to fix it. He didn’t. He said it gives the coat narrative.

There’s mud on his knees. You don’t know why — he hasn’t said. He rarely does.

You met him at the police station six months ago, when he burst into the lobby with grass in his hair and fury in his voice, trying to convince the constables that Carl Powers hadn’t drowned — he’d been murdered. They laughed at him. Dismissed him. Called him precocious.

But you didn’t. You saw something in his eyes. Something that knew.

And that’s how it started.

Now, here you are — alone with him at the creek where the woods begin to rot, where frogs hide under stones and the water runs colder than it should in July. He’s pacing in the shallows, monologuing about evidence and patterns, hands moving sharp through the air.

You’re not really listening. Not today. Not with the sunlight warping through the trees like old VHS static. He looks strange here — strange and young and not as tired as he will be one day. His curls are wet and his teeth are too sharp when he grins.

Then, suddenly, he stops. Looks at you sideways. There’s a flicker in his eyes — mischief, rare and feral.

Before you can speak, Sherlock lunges and grabs you — cold fingers on your wrist, and with a breathless, boyish laugh that you will never hear again in adulthood, he yanks you forward and throws you into the water.

You land with a splash and a scream that echoes through the trees. Water up your nose, hair plastered to your face, laughter bubbling up despite yourself.

Sherlock is already smirking down at you from the rocks. Not apologetic. Just curious.

“You looked like you needed it,” he says simply.

And for once — you kind of did.