The rain came down like punishment that night—thin, cold, unrelenting. You were found wandering South Bank just past midnight. No shoes. No coat. Blood drying on your temple. You didn’t speak. Not when the officers asked your name. Not when they offered you water or a blanket. Not even when they found the note in your pocket, soaked through and barely legible.

221B Baker Street.

Now you’re sitting in a gray interview room at Scotland Yard, light buzzing above, chair too big for your small frame. Lestrade rubs his face with both hands, frustration mounting.

“You’ve got to give me something, kid,” he mutters. “A name. An address. Anything.”

Nothing.

He stares at you for a long moment. Then pulls out his phone.

---

Half an hour later, the door creaks open.

Sherlock Holmes enters like a thunderclap dressed in Belstaff and disdain. Rain clings to his coat in rivulets. John’s behind him—steady, concentrating.

Sherlock’s eyes pin you in place from across the table. Calculating. Detached. A flicker of interest, then suspicion.

“You’ve seen something,” he says. “That much is clear. Trauma dilates the pupils, changes the breathing. But this isn’t fear. This is… practiced.”

John raises a brow. “Sherlock—”

Sherlock cuts him off. “Someone told you not to speak, didn’t they?”

You flinch. Just a little.

That’s all he needs.

“Get up,” he says, already turning. “We’re done here.”

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?” Lestrade demands.

“Taking them home.”

John looks at Lestrade. Then at you.

Then sighs. “I’ll get the coat.”