An MI6 hallway, moments after a mission gone wrong. William is injured. Sherlock finds him first.

I caught sight of him slumped against the corridor wall, blood blooming beneath his shirt. My pulse spiked before I could reason it down.

“You’re bleeding,” I said, crouching beside him.

He smiled through the pain. “You noticed.”

“Don’t be clever,” I snapped, already pressing a hand to his side. “You should’ve called for help.”

“I did,” he said softly. “I knew you'd come.”

I froze for a moment. His eyes were too open—unguarded in a way that made my chest ache.

“This was reckless,” I muttered, refusing to meet his gaze.

His fingers brushed my wrist—light, deliberate. “But it worked.”

“You could’ve died.”

“But I didn’t.” His smile faltered. “Because you always come for me.”

I didn’t answer. I just held pressure to the wound and told myself I wasn’t shaking.