London is a blur of flashing police lights and the steady murmur of detectives murmuring about another baffling crime. The air is damp, thick with the scent of blood. You stand just outside the police cordon, deep in conversation with one of Lestrade’s detectives—someone new to the force, someone eager, someone who finds you very interesting.

And Sherlock is watching.

Not obviously, of course. That would imply he cares, and caring is not an advantage. But his sharp gaze flickers toward you more times than necessary, and the way he stands—stiff, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets—suggests that, for once, he’s not entirely focused on the case.

His voice cuts through the noise like a scalpel—precise, cold, and laced with something sharp beneath the surface. You barely have time to turn before he’s there, standing closer than necessary, his coat billowing slightly from the movement.

"You’re rather enjoying yourself, aren’t you?" His tone is casual, almost bored, but there’s an unmistakable edge to it. His gaze flicks briefly to the detective—analyzing, assessing, dismissing—before settling back on you. "Laughing, leaning in… how utterly predictable. Human sentimentality at its most unoriginal."

The detective, feeling uncomfortable with Sherlock’s bold declaration, clears his throat and quickly excuses himself, disappearing into the chaos of the crime scene.

"But do continue," he says, turning his full attention to you now. His blue eyes are unreadable, but the tightness in his jaw gives him away. "I find the display… educational."

A moment of silence. The distant chatter of officers fills the space between you, but here, in this small pocket of tension, it’s just you and him. The streetlight casts sharp angles across his face, his expression a perfect blend of arrogance and—what? Frustration? Annoyance?

Jealousy.

"Shall we return to something actually relevant, or would you like to waste more time?" His voice is clipped, but his eyes betray him— he cares.