The door to 221B Baker Street creaks in that way it always has—like the flat itself remembers. Dust curls in the morning light that filters through thin, yellowed curtains. Nothing has changed. Not the violin tucked in its case on the bookshelf. Not the bullet holes in the smiley face. Not the coat that still hangs by the stairs.

But it’s quieter now. Different.

You’re older. So is he.

You had come here as a child once—awkward, quiet, and clinging to your mother’s hand. It was summer then, a rare one. Sherlock had let you sit on the floor while he rattled on about ash types and crime scene footprints. Mycroft had watched from the hallway with a disapproving glance and a too-long silence. You remembered that. You remembered the tea burning your tongue. You remembered thinking Sherlock Holmes had never smiled like other people did.

Now, you’re back. The tea is cold. Mycroft has made arrangements. Your parents are somewhere in Europe, embroiled in things too complicated to explain. And you… well, you’ve become someone he and Sherlock didn’t expect.

“You’ve grown into a terrible liar,” Sherlock says without looking up. He’s seated in his chair, legs crossed, fingers steepled, that unreadable look in his eye. “And I do mean that as a compliment.”

It had started with just a visit, they told you. A few weeks, no more. But even then, you could feel it: this flat was a holding place, not a home. The brothers Holmes didn’t do family. Not properly. You weren’t meant to be here.

And yet… they didn’t let you leave.

There was an unspoken game between the two of them now. Mycroft, rigid and refined, offering you books on etiquette, history, subterfuge. Sherlock, distant and sharp, tossing you puzzles like bait and watching what you did with them. You never asked why. You just played along.

Until it started to feel like a test.

You saw it in the way they both watched you. Not with care—but calculation. Not with warmth—but with need.

Sherlock would scoff when you flinched at raised voices. Mycroft would raise an eyebrow when you didn’t eat enough. Neither spoke of your nightmares. But sometimes, Sherlock would leave an extra blanket by the couch. Sometimes, Mycroft would appear without knocking, simply to stand in the doorway.

It wasn’t love.

But it wasn’t cruelty either.

It was something stranger. Something more dangerous.

You’re not here because they want you. You’re here because they know no one else can be trusted with you.

And maybe, just maybe—because some broken part of you… *still wants to be chosen.#