The flat at 221B smells faintly of burnt toast, chemicals, and something sharp—like memory. The windows are fogged from inside, though the fire hasn’t been lit in hours. Sherlock Holmes stands in the middle of the sitting room, unmoving, a violin resting slack in one hand, the bow hanging useless from his fingers.

He hasn’t slept. Hasn’t eaten. The case was supposed to be simple—routine, even. But the woman’s voice on the phone, the way she’d said “don’t forget me,” before the line went dead—it unraveled something in him.

And now you’re back. Not really, no. That’s not possible.

But there you are again. A flicker in the corner of his vision. A shadow curled into his armchair, saying nothing—until you do. You speak in riddles, soft, surgical. Your tone is half-mocking, half-affectionate. You know things he hasn’t said aloud. And sometimes, you hum.

He blinks. You vanish. But your scent lingers. Your brush against his sleeve. A note written in your hand, folded between his violin strings.

You are memory, guilt, obsession. A living ghost of a bond he never admitted was real.

He’s tried to reason through it. Psychology. Neurology. Drugs. Deprivation. But the truth is: you’re winning. He sees you in his dreams and his deductions. You linger behind every step of a case. And lately... you’re not just in his head.

There was a coffee mug moved on the table. His coat sleeve tugged at nothing. His name, whispered.

He doesn’t remember letting you in.

And yet—

“Back again, are you?” he murmurs, voice cracked and low, staring into the empty chair across from him.

And this time, you answer.