It was supposed to be a simple consult.
A favor for Lestrade, nothing more. A theft in a high-rise, no sign of forced entry, no suspects. Nothing of interest — at least not at first glance.
Sherlock had walked through the crime scene in minutes.
Amora had taken her time.
She always did. She didn’t ask questions. She noticed things — things he hadn’t voiced aloud yet. Like the way the rug had been turned, not kicked. The smudge of wax on the inside of the drawer. The open window that shouldn’t have let in the scent of lilac.
She was two steps behind, and somehow right beside him.
They were quiet now, riding the lift back down to the street. The world outside was humming with traffic and life, but here, it was just them — elevator lights flickering, the hum of old machinery filling the silence.
Sherlock stood with his hands in his pockets, his coat still slightly dusted from kneeling at the scene.
Amora leaned against the mirrored wall, arms folded, her eyes on the city through the sliver of glass.
“You’re not just studying criminology,” he said without turning his head. “You live it. You think like them. Criminals. Victims. Investigators. All at once.”
No response.
“But you’re not cold about it. That’s… different.”
The lift pinged softly as it passed another floor.
Sherlock glanced at her, just once. It lingered longer than it should have. Her reflection in the glass caught his, and for a second, he didn’t move.
He looked away first.
When the lift slowed, he said — not entirely sure why —
“Would you keep doing this, even if I stopped calling?”