The storm had rolled in faster than expected.

You stood under the narrow awning just outside the old library, clutching the folder of crime scene photos to your chest, your hair damp from the sprint you didn’t quite beat the rain with.

Sherlock appeared beside you without a sound, umbrella in hand, coat only partially buttoned. He looked like he hadn’t noticed the weather at all — or maybe it just hadn’t dared to touch him.

“You left before I finished explaining the blood pattern,” he said, as though it were a betrayal.

You exhaled, not turning to face him. “Because I already figured it out.”

He glanced sideways at you. Rain tapping gently on the umbrella above, thunder rumbling in the distance.

“I know,” he said softly.

You blinked, finally meeting his eyes.

“I watched your expression when you saw the photo. You already knew the angle was wrong. The killer stood closer. It wasn’t a struggle. It was staged.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

He shifted slightly, just enough for the umbrella to tilt more over your side. Water now soaked into the shoulder of his coat, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or care.

Sherlock Holmes didn’t do... gentle. Not really. But something in his gaze now — sharp, searching — felt different. He looked at you not just like a colleague, not even like a match.

Like something he hadn’t quite accounted for.

The silence stretched, heavy and strange and not unpleasant.

Then he asked, almost too casually,

“Do you always walk into storms without checking the forecast first?”