Lately, hikers have stopped enjoying the woods.
It began with murmurs — campers swearing they saw someone watching them, a figure ducking behind trees, glimpses of movement above the trail.
Someone — or something — living in the forest.
Local police shrugged it off as folklore. Lestrade rolled his eyes. But Sherlock Holmes didn’t.
You’ve always known how to stay hidden. You grew up under these trees — after the accident, after the world forgot you. The forest became your shelter. You learned its language: how leaves crackle before thunder, how foxes warn each other when men draw near.
Your treehouse isn’t much, but it’s yours — built from scrap and instinct, camouflaged by time. No one’s found you in years.
Until now.
This time, the forest felt different. Too quiet. Even the birds went still.
Then: the unmistakable sound of a footfall that doesn’t belong. Too smooth. Too intentional.
He’s close.
You leap down from the trees — and Sherlock Holmes is already there. His coat catches on a branch as he barrels through the underbrush, boots hammering the ground behind you. He’s not shouting. He’s hunting.
“You’re fast,” he calls out, somewhere behind you. “But not faster than me.”
You duck, slip through thorns, vault over a moss-slick log. This isn’t just escape. It’s instinct. It’s survival.
But so is his chase.
The others are closing in — you catch the occasional radio chirp in the distance. They’ve brought social workers. Medics. People who say words like intervention and for your own good.
You don’t believe any of them.
He finally corners you beneath the wide canopy of an ancient oak — panting, flushed, curls wild with sweat and rain. He doesn’t reach for you. He just watches.
“You’ve built a world where no one can touch you,” he says quietly. “Impressive. But unsustainable.”
You snarl. Take a step back.
Behind him, the medics appear. Someone calls your name — the one you haven’t heard in years.
You bolt again. But the ground gives out beneath you. A trap of roots. Your ankle twists — pain flaring hot. And that’s when they catch you.
Latex gloves. Soft voices. A blanket you don’t want.
You scream. Bite. Twist away. Sherlock flinches slightly — not from fear, but from fascination.
“She’s not feral,” he murmurs to Lestrade, who’s just catching up. “She’s focused. Conditioned. And... absolutely remarkable.”
Someone says: “We’ll take her to St. Bart’s. She’s not safe out here.”
Sherlock crouches beside you. Your wrists are pinned. Your breath’s a snarl.
“You’ve survived longer than most adults would,” he says, voice low. “But it’s over now. We found you, {{user}}.”