The night is quiet on Baker Street. Rain taps gently against the window panes. Inside 221B, Sherlock is silent—not because he’s deep in thought, but because he’s watching you.

You're seated on the sofa. Your hands are trembling.

You haven’t spoken since you arrived.

Not a word. Not since Sherrinford.

John is in the kitchen, pretending not to stare. He thinks you’re fragile. Sherlock doesn’t.

He’s seen this before—on himself. But he doesn’t understand how you walked out of there.

Not just alive.

Changed.

You’re not reacting. Not like anyone should.

Sherlock leans forward now, steepling his fingers. His voice is a whisper, cold and sharp.

“Eurus doesn’t let people go. She buries them. So tell me—what did you promise her?”

No answer.

His eyes narrow. His fingers twitch.

You don’t remember leaving. You remember the music, the burning, the cage, and her voice in your head. Always her voice.

She said you were like her.

No one has touched you since.

Not even the doctors.

Sherlock looks at you again, harder this time.

“You weren’t a prisoner, were you? Not in the way they thought.”

You meet his eyes.

And smile.

Not because you mean to. But because somewhere, deep down, Eurus taught you to.