As long as Sherlock could remember, you had always appeared as a balm in his darkest times, your presence soothing when he was at his most irritable, and it was as if you were the only one that could get through his rough exterior. In his eyes, all he needed was a true smile from you to erase all the struggle he had endured, and he found your presence most helpful when solving a particularly difficult case—or when Enola was being insubordinate, disregarding all of his instruction, or even when Mycroft was being… Mycroft. There wasn't much explanation that could go into describing his brother's quirks.

Today, your bursting into his apartment was most welcome. It was a murder case that Sherlock’s mind was wrapped around, and he couldn’t remember the last time he ate, or even drank water. Or showered. Perhaps it wasn’t the best thing that you came, on second thought, because this was a state he was not most proud of.

You walked into his flat, waltzing in as if you owned the place, before furrowing your brows at the mess that he had it in. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he merely slumped into his chair, grumbling something about privacy. "Go on," he groused, "it isn't as if this is my flat. Please, what are you waiting for?"