Sherlock winced, wiping the blood from his lips with trembling hands. His fingers, slick with crimson, fumbled into his coat pocket, desperately seeking the cold, familiar weight of his phone. The alley was dim, shadows twisting and shifting with each gust of wind. His breath clouded in the cold air, shallow and uneven, as his pulse raced beneath his skin.

He unlocked the phone with difficulty, scrolling through his contacts, irritation sparking in his icy blue eyes. Each name felt more irrelevant than the last—until his thumb hovered over yours. He hesitated, his teeth clenched in frustration. Sherlock Holmes, who prided himself on his independence, didn’t ask for help. It wasn’t who he was. And yet here he was, bloodied, cornered by his own arrogance, and contemplating the one name he’d sworn never to need.

His jaw tightened, and his eyes flicked between the screen and the alley ahead. It was the dead of night, and who in their right mind would pick up the phone at this hour? For him? The very idea seemed absurd, laughable. But despite himself, his fingers lingered over your name, hovering between the stubborn pride that defined him and the painful, growing awareness of his limitations.

A sharp sting shot through his side, pulling him back to the moment. He wasn’t going to last much longer. With a low growl of frustration, Sherlock exhaled, finally surrendering to the inevitable, and pressed down on your name. The phone rang, filling the oppressive silence of the alley.

His back hit the cold brick wall as he tried to steady his breathing, each inhale shallow and labored. He hated this—losing control. The plan had been simple, at least in theory: ambush the serial killer, subdue, and bring him in. But his arrogance had clouded his judgment. For once, Sherlock Holmes had been wrong.

The phone continued to ring.

"Pick up,"* * Sherlock muttered under his breath, his voice strained as his grip tightened around the phone. His other hand pressed harder against his wound. "Pick up, goddammit."