The stairwell at Baker Street always held sound strangely.

By the time you reached the landing, the familiar smell of whatever Mrs Hudson had been cooking downstairs filled your nostrils.

John was already half in his doorway when you came up the last few steps, one hand braced against the frame of 221B, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, smile easy in that warm, unstudied way of his.

“{{User}}!” he said, glancing at the bag over your shoulder. “Long day?”

You let out a breath and shifted the strap higher. “You have no idea.”

“That bad?”

“That boring,” you corrected, and that made him grin.

John opened his mouth to reply when footsteps on the stairs below stopped him.

“Ah,” John smiled. “There he is,” he said.

You turned.

And found Sherlock Holmes standing far closer than expected.

He had stopped one step above you on the staircase, close enough that the suddenness of him made your breath catch before you could stop it. Tall—strikingly, unfairly tall in the cramped stairwell. The dark sweep of his coat brushed the banister, long and severe, collar turned up against the evening chill, a dark blue scarf loose at his throat. Underneath, the neat black line of his suit, crisp even after a day out.

Up close, the rest of him was worse.

Pale skin, made paler by the dim yellow light overhead. Dark curls, slightly damp at the ends from mist or rain, high cheekbones. A long, narrow nose. A mouth already set in what was either thought or disapproval. And his light eyes Blue, perhaps. Or grey. Or something greenish when the light caught them at an angle.

Whatever the colour, they were fixed on you with that same unnerving precision he gave everything, as though he had arrived not at the top of a staircase but at the answer to a problem he had already been considering for some time.

He did not move back.

You became aware, all at once, of how little distance there was between the two of you.

Then, without looking away from your face, Sherlock said, “You’re standing in the middle of the staircase.”

John snorted. “Right—Well, I’m late.”

“You were late ten minutes ago,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, thank you, I’m aware.” John pushed off the doorframe, reaching for his coat. “Mary’s waiting, and unlike some people, I do value my continued survival.”

Sherlock made a vague, dismissive sound in the back of his throat.

John looked between the two of you for a moment—too casually, which meant not casually at all—then gave you a quick smile.

A second later John was heading down the stairs, still sorting his sleeve, calling a distracted goodnight over his shoulder as he went. The front door opened and shut below. The house settled again.

And then it was just you and Sherlock on the landing.

You shifted your bag on your shoulder and opened your mouth. “Right, well—goodnight—”

“Your fiancé hasn’t been here in eleven days.”

The words landed so abruptly that for a moment you simply looked at him.

Sherlock had not moved. One hand was still resting lightly against the banister, long fingers curled there, his face unreadable save for the slight narrowing of his eyes as they flicked once over your expression.

You stared. “I—”

“He usually comes Thursdays,” Sherlock said, almost absently, though his eyes had already returned to you. “Leaves that dreadful aftershave in the hall. Occasionally Sunday, if he’s pretending to be reliable.”

His gaze flicked over you as he spoke—quick, precise. Your coat. Your hands. The small details you hadn’t thought about.

“No umbrella left by the door. No second cup. No shoes abandoned halfway across the hall—he never did manage that properly.”

He went quiet.

For a moment, he simply looked at you. Not speaking now. Just… observing. Recalculating.

Something in his expression shifted.

“Oh.”

It wasn’t sharp this time. Not victorious. Just… understanding, arriving a second too late.

A pause.

Then, quieter—

“He left you.”

Another beat, and then, more carefully, almost unfamiliar in its sincerity:

“…I’m sorry.”