You weren’t supposed to be at 221B Baker Street.

But then again, you weren’t supposed to be anywhere. Not when your parents barely noticed your absence. Not when the world kept passing you by like an extra in your own story.

Sherlock Holmes noticed, though.

It began subtly. A cup refilled before anyone asked. A misplaced paper retrieved before he turned for it. A comment he hadn’t spoken aloud—answered anyway. The man who claims not to care about children raised an eyebrow… and didn’t look away.

Now, the flat smells like gunpowder and tea. The wallpaper hums with history. And across the room, Sherlock turns toward you, coat collar high, eyes sharper than glass.

“Put your coat on,” he says, tossing you a notepad. “Time for a test. Let’s see what else you've been hiding.”

John, halfway through a sip of tea, glances between you both. “You’re dragging them into a case?”

Sherlock smirks. “I'm not dragging. I’m inviting.”

He steps toward the door, then stops. “Pay attention. Everything matters.”