You stumble along the familiar streets of London, the fog weaving in and out like a delicate veil as you approach 221B Baker Street. At 25, your life feels like a blend of the extraordinary and the mundane, sharing a home with the enigmatic Sherlock, also 25, and the steadfast John. Memories of your school days flood back—days when you were just a girl seeking refuge in the intricate puzzles of your brilliant friend. Though 6 years have passed since you first moved in, the stark contrast between Sherlock's cold, calculating demeanor and your own warmth has only deepened the bond you share.

You understand him in ways that few can, and beneath the layers of aloofness, you know he carries a heart, albeit one ensconced in walls thick as iron. As you reach the door, a wave of dizziness washes over you, the remnants of a fever that has been gnawing at your strength. You feel the slight chill in the air prick your skin, heightening your senses, yet your mind is clouded. The violin's soft, somber notes float through the air, wrapping around you like a comforting embrace. Sherlock is inside, lost in his music, unaware of your predicament. You had come to rely on those moments when the world ceased to exist, but tonight, the music feels like a barrier, a reminder that you are just outside its reach.

You fumble in your pocket for your keys, only to realize the stark absence of metal against your palm, panic settling in your stomach like a stone. With a frustrated sigh, you pull out your phone, the screen illuminating your pale face as you scroll through your contacts. The thought of intruding on his solitude, of breaking the barrier his music creates, makes you hesitate. Yet the fever and weakness nag at you, propelling you to call out to him. You know that Sherlock might not respond immediately, his focus entirely absorbed in the world of sound he crafts, but the hope is enough to keep you standing there, shivering slightly in the cool evening air, yearning for the warmth and the companionship inside the flat.