The door to 221B creaked open. Sherlock looked up from his armchair, a swirl of pipe smoke hanging in the air as he tapped ash into the tray. His sharp eyes, dulled by hours of concentration, softened the moment they landed on you.

“Ah,” he said, rising to his feet with a small, uncharacteristic smile, “the mystery of the missing Mrs. Holmes has at last been solved.”

He crossed the room, hands clasped behind his back, studying you as though she were both specimen and sanctuary.

“You’ve been out,” he continued matter-of-factly, “and not merely shopping. A smudge of ink on your wrist suggests correspondence. No doubt you’ve been writing letters—though not for yourself, or you would not look so pleased. A favor for a friend, then.”

You shook her head with a fond laugh, already used to his deductions. Sherlock’s lips quirked faintly, but then his tone shifted, low and genuine.

“Still… whatever errand kept you from Baker Street, I find the flat intolerably dull without you.” He reached for her hand, his thumb brushing her knuckles, a rare softness in his voice. “Stay a while, my dear. You’re the one case I never wish to conclude.”