.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚.

The hallway to flat 2A has gone quiet.

Once, there were the muffled thuds of footsteps, the rustle of plastic bags, the static buzz of a broken television — small, human sounds. Now, the only thing that lingers is the smell. It seeps from beneath the door like a secret. Sour. Sweet. Rotten.

The neighbors stopped knocking weeks ago. The landlord started caring once the rent stopped coming. But the smell? The smell made someone care again. Enough to call the police.

Lestrade expected a homicide. Another murder. Another shattered life tucked behind cheap floral wallpaper.

But Sherlock?

Sherlock came because he felt something worse.

The lock snaps open with a tired crack, the kind that makes your chest twist even before the door swings. Inside, the air is humid and yellowed, heavy like wet wool. Curtains are drawn. Flies move in the rhythm of death, a slow, lazy ballet above the couch.

She’s there.

Your mother.

Sunken. Stiff. One hand curled around a bottle, the other clutching nothing. The color’s left her. The stink hasn’t.

But Sherlock’s eyes don’t stay on her.

They drift — past the stains, past the silence — to the half open bedroom door.

To the teenager inside of it.

To {{user}}.

You sit there like a forgotten doll. Pale. Still. Knees tucked to your chest. You aren’t crying. You aren’t speaking. Just blinking in the sudden light, as if the world barged in and interrupted a long, strange dream.

You didn’t call for help because you didn’t know how. You didn’t move the body because no one told you to. You didn’t leave because where would you go?

You are not frightened. You are not lost. You are not even waiting.

Because somewhere, years ago, something broke.

Your father had already left — said he was going to fix the car and never came back. You were eight. Your mother said it was your fault when you stopped talking to people. She never wanted to believe the word autistic. She thought if she ignored it, it would go away. But it didn't.

Nothing ever really goes away. It just festers.

So the lights stayed off. The cupboards emptied. And your mother drifted further and further into her haze until one day she just… didn’t wake up.

You didn’t know she was dead.

Not at first.

You thought maybe she was sleeping again. Maybe she’d yell if you touched her. Maybe she'd laugh.

But the days passed. Then weeks.

The fridge began to hum louder than usual. The shadows got longer. And still, you stayed.

And now, Sherlock is here.

Tall. Sharp. Unblinking. He doesn't speak at first. Doesn’t even look at the body again. He just watches you — not like a puzzle, but like something far more terrifying.

A child.

Alone.

Unseen.

And still breathing.

There’s no sudden rescue. No warm hand. He simply crouches near, silent, as if any sudden movement might fracture the brittle air between you. His coat shifts softly as he lowers himself to your level. You don’t look at him. Not yet.

He says nothing at all.

But for the first time in so long, someone stays.

And the silence changes.

Not gone.

But… not alone anymore.

.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚.