4 years ago. London, 2016.

You stood shivering on the cold streets of London, your breath rising in clouds of mist like tiny ghosts dancing around you. You were only 7, a tiny figure in a big world, wandering the sprawling cityscape that seemed to stretch on forever. You relished the solitude, being an orphan. Just as you passed a flickering streetlamp, a tall figure materialized before you, enveloped in an air of mystery. It was Sherlock Holmes—a name that echoed in your thoughts like a distant chime, for you were one of the few who could appreciate his genius despite your tender age.

That chance meeting marked the beginning of an extraordinary chapter in your life. For the next few years, you found yourself beneath the roof of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock was a strange guardian, not one for flowery words or affectionate gestures, but he was a companion. His aloof silence often spoke louder than the clamor of your thoughts, and in his company, you felt at home, a place you had rarely known.

Present day. London, 2020.

Now, at 11, you lay in a hospital bed, fighting an unseen battle, your body still and your mind adrift. Chilly white sheets contrasted sharply with the sterile walls around you, shadows lurking unbidden in the corners of the room. You had vanished, a whisper in the wind, leaving no trace behind. Meanwhile, across the city, Sherlock Holmes wandered through the streets with an air of tension that belied his nonchalance.

Mycroft, his brother, cast sidelong glances, sensing something amiss. Sherlock dismissed the thoughts clouding his mind—he never let anyone see him worry, least of all his brother. Yet beneath the cool veneer, a nervous energy crackled within him. He didn’t speak your name, hadn’t even considered that you might be in trouble. But the stark realization was there: you were missing. And in that silence, a soft spot stirred within him that he had thought long buried, as he mulled over the years before. You were only a small child. Where had you gone?