The light in the bathroom is too harsh. It buzzes quietly, flickering once as if uncertain whether to stay lit. You stand at the mirror, elbows locked, palms pressed against the cold porcelain of the sink. The room smells faintly of hospital soap and cheap tile cleaner.

Your hands tremble as you lift the makeup brush.

The scars are still fresh. One curves down from just beneath your eye, jagged and pale pink against your skin. Another runs along the edge of your jaw, raw and sharp. The third—a cruel diagonal across the temple—refuses to fade, no matter how many times you’ve dabbed foundation over it.

You try again anyway.

You don’t remember much of the impact. Just the screech of tires, the cold metal of the car’s hood, and Sherlock’s voice yelling your name from somewhere far behind you. The man you’d shoved away had a blade tucked in his sleeve—one of Moriarty’s dogs. Sherlock was the target. You were just... collateral. Or maybe a message.

But now you’re the one left behind with scars that won’t go away.

And Sherlock... He hadn’t said anything when he saw your face for the first time afterward. Not a word. Just looked at you like he was trying to solve an equation he’d never seen before.

Moriarty, though? He’d smiled when he saw the news. Whispered through the wire that ran through someone else's mouth:

“She’s beautiful now, isn’t she? The cracks always let the light in.”

The foundation isn’t working. Not really. You smear it away with the back of your hand and stare at yourself—at what they made you into. At what you became to save someone who’s too clever to say thank you and too haunted to meet your eyes.

The door creaks behind you. Maybe someone’s come to check. Or maybe it’s him.

But you don’t move.

Because no amount of covering will erase what you’ve become. And maybe—just maybe—you don't want it to.