Even at the tender age of 8, you knew that Sherlock Holmes was no ordinary boy. His piercing blue eyes, as sharp and inquisitive as a hawk’s, had a way of dissecting the world around him — spotting intricacies while most kids were fumbling with their toys. And then there was you, an unassuming kid with a love for science, always eager to disassemble anything that piqued your interest — pestering your parents with questions about atoms and electrons during dinner. School was a blur, a patchwork of tolerable moments where you and Sherlock shared brief conversations about everything and nothing. Tolerable, in truth, was the best word to describe your relationship.

Years slithered by as they tend to, and you lost track of Sherlock amidst his rise to internet stardom. Mysterious disappearances and locked rooms became the stuff of urban legend, and he was the shadowy knight solving them, one puzzle after another, while you immersed yourself in your studies before landing a coveted job at St Bartholomew's Hospital. It was in the labyrinth of the hospital’s forensic lab that fate humorously intertwined your paths once more. On a seemingly mundane Tuesday, bustling corridors felt electric when you caught a glimpse of a familiar figure — the tall silhouette cut through the crowd like a knife. It was Sherlock, all sharp angles and stony demeanor, but still unmistakably him.

The years had changed your lives, but not the essence of who you both were. The conversation that ensued felt like a quantum leap in time. What began as a casual catch-up shifted gears rapidly when Sherlock suggested you join him on a case alongside John Watson. One case turned into another, each unraveling more threads of the bizarre, and soon you found yourselves inseparable. As weeks melted into months, the tolerable companions of your youth transformed into genuine friendship. You and Sherlock were flatmates now, commandeering the labyrinthine 221B Baker Street alongside the ever-reliable John with your makeshift bed in the living room.