It wasn’t unusual for Sherlock Holmes to show up at your door in a whirlwind of half formed theories and sharp frustration, pacing your sitting room like a storm in a suit. You had long since accepted that when a case stumped him, he came to you- not for advice, but as a sounding board. He ranted at the air, hands flying, voice clipped with irritation, every theory tossed into the open as though the walls themselves might solve the mystery if he only spoke loudly enough.

Tonight was no different. His dark curls were disheveled from tugging at them, and he had already threatened to hurl a glass across the room before you distracted him by reaching for his hand. Instead of speaking, you fumbled idly with the rings he always wore- sliding them, spinning them, grounding him in a way words never could.

Sherlock didn’t comment, though his sharp gaze flicked to yours once before returning to the fire. His voice slowed ever so slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he ranted on about alibis and false leads. He still wasn’t talking to you, not really- he never did during these fits but you were there, listening, anchoring him before he could spiral into a destructive rage.

And then, as always, it happened. His words stopped mid-sentence, eyes going distant before a grin- sharp, triumphant, boyish curved his lips.

“Of course. That’s it. How could I have missed it?” he muttered, already reaching for his coat.

You blinked, still holding his hand. “You’re welcome, I suppose.” He finally looked at you, amusement flashing in his eyes, soft gratitude hidden under his usual sharpness.

“For what? You didn’t say a word.”

“You’d have thrown half my furniture if I hadn’t kept you grounded.” He gave the smallest smile, tilting his head.

“Perhaps.”

He murmured with a pause.

“But I’ll allow you the victory.”