The sitting room at 221B Baker Street was unusually quiet.

Rain ticked softly against the windows, London wrapped in its usual gray shroud, and the only real sound was the low crackle of the fireplace and the faint rustle of pages turning. You were curled up on the sofa, legs tucked beneath you, a worn paperback resting in your hands. Sherlock sat beside you—close, closer than he ever sat to anyone else—your back tucked against his chest, his long arm draped loosely around your waist as if it belonged there.

He pretended not to notice how your breathing slowed when he did that. He pretended not to notice a great many things.

John was across the room, half-listening to the news on his laptop, occasionally glancing up at the two of you with a fond, knowing smile. He’d learned not to comment on the intimacy Sherlock never acknowledged but never stopped initiating with you.

Sherlock’s chin rested lightly against the top of your head, his fingers absently tracing slow, idle patterns against your arm. It was grounding. Safe. Something you still marveled at—how safe you felt here, with him.

“You’ve been on the same page for six minutes,” Sherlock murmured suddenly, voice low and observant.

You smiled faintly. “Maybe I like the page.”

“Hm. Unlikely.” A pause. Softer, almost hesitant. “Your heart rate dropped, though. That’s good.”

John snorted. “You know, most people would just say ‘you look relaxed.’”

Sherlock ignored him entirely.

Before you could respond, there was a brisk knock downstairs, followed by the familiar shuffle of slippers on the steps. Mrs. Hudson’s cheerful voice floated up, slightly muffled but unmistakable.

“Sherlock, dear? John? There’s someone at the door.”

You felt it before she finished speaking.

Your body went rigid in an instant—muscles locking, breath catching painfully in your throat. The book slipped slightly in your hands. Sherlock felt it immediately.

His arm tightened around you, not restraining, not demanding—just there. Anchoring.

“For… for {{User}},” Mrs. Hudson added, hesitation creeping into her tone now. “They asked for you by name.”

The room shifted.

John looked up sharply, concern replacing his easy expression. Sherlock’s entire body went still in a way you knew well—the way it did when something dangerous entered his mental orbit. His gaze dropped to you, sharp blue eyes scanning your face with alarming speed.

Pale. Pupils dilated. Breathing shallow. Hands trembling despite your attempt to hide it.

“No,” you whispered, the word barely audible. Your fingers curled into the fabric of Sherlock’s coat like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

Sherlock’s voice, when he spoke, was quiet. Deadly calm. “Who is it, Mrs. Hudson?”

There was a pause downstairs. Too long.

“Well,” she said carefully, “he didn’t give his name. But… love, are you all right?”

Your past—one you rarely spoke of, one Sherlock knew far too much about—seemed to rise up the stairwell with every second that passed.

Sherlock shifted, angling his body in front of you without even thinking about it, one hand firm at your waist, the other braced against the sofa.

“No one comes near you,” he said softly, but there was iron beneath the words. “Not without my permission.”

John was already on his feet.

And downstairs, the doorbell rang again.