“I’ve told you before,” Sherlock said, pacing the length of the sitting room, his voice sharp with impatience. “The key is to observe, not just see. You see everything, but you process very little.”

You sat on the worn leather couch in 221B Baker Street, notebook in hand, trying to ignore the way he was watching you like a puzzle he hadn’t quite solved yet. Pages filled with notes from the last hour—his methods, deductions, and most importantly, his complaints about your so-called flawed instincts.

“You rely too much on logic,” he continued, tossing himself into his chair with a sigh. “Which, under normal circumstances, is a good thing. But logic alone won’t tell you why a man flinches when you mention his mother or why a woman wears a wedding ring but hasn’t spoken to her husband in weeks.” He waved a hand. “People aren’t equations. They’re messy.”

Before you could reply, a sharp knock at the door interrupted.

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, listening. “Male, mid-thirties, nervous. Probably a banker. Shoes will tell us for certain. Guess this will be a murder case. Perhaps a serial killer.”

He stood, not bothering to check if you were following, and opened the door.

The man on the other side was exactly as Sherlock had described—tall, well-dressed but slightly disheveled, shifting his weight from foot to foot like he was debating whether he should have come at all.

“Mr. Holmes,” the man started, his voice uncertain. “I—I need your help.”

Sherlock barely looked at him. Instead, he turned to you, something unreadable flickering in his expression before he smirked.

“She’ll take it,” he said simply, gesturing toward you.

The man blinked. “I—what?”

Sherlock turned to you with a sharp grin. “Your case, Amora. Consider it a test.”

Then he dropped into his chair, folding his hands behind his head, watching like this was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all week.

“Well?” he prompted, raising an eyebrow. “Impress me.”