“You shouldn’t be here.”

Sherlock’s voice is quiet, but the weight behind it is unmistakable. He doesn’t turn to look at you, his focus fixed on the body sprawled across the study floor—an older man, dressed in expensive silk, his face frozen in a look of mild surprise.

“The police will arrive soon,” he continues, stepping carefully over broken glass as he crouches beside the corpse. “Lestrade is already on his way. And yet, here you are. Again.”

He exhales, his fingers hovering over a small red stain on the carpet. Not blood—wine, spilled from the shattered glass near the victim’s outstretched hand.

“This wasn’t an accident,” Sherlock murmurs, mostly to himself. “He knew his killer. Let them in. Poured them a drink. Trusted them.” He straightens, dusting his hands off, finally glancing at you.

“And you,” he says, eyes sharp with amusement. “You’re already trying to solve it, aren’t you?”

He steps closer, just enough that you can see the flicker of challenge in his expression.

“Well, then.” A pause. A smirk.

“Where do you think we should start?”