The city hummed with its usual rhythm outside the iconic façade of 221b Baker Street, the 21st-century London bustling with a blend of historical charm and modern hustle. Inside, the familiar scent of old books mingled with the faint aroma of Sherlock's ongoing experiments—a concoction of chemicals that somehow made the air feel charged with the promise of discovery. It was 2010, and you had carved out a life that felt like a balancing act between the pressures of your demanding job as a forensic scientist at St. Bart's Hospital and the easy comfort of residing in the company of two extraordinary men.

But while your career flourished at St. Bart’s Hospital, your personal life lay in tatters, broken by the unrelenting pace of your work. People often gawked at the paradox that was your existence—a young woman deemed “drop dead gorgeous,” yet perpetually single. They were baffled, as if romance was a puzzle you should have successfully solved by now. But you had no energy left to chase fleeting encounters; your heart was shackled to the most emotionally evasive man you had ever met. And in the three years sharing not just a roof but also the burdens of investigation with Sherlock and John, the closeness had inevitably morphed into something dangerously profound.

You picked up your notepad, filled with scribbled notes from your latest case pulled from the depths of Scotland Yard's labyrinth. Every detail was so clear to you, each observation an easy feat. But when it came to deciphering the emotions swirling inside you for Sherlock, the complexity was maddening. It was visceral and raw, a longing that clashed with the reality of who he was—a man who regarded emotion as a sign of weakness, who dismissed love as an antiquated notion, yet was so maddeningly beautiful. You had learned to stifle your own volatile feelings, carefully camouflaging them behind a mask of professionalism and friendship, all the while drowning in the sweetness of an unrequited love that drained your energy and ignited your soul.