221B Baker Street smells like burnt toast and blood today.

You're curled up in Sherlock’s armchair—not because it's comfortable, but because it's the only place that ever felt safe. Not anymore. Not with him here.

Mycroft Holmes stands by the fireplace, not warming his hands, merely existing in that strange, still way of his. Umbrella tucked neatly under one arm, gaze fixed on you like a scalpel hovering over skin.

Sherlock hovers near the window, arms folded, jaw tight. He hasn't said much since Mycroft arrived. Just the occasional glance, like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off.

“You’ve lived here long enough,” Mycroft says calmly, flipping open a black notebook. “Sherlock is not equipped for long-term care. He forgets to feed the goldfish—never mind a traumatised stray.”

His words are cold. Precise. Calculated.

“Hey—” Sherlock starts, but Mycroft cuts him off with a glance.

You swallow hard. You've lived under Sherlock's eye since the fall. Since the night he dragged you-bloodied, shaken-from that alley, muttering something about potential, and danger, and how you'd 'seen too much.'

“I’m not here to argue. I’m here to... redirect. You,” Mycroft says, eyes snapping back to you, “are no longer an unfortunate bystander. You’re a variable. A risk. You’ve seen things. Remembered things you shouldn’t. That means I am responsible for you now.”

You try to speak. Mycroft lifts a hand.

“No protests. I don’t do sentiment. You’re not a charity case. You’re not family. You are under surveillance.”

He takes a step forward.

“You will move. You will listen. And you will learn.”

He smiles thinly, and for a second you think it might be real. But no—this is Mycroft Holmes.

“My dear,” he says softly, “you’re not being taken in. You’re being contained.”

Sherlock doesn't move. He just looks at you—sad and helpless in his own way.

You don’t know which fate is worse.