Cade Eaton

His family is being subtle

Sherlock Holmes

He's falling for you.

Sherlock Holmes

You're his assistant...

Nico Volkov

Nico Volkov hadn’t wanted to be here tonight. The room was warm, too warm, and filled with soft laughter and stolen glances that made his teeth grind. Alex sat with Ava curled against his side, her head tilted back to laugh at something Jules had said. Josh and Jules were bickering gently, the way couples do when they’re already sure of each other. Even Bridget and Rhys — who tried to hide it — kept drifting closer on the couch. And Christian, of course, sat with Stella practically glowing beside him. All of them so obviously, shamelessly happy. Nico sat in the corner, whiskey untouched in his glass, jaw tight. He’d always told himself he didn’t need what they had. Love was a distraction. A weakness. And watching it now, so close and yet untouchable, only made the emptiness inside him louder. He was about to excuse himself when the knock came. Sharp. Urgent. Too fast. The entire mood shifted; Christian’s posture turned lethal, Alex’s expression sharpened. Ava set down her wine, worry flickering across her face. Alex moved first, crossing the room and opening the door. The girl stumbled inside like a gust of panic. Her chest heaved, tears streaking down her face, dark bruises visible on her throat above a torn collar. Her eyes were wide, wild. “Close the door,” she gasped out, voice cracking. “Please. He—he’s coming.” For a second, no one moved. Then Alex shoved the door shut, flicking the lock. Rhys and Christian exchanged a silent look — calculation, threat assessment. Nico just watched her. Something ugly twisted in his chest. Not pity — he wasn’t built for that — but something colder. Recognition. The way terror sat in her bones, as if it wasn’t new. As if she’d lived with it too long. Alex stepped forward. “Who’s coming?”

Cade Eaton

In the club

Sherlock Holmes

It started with laughter. Not his, of course. Yours. He hadn’t meant to make a joke. He rarely did. But something about the way you’d interpreted the suspect’s coded journal made him say something dry and sharp — and you’d laughed. Bright and sudden, like a spark in the dark. It surprised him. He found he didn’t want you to stop. You were both sitting on the steps of an abandoned train platform, the remnants of a long day behind you — questions still unanswered, clues still scattered. The case wasn’t closed. Not yet. But Sherlock wasn’t thinking about that right now. You were eating a chocolate bar you’d pulled from your coat pocket, offering him a piece without looking at him. He didn’t take it. But he noticed the way you broke it in half anyway, letting it rest beside him like a quiet gesture of trust. “You don’t believe it’s the brother,” you said, finally breaking the comfortable silence. “He’s too obvious.” Sherlock nodded. “Too emotional. The real killer didn’t feel anything. You saw the way the knife was positioned.” You hummed in agreement, eyes scanning the distant tunnel. “But he knows something. He’s hiding it.” He glanced sideways at you. You weren’t looking at him, not directly. Just thinking. Building the puzzle in your head. Focused. Steady. Brilliant, in your own quiet way. And that’s when it hit him. That small, terrible thought. He didn’t want this moment to end. He shifted slightly, hands clasped between his knees, and studied you in the dim light like you were the only mystery left worth solving. Then, calmly, carefully, he asked, “Do you always eat chocolate after crime scenes?”

Christian Harper

He's in the libary?

Billy Hargrove

𐙚 Playing basketball 🏀

Roarke

Bad cop?

Christian Harper

Power went out.

Christian Harper

Your father

Colin Fitzgerald

Nerds meeting

Sherlock Holmes

Working together?

Sherlock Holmes

The storm had rolled in faster than expected. You stood under the narrow awning just outside the old library, clutching the folder of crime scene photos to your chest, your hair damp from the sprint you didn’t quite beat the rain with. Sherlock appeared beside you without a sound, umbrella in hand, coat only partially buttoned. He looked like he hadn’t noticed the weather at all — or maybe it just hadn’t dared to touch him. “You left before I finished explaining the blood pattern,” he said, as though it were a betrayal. You exhaled, not turning to face him. “Because I already figured it out.” He glanced sideways at you. Rain tapping gently on the umbrella above, thunder rumbling in the distance. “I know,” he said softly. You blinked, finally meeting his eyes. “I watched your expression when you saw the photo. You already knew the angle was wrong. The killer stood closer. It wasn’t a struggle. It was staged.” You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. He shifted slightly, just enough for the umbrella to tilt more over your side. Water now soaked into the shoulder of his coat, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or care. Sherlock Holmes didn’t do... *gentle*. Not really. But something in his gaze now — sharp, searching — felt different. He looked at you not just like a colleague, not even like a match. Like something he hadn’t quite accounted for. The silence stretched, heavy and strange and not unpleasant. Then he asked, almost too casually, “Do you always walk into storms without checking the forecast first?”

Sherlock Holmes

New neighbour

Sherlock Holmes

Meeting in a café.

Sherlock Holmes

You're better.

John Logan

He really needs your help

Christian Harper

He fixes things for you. Part of the rent?

Vuk Markovic

He’s a quiet man

Sherlock Holmes

If...

Christian Harper

He came to fix something.

Roarke

*The office was silent except for the soft hum of Amora’s computer. Late nights were the norm, but tonight she wasn’t pushing papers for a client—she was digging into something far more personal. The case she couldn’t let go.* *Tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear, she frowned at the screen. A dozen tabs open, each filled with articles, court records, and financial reports. Her gut told her this wasn’t just another high-profile embezzlement case. It was bigger, murkier.* *The knock on the door startled her, a sharp rap against the frosted glass pane that bore her name in clean, bold lettering:* **Amora Díaz, Esq.** *It was late—too late for clients or colleagues. Cautiously, she got up and opened the door to find a man leaning against the frame. His presence was magnetic, his tailored suit doing nothing to disguise the sharp confidence that radiated from him.* "Amora," *he said smoothly, his Irish lilt curling around her name. His gaze, vivid and assessing, swept the small office, lingering briefly on the file-strewn desk behind her.* "I don’t think we’ve met," *she said, crossing her arms.* "Who are you, and why are you here at—" she checked the clock on the wall, "—eleven at night?" *He smiled, a small, almost indulgent quirk of his lips.* "Roarke," *he said simply. No last name, no explanation.* *She stared at him, waiting. When he didn’t elaborate, her patience snapped.* "Alright, Roarke. Either get to the point or—" "I’m here," *he interrupted, his tone silk over steel,* "because you’ve been looking into me." "Mind telling me why?" *Roarke asked, stepping inside and closing the door with deliberate ease. His eyes never left hers.*

Cade Eaton

Young Cade

Christian Harper

Picking you up

Sherlock Holmes

He's giving you a big chance

Sherlock Holmes

Libary

Henry Cavill

Meeting again?

Theodore Nott

Time traveling? ⏱️

Roarke

He's there for you.

Christian Harper

Neighbour

Sylas Valentin

You’re both not interested in the party.

Roarke

You were halfway through taking off her earrings when she heard the unmistakable sound of something *breaking* downstairs. You sighed, rubbing your temple before heading toward the living room. “Roarke—” “I’ll replace it.” You paused in the doorway, taking in the scene. A shattered glass on the floor. Roarke standing by the bar, looking entirely too calm. You folded her arms. “What happened?” He picked up his drink—his *new* drink—and took a slow sip. “I had a visitor.” You narrowed her eyes. “A *visitor*?” “Mm.” He set his glass down. “One of your opposing counsel’s associates stopped by.” You stiffened. “And?” Roarke’s smirk was slow, edged with something dark. “And I made sure they understood exactly how unwise it would be to *continue* interfering with your case.” You exhaled sharply. “I *told* you I had it handled.” “You do,” he agreed. “But I *prefer* they don’t waste your time in the first place.” Youstared at him, jaw tight. “Roarke, you can’t just—” He stepped closer, tilting his head. “What?” “You can’t keep doing this.” Roarke brushed his fingers along her wrist, his touch maddeningly light. “And if I said the same about *you* working late every night? Ignoring your own needs for the sake of your clients?”

Tom Riddle

First meeting