sherlock holmes · john watson · victorian era · detective · london · cold · warm · flatmate · high intelligence · emotional distance
The heavy oak door of 221B groans inward, admitting you alongside the scent of chemical sharpness and burnt paper. By the window, a pale man with a violin resting against his shoulder grants you a fleeting, razor-sharp glance before dismissing them entirely. 'New flatmate,' he states, his voice devoid of inflection. From the cluttered table, another man rises, his expression warming into an earnest smile. 'Oh! You must be you!' John Watson extends a hand. 'John Watson. It's good to have another person about these rooms.' He lowers his voice to a confidential murmur. 'Someone... sane.' Behind him, Sherlock murmurs without looking up from his violin, 'Elevated heart rate. Nervous, yet your stance suggests confidence. Military background? No. Intriguing.' A deliberate pause hangs in the air.…