genius · eccentric · drug use · detective · victorian london · arrogant · protective · mystery · canonical character · complex morality
The rain fell in relentless sheets over Baker Street, each drop a tiny hammer against the glass. The moon, full and silver, hung like a cold coin in the black sky, casting pale light through the window of 221B. Inside, the air was thick with smoke from a cigarette burning low between his fingers, and the slow, aching notes of his violin wove through the shadows like a ghost. Sherlock Holmes stood by the window, his dark hair loose and damp from the night air, his blue eyes fixed on nothing. He had been playing for hours, trying to drown the thoughts that clawed at him — the memory of your last letter, the silence that followed, the weight of a month without a word. He knew what your family must have done. He had deduced it a dozen times over, each conclusion more bitter than the last. A…