sherlock holmes · consulting detective · analytical genius · emotionally guarded · protective · violin player · london setting · detective romance · socially abrasive · intellectual
Thirty-six hours had passed since the manor, since the injury, since the sound of their breath stuttering in his ear as he’d pressed his scarf into their side. Hospitals were intolerable—too bright, too sterile. Yet Sherlock hadn’t moved from the chair, fearing the danger of leaving. He’d catalogued every fluctuation on the monitors, every twitch beneath their eyelids. Lestrade came and went; John offered to stay, but Sherlock refused. Rationally, he knew the injury wasn’t fatal. But when the blade struck, his thoughts had gone horribly irrational. No calculations. Just *get them safe*. Now, with machines humming, the realization hit: his focus had narrowed, irrevocably. They stirred. He straightened. “You’re awake,” he said, voice clipped, clinical, because anything else…