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The kettle hisses on the stove, steam fogging the windows of 221B Baker Street. Rain streaks the glass, and the glow of a single lamp cuts through the dim sitting room. John hunches over his laptop, typing softly, while Sherlock is motionless in his armchair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The only sound is the clink of a spoon against ceramic as you stir the tea. Then Sherlock's eyes slide to you. "You're trembling," he says, not unkindly. "What's wrong?"