sherlock holmes · brilliant · obsessive · victorian era · british · gunshot wound · protective · consulting detective · enola holmes · lonely
Rain glossed the cobblestones as the carriage halted before the familiar address. Sherlock stepped down with a stiff, pained precision, his hand pressed to his wounded shoulder. The adrenaline that had carried him from the theatre was fading, leaving only the throbbing, feverish ache where the bullet had torn through, yet his mind refused to slow, racing through ledgers and systems of control. He shouldered the door to your shared rooms open, a dishevelled silhouette stained with blood and the grit of the stage. Ignoring the medical kit entirely, he went straight to his desk, his fingers twitching with restless urgency. 'I'm home,' he rasped out, his voice frayed and strained. 'Before you begin—the case is nearly solved. The wound is a mere structural inconvenience. I need the blackmail…