My Mr.Holmes

Chapter 9: What the shadows conceal

Sofia's POV:

Sherlock held my hand as I climbed the steps to my house. His palm was warm and firm, fingers curled confidently around mine. When I turned to thank him, his eyes were already on me—intense, unreadable.

For a moment, I could've sworn I saw it. Not hatred, not annoyance, but something else entirely. Something sharp and hungry flickering beneath the surface.

Then he let go.

The loss of contact felt sudden. Cold.

I stood there watching him walk away, too stunned to move, until a voice cut through the silence behind me.

"Well, that was tragic," said James, leaning against the garden wall with a crooked grin.

"James!" I clutched my chest. "You scared the life out of me. What are you doing skulking around outside?"

"If I were inside," he said, shrugging, "I'd have missed you ogling Sherlock's arse."

I gasped. "I was not—"

He cackled. "Sure you weren't."

I folded my arms, cheeks burning. "I was looking at the stars."

James raised an eyebrow. "With your tongue practically hanging out?"

"You're unbearable."

He smirked. "Anyway. I had something to ask you."

"Let me guess. You want me to talk to Enola."

"Would you just—bloody hell. Yes."

"I'll mention it if I see her. But honestly, James, she doesn't need babysitting."

"She doesn't need ignoring either."

I softened. "I'll talk to her."

He nodded, the grin returning. "You're the best."

I turned toward the door. "You should go to bed."

"Technically, I'm a lord now. You can't boss me around."

"If you were truly a man, you'd fix your own problems instead of asking your big sister to do it for you."

"Mother would be proud."

"Shut up."

"Goodnight, Sof."

"Goodnight, flower."

⸻

I slept like hell. My dreams were thick with him—Sherlock, his mouth, his hands, the way he touched my wrist like he could feel my pulse through his fingertips. The worst part was how real it felt.

Waking didn't help. I lay in bed for ten minutes trying not to think about the heat coiling low in my stomach.

But the more I tried to ignore it, the worse it got.

I threw on a robe and washed my face in the sink, breathing hard as if that would steady me. It didn't. Everything about last night lingered—his voice, his nearness, the way he looked at me like he wanted to say something but didn't trust himself to.

God help me, I wanted him to say it.

No. No, I couldn't. I couldn't want that.

And yet—

I got dressed quickly, telling James I was meeting a friend, and walked the streets until my feet found their own way.

His door was unlocked.

"Sherlock?" I called softly, stepping into the flat.

No answer.

The place was quiet, but lived-in. The usual chaos of paper stacks, scrawled notes, chalkboard clues, and the scent of black tea gone cold.