𝖈𝖆𝖒𝖎𝖘𝖆𝖉𝖔, sherlock holmes

You don't have to say "I love you" to say I love you.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝐖𝐀𝐒 dimly lit, the low hum of electricity and the sound of shuffling papers filling the air. A man sat at a table, his hands cuffed in front of him, a thin, predatory smile playing on his lips. Across from him, two detectives from Scotland Yard glowered in frustration, their eyes hard but unable to mask the helplessness creeping into their posture. He was their prize, their leader—the head of the operation that had wreaked havoc on the city's drug trade—but now he sat smugly, knowing that despite everything, they had nothing on him.

The leader, a tall, lean man in his mid-thirties with piercing green eyes, leaned back in his chair. His designer suit clung to his form perfectly, giving him the air of a businessman rather than a criminal mastermind. His name was Reece Dunn, and he had the best lawyers money could buy.

"Are we done here, gentlemen?" Reece asked, his voice smooth, dripping with arrogance. "I believe my time is being wasted."

One of the detectives, a stocky man with graying hair, slammed his fist on the table. "Don't get too comfortable, Dunn. We know what you've done—drug trafficking, murder, extortion. We know all of it."

Reece chuckled lightly. "Then prove it." He tilted his head, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Oh, that's right—you can't."

The second detective, a younger, wiry man, leaned forward. "You think you're untouchable, but we'll get you. You made a mistake somewhere. No one's perfect."

Reece's smile widened. "Perhaps, but until you find that mistake, I'll be walking out of here a free man." He nodded to the clock on the wall. "My lawyers will be arriving any moment now."

The door creaked open, and sure enough, two suited men strode in, their expressions tight with professionalism and confidence. Reece stood as his cuffs were removed, dusting off his sleeves as if he had been merely inconvenienced.

One of the lawyers turned to the detectives. "We'll be taking Mr. Dunn now. Unless, of course, you have any legitimate evidence to charge him."

The detectives exchanged a look, their jaws clenched. They had nothing. With a frustrated sigh, they stepped aside, watching as Reece and his entourage left the interrogation room, the sound of polished shoes echoing against the concrete floor.

As Reece walked out of the station and into the cool night air, a sleek black car pulled up to the curb. He slid into the backseat with the grace of someone who had done this a thousand times before.

"Scotland Yard," he mused to himself, his voice barely a whisper. "Pathetic."

The car pulled away from the station, disappearing into the maze of London streets.

Meanwhile, across the city, in a small, dingy room that smelled faintly of stale smoke and sweat, Rose and Sherlock sat huddled over a map spread out across a battered coffee table. The room, once a decrepit drug den, had undergone some minor improvements since Sherlock started spending more time there—cleaner, a little more organized, with a few books and scattered papers replacing the mess of old needles and broken bottles. Still, the scent of old habits lingered in the air.