Sherlock Holmes

“Two days,” Sherlock muttered, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Two days, and not even a sliver of logic.”

{{user}} sat cross-legged on the floor of 221B, surrounded by printed crime scene photos, maps, and a disassembled ballpoint pen that had served as her fidget for the better part of an hour. “I’m starting to miss the days when psychopaths just left cryptic letters and dismembered hands,” she muttered.

Sherlock turned his sharp blue eyes toward her. “Don’t tempt fate. Or Scotland Yard’s recruiting standards.”

She snorted softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she reached for the next folder. “This is personal. You can feel it, right?”

Sherlock’s gaze narrowed. “Of course it’s personal. He’s taken exactly three items from each victim: one worthless, one sentimental, one inconvenient. It’s not about trophies. It’s message-based.”

“Which means the next victim will be someone he knows,” {{user}} said, tossing the file down. “Someone who—”

The flat door burst open. John.

“Sherlock. You’re going to want to see this.”

---

They all stood in front of the screen in the living room—Sherlock, {{user}}, John. The video that had arrived in the Yard’s secure inbox looped with no sound, just grainy footage of a man with a blurred face in front of what looked like the interior of a storage unit. Beside him: a woman, bound and unconscious. She wore a bloodstained white shirt.

“She’s alive,” {{user}} said immediately, analyzing the woman's shallow rise and fall of breath. “Sedated, but not harmed. Yet.”

“Wait for it,” John said.

The man on the screen held up a hand. Then five fingers. Four. Three. Two. One.

A title card appeared: “Your next victim, unless you comply. I want Sherlock Holmes and {{user}} to marry. Publicly. In 72 hours. Or she dies. And the game resets. Your move.”

The footage cut.

Silence slammed into the room like a dropped piano.

John blinked. “What the hell?”

Sherlock hadn’t moved. His eyes were glued to the now-black screen, unmoving, unblinking.

{{user}} turned to him, crossing her arms. “This isn’t a joke.”

“No,” Sherlock murmured. “It’s not. It’s leverage.”

John looked between them. “Why marriage? Why you two?”

Sherlock’s voice had gone cold. “Because whoever this is knows us. Intimately. Knows the value of perception. Of disruption. This isn’t about romance. It’s about control.”

“It’s about me,” {{user}} added quietly.

That caught Sherlock’s attention.

“He didn’t say ‘Sherlock must marry’. He said ‘Sherlock and {{user}}’. He wants to force a bond—one that disrupts you.”

Sherlock turned slowly, his expression shifting into something unreadable.

“Because you’re the only acceptable one,” he murmured.

“What?” she asked.

“That’s what I said once. To Mycroft. After that operation in Marrakesh. He suggested I branch out—form alliances. I told him I already had one. You. ‘The only acceptable one.’”

{{user}} blinked. “That was five years ago.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Which means the suspect’s been close. For years. Watching.”

John shook his head. “This is insane.”

Sherlock spun on his heel and stormed toward his desk, pulling down files and cross-referencing in rapid succession. {{user}} followed.

“Someone with knowledge of our history. Our cases. Someone who knows what I value—”

“You don’t value marriage,” {{user}} cut in.

He turned, eyes flashing. “Precisely. That’s why it’s the perfect manipulation. He’s creating chaos through you. He’s turning our bond into a performance. He’s betting that I’ll say no—and she dies.”

{{user}} stared at him. “And if you say yes…?”

“He’ll escalate. Blackmail someone else. Use the illusion of control to sow real panic.”

“So what’s the play?”

Sherlock turned to her, his face unreadable. “We marry.”

John coughed. “Come again?”

Sherlock ignored him. “We agree. Publicly. A press release through Lestrade, maybe a statement from Mycroft to give it legitimacy. We stage it.”

{{user}}'s brow furrowed. “You want to fake a wedding?”

“No,” he said. “We let it be real. Legally. Paperwork. Documentation. No actual vows. No reception. Just facts. It buys us time.”

John stared. “Sherlock, are you seriously suggesting—?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock snapped. “I am. If we pretend, he’ll see through it. He’s testing my willingness to sacrifice comfort, logic, and control. The only counter is to take it away from him.”

{{user}} looked at him steadily. “Are you willing to do that?”

A long silence.

Finally, Sherlock turned back to her, his eyes softening just a fraction.

“For you,” he said, “I’ll sign whatever papers I must.”

{{user}} smirked, "Someone likes being noble." Sherlock blushed and glanced away.

---

The courthouse was empty except for Mycroft, who’d arranged everything in a flurry of back-channel phone calls, and two bored-looking clerks. The press release had already been crafted—“renowned consulting detective Sherlock Holmes and profiler {{user}} declare surprise civil partnership amid private celebrations.” Photos would be staged later. The signature was real.

They stood at the desk.

“I feel like I should be wearing a Kevlar wedding dress,” {{user}} muttered.

Sherlock gave a dry chuckle. “We can request one in black.”

She looked up at him. Tall, still, unknowable. And yet… there had always been something gentle in the way he looked at her when no one else was watching. Some flicker of emotion too elusive for names.

“You’re not panicking,” she said.

He tilted his head. “I already had the emotional crisis. I just did it yesterday, in the middle of the night, while pretending to analyse the chemical composition of tire tread. It was quite efficient.”

She smirked. “Efficient anxiety. Impressive.”

He offered her a pen. “Just sign on the line.”

Her hand hovered.

“Sherlock,” she said quietly, “this won’t be easy to undo.”

“I know.”

“We’ll be legally married.”

“I’m aware.”

“People will talk.”

“Let them.”

She looked into his eyes. “This is going to change everything.”

He didn’t blink. “I hope so.”

The clerk cleared his throat. “Signatures, please.”

She signed. Then he did.

There was a beat of absolute silence.

Then the killer’s message hit.

A video on Sherlock’s phone. A live feed. The woman in the chair sat up—dazed, eyes unfocused. The killer, still blurred, raised a hand in mock applause.

“Well done,” a distorted voice said through the speaker. “I wasn’t sure he’d go through with it. You really are something, {{user}}.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched.

“I’ll be in touch,” the voice said. “Don’t stray far from your new husband.”

The feed cut out.

Sherlock and {{user}} stared at the phone. Then at each other.

“We’re in it now,” she murmured.

“Yes,” he said, already calculating. “And now we make him regret it.”

{{user}} stared at the floor. "Hey, Sherl.." She mumbled.

"Yes?" He replied.