Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The light in Dr. Shruti Roy Singh’s office was filtered through frosted glass—cool, pale, sharp-edged. It made the mahogany desk gleam too brightly in some places and disappear entirely in others. A file sat open in front of her, thick, heavy, clipped with a thin brass pin that had been bent back and forth, impatiently, in someone else’s hand before it reached hers.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

She said the name aloud, half-thinking.

Her fingers traced the red stamp across the top—CONFIDENTIAL: EVALUATION ORDER – PRIORITY 1.

A photograph paper-clipped to the corner. Smudged. Monochrome. The man had cheekbones like razors and eyes that read like they were halfway through undressing a cathedral.

Shruti tilted her head.

Of course she’d heard the name. Everyone had. It hovered in government briefings, whispered in postmortem analysis rooms, and bled into media cycles with a rhythm that suggested orchestration—and madness.

She turned another page. Dates, summaries, psychological flags, arrest records, cooperation summaries, performance reports, redacted documents, and… a memo. Mycroft’s signature below it. Her jaw ticked.

Her memory pulled back—8 years and 9 months ago, precisely.

---

Flashback: 8 Years and 9 Months Ago

Location: The Drawing Room at Roy Palace, Birmingham

It had rained the entire morning. It smelled like wet earth and greenery out of the window. Shruti was 23, still technically a PhD candidate, though her dissertation had already been quoted in two confidential internal psychology review documents.

The man waiting in her grandmother’s sitting room had been offered tea. He declined. Politely, coldly.

“You’re Mycroft Holmes,” she said then, folding her arms. “The real Director of MI6, not the face they trot out in the press.”

Mycroft had not blinked. “Doctor Singh (soon-to-be-Doctor at that time) —you came recommended. I require discretion, precision, and someone unswayed by sentiment.”

“That’s what most powerful men say when they’re about to ask me to break something in someone else.”

He had smiled. Barely. But not without respect.

And now here he was again.

---

Present: Shruti’s Office

She heard the knock, followed by the
click as the door opened.

Of course it wouldn’t be wait for the "come in" after a knock. It never was, with him.

“You know how this works,” Mycroft said, stepping inside without looking around, as if the room itself had been made to his specifications.

Shruti didn’t look up.

“I assume this is not a friendly follow-up call,” she said, turning the page. “Though you did remember to include the lab reports. That’s a first.”

“He’s refusing handlers. He’s breached eight MI6 firewalls in the last three months. He’s intercepted communication streams between Interpol and British security. And he’s beginning to act...” Mycroft paused, selecting the word like it offended him to need one.

“Reckless?” Shruti offered, voice dry.

“Intuitively.”

Shruti arched a brow. “God forbid.”

“The point, Doctor Singh, is that the intelligence community no longer trusts him. Which means neither do my superiors. Which means I’m being asked to put him on record as either viable—or not. And that, in turn, means I need an outside evaluation from someone…”

He trailed off.

She finished it. “…whose integrity is unimpeachable and who knows how to handle sociopathic brilliance without getting flattered into bed or murder.”

He hesitated.

“My brother, Doctor Singh, is not a sociopath. Not quite. Not clinically.”

Her fingers hovered over the edge of the paper. She flipped to the next section: Evaluations attempted: 5. Failures: 5. Notes: Patient uncooperative, mocking, dismissive,
noncompliant.

“What you’re asking me,” she said slowly, “is to spend ten weeks with your younger brother, poking around in the mind of the man who’s hacked your entire system more than once this year just to prove that he could.”

Mycroft adjusted his cufflink.

“He doesn’t trust systems. But he… might talk to you.”

She looked up. “Why?”

Mycroft’s mouth twitched again, not quite a smile. “Because, Doctor Singh, you’re one of the few people I know who’s never wanted to be useful to anyone.”

Shruti stared at him. Her pulse, annoyingly, had picked up.

“Your brother, Mr. Holmes…” she said softly, dragging the file just a touch closer.

Mycroft nodded once.

“The one and only.”

---

“Roy Singh,” she muttered under her breath, the words folded tightly between her molars. Her eyes hadn’t moved from the file, but the syllables slipped out like muscle memory. Old bruises.

Mycroft Holmes stood unmoving near the entrance, tapping his black umbrella lightly against the high-shine tiles—an unconscious metronome for his disapproval, or perhaps restraint.

Shruti's fingers drummed quietly on her desk, not in time with him. Never in time with him.

He glanced down, clinically, toward her left hand. The saline lock, taped in place just above her wrist, peeked beneath the rolled cuff of her sleeve—a quiet, clean port into her body.

There was a pause.

Then, softly, as if selecting every word from the top shelf of his inner library:
“Miss Roy Singh... how are you doing?”

She let out a low breath through her nose. The kind of sound one made after unbuttoning the first clasp of a too-tight dress.

“Not again, Mr. Mycroft.” Her tone was half tolerance, half weariness. “We’re not doing this. You’re not allowed to pretend I’m your surrogate sister just because my grandmother likes your triannual letters and you think you’ve earned a stake in my soft spots.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. His umbrella kept time.

Shruti leaned back in her chair, letting the leather creak as if it too wanted to be heard.

“It hurts and aches,” she said, calmly now. “And I might, later tonight, lock myself in my room and cry into my six-foot-tall teddy bear—yes, that one, the furry comfort with the bow tie. But I’m mentally fine. Emotionally lucid. No hallucinations, no dissociation, no psychotic breaks, not even the soft ones. I’ve done the checklist.”

She lifted her wrist slightly, gesturing with the taped port.

“Physically? You can see the saline lock. I’ve got a tryst with leuprolide acetate at 4 p.m. sharp, and then at 4 a. m. again. Because apparently synthetic reproductive hormone suppression is now a part-time job.”

Her voice was brisk, almost dryly amused, but her fingers had curled slightly into the desk edge.

Mycroft watched her closely.

She exhaled again, slower this time, then narrowed her eyes.

“And you’re asking—so gently—how am I doing, as though you hadn’t already read my latest file, reviewed my calendar, tracked my hospital appointments, and verified I’d be here today, still amenable enough to take on your brother’s file.”

Mycroft didn’t deny it.

“I had to be sure.” His voice was smooth, but something behind it wavered—an unusual, restrained hesitation.

Shruti tilted her head.

“Because if I’d said no, you’d have had to send him to one of those behavioral labs with the gray chairs, white clinical walls and the passive-aggressive fake plants.”

A pause.

“And he’d have burned the place down.”

Mycroft nodded, the corners of his mouth drawn like lines drawn too straight. “Figuratively.”

Shruti gave him a long look. Then a brief, unexpected smile—not kind, but precise.

“I’ll take the case. You already knew that.”

“Yes.”

“But I want unrestricted discretion in setting the parameters. No handler interference. No post-session analysis requests. And I get to decide the location of the interviews.”

“Within reason,” Mycroft replied.

She raised an eyebrow. “You came to me, Mr. Holmes.”

A beat.

He inclined his head.

“Then we’re agreed.”

“And Mycroft,” she added, just as he turned to leave, “don’t expect me to be polite.”

He stopped just long enough to say, “If you were, he’d never speak to you.”

The door shut behind him with a softened click.

---

Shruti leaned back, eyes drifting to the file again. Sherlock Holmes’ face, staring up from the page—unapologetic, unnervingly focused, sharp like flint.

She blinked, once.

Then closed the file.

---

Shruti pulled open the third drawer of her desk, felt around for the soft navy cushion—a little squashed but still warm from its home beneath the clutter of backup fountain pens, antique nibs, and the tiny lavender pouch that held her emergency anxiety ring.

She set the cushion on the table, folded her arms, and lowered her head onto it with a long, deliberate sigh.

“Huh. Bloody Mycroft Holmes.”

The words muffled against the fabric.

“Asking about my health, as ever. As if... as if he doesn’t send me broken agents like dirty laundry every two months.”

A sharp knock, clean and brisk.

Then a second one—softer, a polite echo.

“Come in, Mishty.”

The door creaked open, and in stepped Mishty Agarwal, wearing her usual soft yellow kurta and sneakers that squeaked just faintly across the floor. She carried a white ceramic tray with two steaming mugs of cardamom milk tea, each topped with a little froth and one clove floating gently like a shipwrecked sailor.

“Doodh chai,” Shruti said, lifting her head and smiling, faintly lopsided.

“How do you always know when I need a break?”

Mishty gave her a look. The kind that had been perfected in school corridors, hostels, and whispered late-night phone calls through two failed relationships and three unlicensed therapy sessions in the staff room.

“Don’t lie like a wrung-out sleepy cat after a mouse hunt.”

She set the tray on the side table and walked over to the overstuffed couch beside the window, patting the space next to her.

“Come on. You always need a moment when IVs and Mycroft Holmes arrive in the same shift. Especially if the IV’s in your arm.”

Shruti let out something between a laugh and a scoff.

“You saw the umbrella, didn’t you.”

“Of course. That black lacquered trauma stick.”

Shruti sat beside her, gingerly curling her legs under herself, IV wrist cradled against her stomach. Mishty handed her one of the mugs.

“So?” Mishty asked, watching her friend over the rim of her tea. “Who’s the new national disaster?”

Shruti took a sip, eyes half-closed. Then, without looking at her:
“Sherlock Holmes.”

Mishty’s lips parted. “Wait. That Sherlock Holmes? Curls? Sociopath? Likes corpses? Busted three drug cartels? Caught —was it six serial killers? Saved Parliament that one time?

“The very one.”

“Shut. Up.”

“I tried,” Shruti muttered into her cup. “He keeps being impossible to ignore.”

Mishty stared. “They’re making you evaluate him? For how long?”

“Ten weeks.”

A long pause. Then a low, reverent whistle from Mishty.

“Girl, you’re going to need more than doodh chai.”

Shruti chuckled.

“I know.” She looked out the window, where the wind was dragging leaves across the stone courtyard. “I’ll see him Monday morning. 221B.”

Mishty blinked. “They’re sending you to his space? That’s not evaluation, that’s danger tourism.”

“If I bring him to a clinic room, he’ll eat me alive.”

Mishty wrinkled her nose. “You say that like it’s only metaphorical.”

Shruti raised an eyebrow but didn’t answer.

________

4 AM

The monitors blinked softly at the far end of the room, throwing occasional faint blue pulses over the soft ivory walls. The air was thick with antiseptic warmth and cardamom—because Mishty had snuck in tea just before the night nurse arrived.

Shruti was curled under a fleece blanket with gold-embroidered trim, the IV line trailing gently from her arm. The leuprolide acetate was dripping slowly, measured, like a suspiciously polite British dinner guest. She said voice low,
"Actually you're right".

Mishty sat beside her on the bed, legs folded, still massaging lightly away from the drip site with practised hands. She was wearing a pink long-sleeved top that read I ❤️ Summer across the front in faded bubble font. Her black braid hung over one shoulder like a lazy river.

“Right about what?” Mishty asked, gently tracing circles on Shruti’s forearm with her thumb.

Shruti’s head lolled against the pillow. Her voice came low, almost sleepy.

“About walking into the detective’s den.”
She turned her face toward Mishty. “I was going to meet him at 221B. Let him snarl at me from behind the skull and violin. But now…”

A pause. Her lips curled, lazy but mischievous.

“I’m going to unsettle him instead. Properly.”

Mishty blinked. “Unsettle how?”

“By making him come to me.”

Mishty arched an eyebrow. “That’s not exactly new for you, Shruts.”

“In the Barbie Room.”

Mishty froze, fingers mid-circle. “Wait. Seriously? The Barbie-themed room? You’re gonna meet Sherlock Bloody Holmes in the pink-walled therapy nest of glitter and girlhood?”

Shruti’s grin widened.

“The very same.”

Mishty sat back, stunned. “That room has a mini chandelier made of hair clips, Shruti.”

“Exactly.”

“That room has a cupboard shaped like a lipstick.”

“And three unicorn beanbags.”

“And a shelf of Barbie dolls in power suits. You meet angsty teen girls in that room, or emotionally-stunted divorcees from Knightsbridge trying to reconnect with their inner child!”

Shruti smiled into her pillow.

“Which is why I chose it.”

Mishty crossed her arms. “You're weaponising pink.”

“Tactical femininity,” Shruti murmured. “His ex-flatmate—John Watson—once described him as an overgrown toddler. In his blog. Publicly.”

Mishty’s brow furrowed.

“So you’re going to meet toddler-energy with—”

“A metaphorical nursery.”

“A Barbie dreamhouse turned psychological landmine.”

“Precisely.”

They were both quiet a moment. The nurse appeared briefly, checked the monitor, smiled sleepily, and left again without comment.

Finally, Mishty leaned back against the headboard and said:

“If he murders you, I’m keeping your shoe collection.”

“Deal,” Shruti mumbled, eyes already fluttering closed.
Then, after a beat—
“You should polish the unicorns before he gets here.”

---

Shruti’s fingers curled loosely around the blanket’s edge, the IV tube shifting faintly with the movement. Her voice drifted out like mist—soft but laced with something sharp and unmistakably entertained.

“And,” she added, “we’ll gift him a Sherlock Holmes aesthetic Ken doll. Dramatic coat. Waistcoat. Curls. Brooding frown included.”

Mishty let out a snort that made the blanket rustle. “Custom Ken? I like it.”

She pulled out her phone and began tapping a note.

“Okay, I’ll have Naveen go hunting. One Sherlock Ken, and a few more for the teens you’re seeing on the weekends. The ones who tried to destroy the lava lamp last session.”

Shruti didn’t open her eyes, but her mouth twitched.

“They’re not five-year-olds, Mishty. They’re teenagers. Twelve to fifteen. Emotional crises, not finger paints.”

Mishty shrugged. “They still threw glitter glue at the wall. I don’t make the rules.”

Shruti was quiet for a moment, then added, softer:

“Sherlock Holmes... evaluated in the Barbie Room... with a Ken doll in his likeness waiting on the windowsill.”

Mishty smiled.

“This isn’t therapy. This is theatre.”

Shruti’s eyes opened just slightly, lashes low.

“Everything I do is both.”

Mishty reached over and pulled the blanket tighter across her shoulders, fingers brushing lightly against the monitor cable.

“Sleep now. You've declared psychological war. You're going to need strength.”

Shruti let her eyes close, the shape of her grin still barely lingering.

“And coordinated décor.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock's Flat, Morning Before First Session

The violin case was open, untouched.
The Persian slipper had been kicked under the bookshelf with such unnecessary force that dust from months ago had floated out in protest.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, phone pressed to his ear, coat half-on, scarf thrown like an accusation over the back of a chair.

“She’s calling me to 'her' clinic, Mycroft.” His voice was taut, clipped, and thoroughly betrayed.

“What happened to 'your' original script? She’s coming to 221B, you said. After I painstakingly tidied it up—wasting twelve hours of intellectual life—for Her Highness’s visit.”

He stalked toward the window and yanked the curtain open like it owed him money.

“And now I’m supposed to take your obsidian car to her little fortress of a clinic in—what was it—Belgravia North? Of course. A fifteen-minute ride that’ll take twenty-five, most likely, because the West London elite treat traffic lights like jazz.”

He paused, breath coming short.

“This isn’t therapy. This is a lover’s tryst.”

There was a brief silence. Then Mycroft’s voice came, dry as ever, the sound of an oversteeped teabag finally taking its revenge.

“Interesting phrases you use, Sherlock.”
A soft click of a page being turned—clearly, he was multitasking.

“You should have thought more carefully before raising so many red flags you needed a full psych evaluation. I've known Dr. Roy Singh professionally for nearly a decade. She is thorough, discreet, and highly unsentimental.”

Sherlock’s fingers twitched at his temple.

“Mycroft—”

“Behave,” his brother continued smoothly, “and she might sign you off as 'stable in all the ways that matter' in as little as two weeks.”

“She—”

“I’ll be in a meeting with the Japanese Prime Minister.” A pause, then, almost lazily:
“I wish you wisdom.”

Click.

The line went dead.

Sherlock stared at the phone.

Then he sighed. Loudly. Dramatically.

And reached for his coat.

---

Shruti's Dressing Room, Morning of the First Session

The wardrobe stood open like a silent critic.
Charcoal trousers or black skirt. Mandarin collar or soft lapel. Navy blue or plum.
Shruti narrowed her eyes at the options and chewed lightly on the inside of her cheek.

Her phone rang.
The ringtone—"Mummy Calling, Try Patience Mode"—fluttered across the room like a jingle for generational trauma.

She picked up on the second ring, pressing speaker and propping it against a jewelry stand.

"Hello," she said, making her voice light, noncommittal.
Effortlessly unbothered.

"Oh, Shruti darling," came the familiar, lilting voice, warm and syrupy like tea laced with brandy. "How are you doing? Well, I hope."

Shruti sighed and leaned against the mirrored panel, bra strap slightly twisted from indecision.

"As well as my hormones would let me," she replied dryly. "Good morning to you too, Mummy."

A short pause.

"Shruti, can you babysit Rita for the next five days? Starting day after tomorrow?"

Shruti stared blankly at the ceiling for a beat, then picked up a silk blouse and folded it slowly.

"Mummy, she’s sixteen. Not six. I’m sorry—I can’t. I’m busy. Get someone, hire someone. I don’t care. It’s your turn."

Her mother made a soft offended noise that probably worked better in boardrooms than it ever had at home.

"Oh dear. Still bitter, are we?"

Shruti blinked. Hard. Then let out a sharp laugh.

"Why would I be bitter?"

"That Rita lives with me, not you. Here in Wales."

Shruti’s scoff was loud, purposeful, and deliciously insincere.

"No, thanks. You can keep your curated coastal co-parenting dynamic, Mummy. Really. I’m full up on dysfunction this week."

She grabbed a blazer, held it up to the light, squinted, discarded it.

Then, in a sudden tone shift, clipped but faintly mischievous:

"Do me a favor, will you, 'Mrs. Fashion Company Queen' ? I have a wardrobe question."

A pause. Her mother, caught off-guard: "Oh?"

"Yes. I want to look—" Shruti began, ticking points off on her fingers. "Responsible. Sharp. Brilliant—as in, very knowledgeable. Slightly intimidating. Definitely not to be messed with. But also approachable. Caring. Reasonable."

Her mother snorted. "So… basically like me at a product launch."

"No," Shruti said flatly. "Like me. But optimized for a very specific context."

She spun slowly, surveying her array of options again.

"Client slash patient. Male. White. Tall. Thirty-four. MI6-affiliated. Possibly psychotic. Possibly just British. I need something with authority, but not too buttoned-up."

There was a pause on the line. Then, cool and professional:

"Silk blouse, neutral shade—cream or soft stone. No cleavage, but a hint of drape. Fitted black trousers. Hair up. Studs only—no dangly earrings. And never patent shoes, they squeak."

Shruti considered.

"Blazer?"

"Optional. If you want him to think he’s disarming you."

A beat. Then, unexpectedly gentle:

"You’ll be brilliant. You always are, when it matters."

Shruti hesitated.

Then: "Thanks, Mummy."

"Don’t let him flirt with you."

"Why not?"

"Because you flirt back when you’re fascinated."

"And?"

"And you’re never fascinated for long. But the men usually are."

Shruti looked at her reflection.

And smiled.

"I’ll call you on the weekend."

She hung up.

---

Outside the Clinic, Late Morning

The sky was a mess of soft cotton clouds, as though someone had carelessly whipped milk into the blue until it held streaks. Shruti stepped out of her car, heels clicking softly against the damp pavement.

Her driver, Mohit, a quiet man with a gentle moustache and a lifelong love for '90s Bollywood songs, tipped his head.

“I’ll park, madam.”

“Thank you, Mohit.”

She adjusted the strap of her leather satchel and looked up. Her lips parted, amused.

“The sky really looks…”
She trailed off.

Because above her, stretching faintly just over the rooftop of the clinic, where the last hint of drizzle had hung only fifteen minutes ago, there was a rainbow. Thin, almost bashful, but real.

“…pink?”

Her smile deepened. There were worse omens.

---

Just as she began walking toward the entrance, she spotted them.

Sherlock Holmes, tall, long-limbed, dressed in layers that looked like they were cut from secrets.

He wore :
A charcoal wool overcoat, collar turned up—sharp, sweeping, defiant against weather and people alike.
Underneath, a navy suit, tailored but worn like armor. And black button-up shirt, no tie, collar open at the neck like he'd done it to make a point.
Polished oxford shoes, dark as ink.
His signature curls, still damp from the earlier drizzle, coiled slightly tighter today.
His eyes—though she couldn’t yet see them clearly—were fixed intensely on something.

That something was Mishty.

---

Mishty stood just outside the clinic doors, arms crossed, face calm but amused.

“You’re early,” she was saying to him.

Sherlock, posture feline, replied with a faint roll of his shoulders. “Time is relative. I prefer to control it when I can.”

“You know this is a psych evaluation, not a parole hearing?”

“That depends on how well your doctor reads my file.”

Shruti paused a few steps away, invisible to them for now, caught in the strange moment of watching the subject before the subject watches her.

She tilted her head slightly.

So this was how he moved in other people’s spaces—like they owed him answers before they even saw the questions.

Sherlock turned slightly, pulling his coat tighter as a breeze teased the corner of his collar. He hadn’t seen her yet.

Not yet.

Shruti glanced up once more at the sky, where the rainbow had already begun to fade.

---

Outside the Barbie Room, Clinic Interior

Mishty tapped her phone once, quickly confirming the reply from Naveen.
A thumbs-up emoji, followed by:

> “Lighting adjusted. Dolls aligned. Coffee warmed. Room ready.”

She turned the screen off and slid it into the inner pocket of her peach-pink button-down shirt, sleeves already rolled, cuffs a little rumpled from an early morning clinic walkthrough. Her straight-fit black trousers fell perfectly against her low block-heeled boots. Practical. Quiet. P.A. Supreme.

Sherlock followed her through the muted hallway. His gait wasn’t impatient—it was precise. Like each step was a reaction to geometry, not intention.

“This way, Mr. Holmes.”

They stopped at a set of double doors. Pale pink wood. Carved handles shaped like roses.

She pushed the left door open with a gentle squeak.

---

Inside the Barbie Room

Sherlock stepped in—and stopped.

The room exploded in pastel. The walls were a warm blush, with a single feature wall painted like a sunset fading into candy floss. A white shag rug stretched beneath a pair of rose-tinted armchairs and a sleek glass coffee table set with ceramic mugs, napkins, and a professional-grade coffee dispenser.

But that wasn’t what caught his attention.

No.

It was the floor-to-ceiling glass case, backlit softly, holding a universe of Barbies.

Princess Barbie.
Pauper Barbie.
Doctor, nurse, patient.
Teacher. Astronaut. Farmer. Chef. Soldier. Mermaid. Fairy.
Barbie in a business suit holding a tiny laptop.
Barbie pregnant. Barbie holding twins.
Barbie in a wedding dress, arm looped with a grinning Ken in a tux.
Barbie in a bathing suit.
Barbie in a wheelchair.
Barbie old. Barbie pierced.
Dark-skinned Barbies. Blindingly pale Barbies.
Two Barbies in matching sari-inspired gowns standing beside a miniature Taj Mahal.
Three Kens in lab coats.
One holding a violin.
One with messy curls in a trench coat.

And—

His eyes narrowed.

—one custom Ken that looked alarmingly familiar.

Black coat. Sharp cheekbones. Grey-blue eyes. Hair curling slightly at the temples.

*"You can be anything,"* read the scripted decal above the glass case.

---

Sherlock’s Thoughts:

What.

Is.

She trying to 'play' at?

This wasn’t a meeting room.
This was a psychological grenade.

Was it a joke? A threat? A challenge? Was he the child in the dollhouse?
Or the interloper in someone else’s fantasy?

And 'why', in God’s name, did that custom Ken have 'his' exact coat?

His eyes flicked to the corners—no cameras. At least not visible ones. No hidden mirrors. No two-way glass. The room was acoustically shaped for calm conversation, not observation.

Still.

This was a test.
And not the kind he enjoyed.

He turned sharply to Mishty, who had not reacted at all. She stood calmly just beside the doorway, one hand on the handle, as if she did this every day.

“Excuse me,” he said smoothly, voice low but edged. “Are you giving me a tour, or are we in the wrong meeting room?”

Mishty turned to face him. Her tone: effortlessly polite, neutral, unimpressed.

“No, Mr. Holmes. This is the room.”

He blinked once.

She gestured, unfazed. “For today’s session.”

Before he could respond, she walked over to the corner and adjusted the handle of the cappuccino machine.

“Please pour yourself some coffee. It’s brewed fresh—no sugar, but you can add to your liking. Milk and cream already included.”

She glanced at the gold clock on the wall—shaped like a sun with rhinestone rays.

“Dr. Roy Singh will meet you at ten. Sharp.”

With that, Mishty turned, stepped out, and pulled the soft pink door closed behind her with a whisper.

Sherlock stood there.

Surrounded by a hundred Barbies and one unnervingly familiar Ken doll.

And somewhere, past all of this...
Her.

---
9:59 AM

Sherlock stood, glass of water in one hand, the condensation smudging slightly against his long fingers. The rim of the glass hovered near his lips, but he wasn’t drinking. Not yet.

His eyes scanned the glass doll case again—methodically now.

Top shelves: fantastical Barbies. Wings. Sequins. Pastels. Idealism stacked like glittering lies.

Middle shelves: achievement Barbies. Science kits. Courtroom gavels. Laptops. Stethoscopes.

Then—

Ah. Gotcha.

Fifth shelf from the top, just slightly off-center. Eye-level, if you were sitting in that overstuffed aqua chair. Her eye level, most likely.

A Barbie with golden-brown skin, a white business coat cut with too much elegance to be hospital-issue. Shoulder-length dark brown hair, parted with precision. Oval face, expression composed—not smiling, not aggressive. Confident. Elegant competence as aesthetic. She held a clipboard. A pair of reading glasses rested lightly on the bridge of her molded plastic nose.

He let his eyes drift down one shelf.

And there they were.

Patients.

Dozens of them.

Barbies and Kens alike, in scrubs and gowns and wheelchairs.
Dolls with bandaged heads. Dolls curled on miniature beds.
Subtle shifts in posture: sadness, disassociation, worry.
Matching face and body structure. Like echoes.

So. She wasn’t just in the case.
She was surrounded by avatars of suffering, below her line of sight, looking up.

Interesting.

The door opened and clicked shut.

Sherlock didn’t turn.

He did, however, breathe in. Citrus top note. Neroli, maybe. Warm sandalwood base. Clean. Purposeful. Slightly romantic. Not for him—just hers.

Then came the voice. Smooth, firm, clinically polite.

“Observing my collection, I see.”

A brief pause.

“This shelf’s modernist—selected for clients who visit this room. Not my vintage sets. Those I keep in a more private collection. But I love this one. It’s curated. Multifaceted.”

He heard the rustle of her clothes as she moved—not heels, today—then the soft puff of cushion as she sat on the aqua blue armchair, directly across from his.

No greeting. No “Mr. Holmes.”
No handshake.

From the corner of his eye, he registered the gloves. White cotton. Fingerless. Hands fully covered otherwise.

She was already in position. Professional. Still.

Finally, Sherlock turned his full body toward her.

Their eyes met.

She was exactly the doll—but layered in flesh, thought, time. Even her stillness was deliberate.

He didn’t speak.

She didn’t fidget.

It was an 'optical standoff', except neither blinked.

Then she spoke again—cool, unreadable, but not mocking.

“Are you planning to be in a standstill until your toes say 'pace' or 'sit' ?”

A beat.

“Or are you the 'stimming' kind—pacing preferred?”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched. Just slightly. A sliver of amusement, the kind that slithered in under the doorframe of tension.

“Most psychotherapists I’ve met,” he said, tilting his head, “say a cheery greeting first. Even if it’s just my surname, Dr. Singh.”

She didn’t blink.

Ah. Not easily led, then.

He extended his hand. Unhurried. Palm up, clean lines, relaxed fingers—unguarded, but entirely intentional.

Unspoken challenge. 'Touch me, if you dare'.

Shruti looked at it.

Then stood. Slowly. Measured.

She accepted the handshake—but Sherlock felt the shift at once.
That infinitesimal tightening at the corners of her posture.
The way her spine stiffened—not visibly, not performatively, but deep down in the tissue memory.
The moderate press he gave to the back of her hand elicited something nearly imperceptible:
a sharp little inhale, clipped too short.
Her grip back—loose, carefully noncommittal. Muscles playing dead.

And then—

That smile.

Supposed to be warm. Civil. Soft.

But he saw it.

The bitterness tucked behind the curve.
Not pain, not aversion—restraint. Like someone offering you cake they baked with salt instead of sugar and watching to see if you notice.

He released her hand.

She was still looking at him. Calm. Dignified. But not docile.

“Please,” she said, evenly.
“I’m Dr. Roy-Singh. If we’re going to use surnames, Mr. Holmes the Junior.”

His eyebrow arched. So she’d read the file. Thoroughly.
Probably noticed the middle name too. The trust fund. The violin lessons. Every inch of what Mycroft had tried to redact.

Sherlock stepped back a pace and finally sat, legs crossed, spine fluid.

“Roy-Singh,” he repeated softly, testing the shape of it like a key in a new lock.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

“Tell me, Doctor. Am I meant to feel like I’m five years old again in a hyper-feminized dream sequence, or was this aesthetic chosen for your own psychological comfort?”

Shruti’s head tilted just slightly—not coy, not flattered—just sharpened.
The corners of her mouth tugged upward, but it wasn’t a smile.

Not yet.

She sat back down in her armchair with the kind of grace that said 'this is my arena and you’re only borrowing it'.

Then, smoothly—cool amusement laced in silk—

“Yeah?”
She crossed one leg over the other, voice light. “What do you suspect?”

It wasn’t mocking.

It was a 'prompt'.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, not from irritation, but because that was an interesting answer.

He studied her again—not the outfit, not the posture—but the way she offered the reply: unbothered, unthreatened.
As if he were the one under assessment.

Which, of course, he was.

And she 'knew' that he knew.

---

Sherlock leaned forward. Not to close the distance—but to 'stage' it.

His fingers tapped lightly against his knee. Rhythmic. Calculated.

“You’ve designed this room to infantilize,” he said coolly. “Strategically, of course. A deliberate disarmament tactic. The pink tones, the softness, the ‘you can be anything’ slogan. A curated contradiction designed to throw me off balance. Which means you assume I equate seriousness with austerity, and that femininity, when exaggerated, makes me uncomfortable.”

He didn’t blink.

“What’s more interesting is the shelf arrangement. Your doll sits just above a sea of suffering replicas. Therapist above patient. Order above chaos. I’d wager you have control issues tied to early medical trauma. Likely surgical. You emulate warmth, but prefer observation. You’ve made the room about stories—but not your story. Never that.”

He paused, tilting his head in that vaguely reptilian way that meant he thought he’d gotten something just right.

“And, of course, there's the gloves. You’re hiding the skin, but not the contact. You want controlled exposure, not avoidance. You’re not afraid of germs. You’re afraid of being read.”

He sat back.

Satisfied.

Almost smug.

Shruti listened to the entire monologue with the kind of amused calm usually reserved for theatre critics at student performances. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t interrupt. Not once.

Then she slowly leaned back in her chair again, tapping one gloved finger once against the armrest.

“Mm.”

Beat.

“Interesting theory.”

Another pause.

“Anything else?”

Sherlock opened his mouth.

Then shut it.

Then shrugged. The coat flared slightly as he moved.

“Not yet.”

She nodded once, then turned her wrist to check her watch.

“Twelve minutes left in today’s initial unstructured session. Would you like to ask me any actual questions now? Or are we still mid-psychological fencing match?”

Sherlock made a soft, scoffing sound, but his gaze flickered—he hated being measured with his own tools.

He pivoted.

“You keep your sessions short.”

“I keep my sessions structured.”

“Efficient.”

“Necessary.”

He adjusted in his seat, tried to circle back.
“How many sessions do you typically need to decide if someone’s ‘viable’?”

“Depends on whether they spend the first one performing or participating.”

He gave her a look that might’ve been curiosity wrapped in disdain.

Then the door clicked.

Both their heads turned.

Dr. Jeffrey Evermore, early 40s, deep grey eyed, light brown hair, and perennially apologetic, leaned his long frame into the doorway.

“So sorry to interrupt, Dr. Roy-Singh. It’s the Montague file. The adolescent with the journal pages and the ceiling mirror—his mother’s waiting. She’s asking if you’d glance at his sketchbook? I’ve tried stalling but...”

Shruti stood smoothly.

“Of course. Give me two minutes.”

She turned to Sherlock without missing a beat.

“Please help yourself to a coffee if you’d like. There’s also walnut biscotti.”

And with that, she followed Jeffrey out.

Sherlock stared at the door after it clicked shut behind her.

Then at the doll case again.

Then at the Ken doll in the coat.

He reached out, casually, and tilted it two degrees to the left.

---

Minutes Later

The door clicked open again, quietly. No dramatic flourish. Just a whisper of her return and the faintest trace of her cologne meeting the room once more.

Shruti stepped in—and paused.

Her eyes scanned the doll case in that unhurried way of hers.

The Sherlock Ken doll had been tilted.

Precisely.

Just enough so that his molded eyes now gazed directly toward the seating area—the armchair where she had just resumed her seat.

And next to him—

Her own avatar, the Shruti Barbie, had been similarly repositioned. Turned, unmistakably, to face the Ken doll in return.

Not a coincidence.

“Are you trying to say ‘got my eye on you’?”
She asked it with a faint smile.
“Both ways, apparently?”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He only swirled his water glass slowly, watching her over the rim.

The silence hung for three perfect seconds.

Then she crossed her legs again and said, calmly:

“Okay. News for you. I’ve just extended this session.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Sharp. Calculating.

She kept her tone smooth.

“Don’t tell me...” she began, voice gently needling, “that Mycroft Holmes failed to mention forty-five minutes is my average session time for his little pet agents.”

Sherlock didn’t answer immediately—just muttered into the space between them:

“He didn’t even say if it was going to be this lengthy.”

Shruti smiled now. This time it reached her eyes.

“How much extension, exactly, for today’s session?” he asked, voice low but with that ever-so-slight bite.

She checked her watch. Calmly. Like she was consulting a lunch reservation.

“Just another eighty minutes.”

Shruti cleared her throat. Lightly.
Not a cough. Not a reflex. Deliberate.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly—not irritation, just curiosity. It sounded like punctuation more than anything.

“Mr. Holmes, I would like to—”

“Sherlock.”
He cut in gently, but firmly. “Say 'Sherlock', if we’re going to talk for another eighty minutes, apparently.”

Shruti's eyebrow rose, but only slightly.

“As you wish, 'Sherlock',” she said, letting the name settle on her tongue like something tasted slowly.

He smiled. Despite himself.

It wasn’t the smirk he used when he’d just skewered someone intellectually.
It wasn’t the grin that crept up during an autopsy report.

It was… real. And faintly surprised.

Shruti tilted her head.
“Well, saying 'Sherlock' personally is better,” she mused. “I’m used to calling Mycroft Holmes 'Mr. Holmes', already.”

She shifted slightly, her tone easing into the clinical.

“So, Sherlock, I would like to know about—”

But then she paused again.

Too long. On purpose.

Her gaze snapped back to his face.

“Are we having a little indulgent personal joke?” she asked, voice now silkier, curious. “Why are you smiling when I say your name…? Do enlighten me, 'Mr. Sherlock Holmes'.”

He chuckled under his breath, a single amused exhale, his voice lazy with interest.

“I’m not used to being called 'Shair-lock'.”

Shruti blinked.

“They call me 'Shur-lock', actually,” he continued. “The British way. Harsh. Clipped.”
He paused. “I pronounce it 'Sher-lock'—only when I bother.”

She sat back, lips parting faintly in recognition.

“Okay. Shair-lock,” she repeated, testing the softer vowel, the drawn-out warmth of it. Indian-English cadence, untouched by accent training.

She was about to continue—but he interrupted again, softer this time:

“Yes, yes. Your Indian-ness giving you away. Please. Keep saying Shair-lock.”

A pause.

“It’s surprisingly sweet.”

Shruti blinked once. Once.

Then—without letting her smile fully escape—she bit her lower lip, just gently. Then let it go.

Her voice came quieter now, lower.

“Okay, Sherlock.”

Chapter Text

[14th January, 2014 ]
[First Session Continued.]

Shruti sat forward slightly in her seat, arms resting loosely on the armrests, gloved fingers softly steepled.

“So, my question,” she said, tone even but focused. “Your… acts. The ones that landed you here. With me.”

Sherlock didn’t move.

“Why would you want to hack into national, secured MI6 databases and confidential information when you could simply ask for access like everyone else does?”

Her voice was neither mocking nor patronizing.

Just… level.

“Legally. Responsibly. Fully.”

That’s when he went quiet.

Not performative silence. Not weaponized delay.

Actual stillness.

His face froze into that blank, oddly youthful neutrality—the kind that only made him look more suspicious, not less.

Shruti studied him carefully, then offered—not probing, just admitting:

“That was the first thing to intrigue me. And also puzzle me.”

A pause.

“What’s the point?”

Still no answer.

No movement.

Not even a blink.

“Irritate your power-holding, authority-figure brother?” she continued, tone still calm but edged now. “Cause trouble just to show that you can?”
She leaned in a millimeter. “Because let’s face it, Sherlock—if you weren’t his only sibling—his close, yes, loving sibling—you wouldn’t be sitting in this pink room. You’d be in an MI6 'interrogation cell'.”

That did it.

Sherlock grunted. A sharp sound from the back of his throat.
He shifted his seated position, uncrossing and re-crossing his legs, this time with less grace.

Still not meeting her eyes.

“We’re not close.”
The words were flat. Mumbled, even. “And what is this, if not an interrogation in itself? Just… a pink room instead of cold white tiles.”

Shruti blinked once, slow.

“Sherlock—this is a therapy room.”

No reaction.

“I’m a psychotherapist. A criminal psychologist. A mental health therapist.”

Still blank.

“And currently? I’m trying to find out what motivated you to flex your hacking fingers instead of going through normal channels.”

That got a twitch. Just a flick of his lower eyelid.

She didn’t pounce. She let the silence stretch.

Until finally—

“I…”

He licked his bottom lip, eyes darting once—once—to hers, then away.

“It was… fast.”
Another glance. Still not holding. “Efficient. To just break the system, look, gather data, and leave. Instead of going through the red tape.”

Shruti nodded once, slowly, as though letting that land.

Then:

“Efficiency. Sounds great.”

A beat.

“But thick-headed, if I may say so.”

He flinched—barely.

“Just efficiency?” she asked, voice now soft, but cutting beneath the softness.

“Your superior—Mycroft, I suppose, in this case—don’t you think messaging him might’ve been easier than, oh, I don’t know—an international breach of protocol?”

Her eyes were steady on his.

“Or did you just decide the easiest way… was hacking, instead of asking. Like a proper civilian.”

“Maybe yes,” Sherlock mumbled, his gaze still fixed on a vague patch of carpet.
And then, more to himself than anyone else—
“Why do I feel like a seventh grader getting told off by the headmistress…”

He only realized he’d said it aloud when Shruti gave a quiet laugh.

Not a smug one.

Just… amused. Soft, almost unexpectedly warm.

"Well," she said, her tone lilting into a teasing cadence, "You 'are' sulking in your chair like a particularly dramatic Year Seven caught nicking test papers off the teacher’s desk."

Sherlock finally looked up, blinking once. Her eyes didn’t hold pity—thank God—but she wasn’t holding judgment, either.

He studied her as she spoke again. Not her face this time, but her voice.

Low. Alto. But expressive.

She had a habit of rising slightly at the end of emphasis, syllables curling up like quotation marks.

Strange. He hadn't expected that from her file.

He hadn’t expected this 'entire day' to feel like this.

Not grating.

Not what he thought would be an exhausting spar.

And that realization annoyed him a little. But not enough to leave.

He took a small sip from his water glass and cleared his throat lightly, glancing toward the dolls again—and then away.

Maybe—just maybe—these sessions weren’t going to be as terrible as he’d expected.

But this was only Session One.

There was time yet.

For war or peace.

For bloodshed or breakthroughs.

He wasn’t sure which.

And Shruti?

She simply made another neat note in her folder. Her eyes lifted again.

“Now then, Sherlock. Let’s talk about that ‘efficient’ brain of yours.”

Her voice dropped slightly. Not in volume—in temperature.

“What are you afraid will happen if you don’t out-think the system?”

Silence.

He didn’t move, but the corners of his mouth pressed tighter, his jaw sharpening slightly under the skin.

She waited.

He didn’t.

He squirmed—just barely.
Not a flinch. Not a shift. A readjustment, as if his skin had suddenly gotten too snug.

“Nothing,” he said.

Too quickly.

Shruti raised an eyebrow.
“Hmm. That word came a little fast. Want to try again?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, like he was about to throw her out of the room 'she owned'.

But she didn’t blink.

He exhaled.

“It’s not about fear.”

“Isn’t it?”

His leg bounced once. Just once.

“It’s about clarity.”
He straightened in the chair, coat rustling faintly. “Red tape muddies clarity. Timelines blur. People—authority figures—make poor judgment calls when they don’t have all the facts. If I wait, the right people suffer. If I move, I solve. Simple.”

Shruti tilted her head.

“And you trust your judgment more than theirs.”

“Yes.”

“Every time.”

“Yes.”

She leaned back in her seat, crossing her ankles delicately.

“Sounds lonely.”

That struck. He didn’t react outright—but his fingers, which had been steepled together, pulled apart.
Then re-laced. Then tightened.

Shruti let it sit for a moment before continuing.

“Sherlock—do you know your pulse just jumped?”

He blinked. “That’s not medically possible for you to—”

“Tightening of your neck muscles. One breath held. Subtle clenching in your right hand. Don’t worry—I’m not tracking vitals. Yet.”

Her voice was gentle now, but not soft.

“I’m not here to Accuse. I’m here to Understand. But I can’t do that if you keep building cathedrals out of justifications.”

She let her words echo for a moment.

He said nothing.

“Do you need to be the smartest person in the room, Sherlock?”
Another beat. “Or do you just need everyone else to believe it, so they don’t ask why you have to be in control all the time?”

Sherlock sat back, exhaling hard through his nose, fingers twitching once.

Still not looking at her.

“I control what I can because the rest of it—”
He stopped. Jaw tight.

Shruti leaned forward, voice low now, intimate.

“Because the rest of it hurts, doesn’t it?”

He swallowed.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t speak.

But didn’t deny it.

His hands had stilled.

So had his breath.

Shruti sat back again. Wrote a single word.

Then looked up.

“We’ll stop here for today.”

Sherlock looked at the clock—there were still fifteen minutes left in her "extended session."

He didn’t argue.

He just sat there.

Unmoving.

---

Shruti adjusted slightly in her seat, her fingers resting lightly atop the closed notepad.

“You may ask any questions you have, Sherlock.”
Her voice was calm now, almost... open.

“Or you can leave.”

A pause.

Then, without changing her tone, but gesturing lightly—first to him, then to the room, then vaguely toward herself:

“I’ve given you food for thought. I hope you’ll do your usual mind palace theatrics—No, correction—”
Her hand sliced softly through the air.
“Actual Introspection about these.”

Sherlock met her gaze.
Square. Steady.

The intensity in his eyes burned with something that wasn’t quite anger—but it wasn’t passive, either. It was Watching. A complicated fury. Not at her—just at what she'd made him think.

Shruti saw it.
She didn't flinch.
She straightened her neck. Just slightly. The subtle posture of someone refusing to yield even one inch of their emotional real estate.

“Instead of trying to deduce and unravel my biopic,” she said evenly, “or construct an unsolicited psychological profile. Based on my doll collection.”

She didn’t blink.

“I’m not your puzzle.”

Deadpan. Perfectly delivered.

Sherlock blinked.

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face, and he turned his head slightly—breaking the stare first.

His eyes drifted to the glass showcase again. To the two dolls at the center:
The Sherlock Ken and Shruti Barbie, their heads tilted to meet. Like they’d been mid-conversation for years.

Then his gaze dropped.
Lower. To a shelf he hadn’t examined before.

And suddenly—he saw it.

The patients on the bottom row.

Half of them—female dolls, in various treatment poses.
Sitting in chairs.
Curled on clinic beds.
Leaning against mini IV poles.
One with her hand to her abdomen.
Another reading a miniature book, face somber.

And their faces…

Too familiar.

Too much like Shruti's.

His brows drew together.

Why?

It wasn’t vanity. That wasn’t her.

And it wasn’t theatrical self-insertion either—she had no taste for melodrama, that much he’d gleaned already.

No.

There was something else.

"Does she see herself in her patients?"

He almost scoffed.

"No, that can't be". She's not a physician. Doesn’t treat physical illness. Doesn’t diagnose tumours or draw blood or perform surgeries.

But she knew pain.

And she wore gloves.

Sherlock’s lips pressed together.

He didn’t ask a question.

Didn’t say goodbye.

He stood, quietly. Smoothed his coat.

And walked to the door, pausing only briefly before leaving without a word.

Behind him, Shruti watched. Calm. Unmoving. Unreadable.

She glanced once toward the dolls.

Then made a tiny note in her folder.

---
Shruti didn’t move at first.

She simply sat there, back straight, hands resting on the folder in her lap.

The quiet filled the room like warm mist. The only sound was the faint tick of the miniature gold sunburst clock on the wall.

Her gaze shifted slowly toward the glass case.

Sherlock hadn’t touched the dolls again on his way out.

But his silence had spoken plenty.

She placed the folder aside, stood, walked over to the doll display.

The Shruti Barbie and Sherlock Ken were still angled toward each other—perfectly posed in unspoken conversation.

With a small, absent smile, Shruti opened the glass case, reached in, and gently combed Sherlock Ken’s plastic curls with a tiny brush, smoothing one slightly askew lock.

Then she carefully removed both dolls, placing them in a miniature lounge setup on the nearby side cabinet:
Two tiny upholstered chairs, the Sherlock doll's legs crossed exactly the way he had done in real life.
The Shruti doll opposite, a notepad in her lap, molded fingers bent in a writing pose.
A toy coffee table between them. Water glasses set precisely.

Therapy in effigy.

She stood back, arms folded, observing her work like a gallery curator.

Her smile was faint—but real.

---

Hallway, Just Outside the Barbie Room

Sherlock walked with long strides, coat swaying, each step slightly heavier than he expected. The hallway lights felt too warm. Too intimate. The walls too quiet.

He hated quiet after confrontation.

It gave his mind too much space.

Her words still echoed—Do you need to be the smartest person in the room… or do you need everyone to believe it, so they won’t ask why you have to be in control all the time?

He didn’t like that sentence.
Which meant it had likely been accurate.

He paused by the stairs.

But didn’t take them.

Instead, he turned.

Walked back.

The Barbie Room door had been left slightly open.

He approached without a sound—habit, instinct—and lingered in the doorway.

What he saw made him blink.

There she was, still in the room, now standing over the dolls.

She hadn’t just left them in the case.

No.

She was actively setting the scene: the Shruti and Sherlock dolls placed in chairs, in a replica of what they'd just done. The positioning was unnervingly exact—his doll’s leg crossed like his, hers holding the notepad. The water glasses on the toy table.

She was smiling slightly.

She hadn’t turned.

Yet somehow—

“Why are you watching from the door, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
Her voice was calm, light.
“Is there something you decided to ask after all?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked toward the glass case.
Yes.
She'd seen his reflection.

Of course she had.

He stepped one foot inside.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Are we going to have sessions extending the full ten weeks, Dr. Roy-Singh?”

A pause.

“Don’t I already look sane and not malevolent to you?”

She finally turned to face him fully. Her expression unreadable, but her tone direct.

“The worst—” she said, “or maybe I should say the most successful—psychopaths, those who committed crimes against their fellow humans, often hid in plain sight for years before being caught.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched.
That phrase—"hiding in plain sight"—how very familiar.

Shruti didn’t smile back. She stepped forward, folding her arms loosely.

“I’ve been asked to thoroughly evaluate you,” she said, voice now steady and formal. “To compile a complete psychological profile—one that doesn’t exist yet, because you’ve refused to cooperate in the past.”

She stepped once more toward the desk, placing her hand lightly on the closed folder.

“You’re only here now because you were given a choice: cooperate, or be denied all access to national security cases indefinitely.”

A breath.

“Mycroft Holmes tells me his superiors will only see my signature and final recommendation.”
She paused.
“The full analysis will remain confidential—between him, the sovereign monarch, the Prime Minister, and the current Home Secretary. And even then?”
She lifted a shoulder.
“The PM won’t read it. He won’t care what’s written.”

Sherlock studied her. She was no longer playing.

“But I have a reputation to uphold,” she finished softly. “So yes, I will be thorough. Just in case... 'the Sherlock Holmes file' ever becomes public.”

Sherlock stared at her.

And then he said, very quietly:

“You’re very good.”

Her eyes didn’t soften.
“I’m thorough.”

He nodded once.

And finally, turned to go.

_____

Shruti’s Office, Ten Minutes Later

The light was dimmer now. Afternoon slipping past noon. A soft breeze rattled the ivy outside her window.

Shruti sat at her desk, gloves off, hair loosened slightly at the crown. Her fingers tapped once on the edge of her legal pad before she began writing.

She didn’t use bullet points.

Just lines. Flowing. Observational.

---

Patient: Sherlock Holmes
Session 1

Initial resistance expected.
Evasive. Deflects through intelligence. Subtle aggression masked as amusement.
Performed disinterest—intermittent eye contact, mild pacing behavior suppressed.
Mouth tightens before defensive statements. Rare physiological tells, but present.

Most interesting:
Momentary internal collapse at “control” question.
Unprepared for emotional-level confrontation.

Attempts to dominate space through deduction = habitual. Possibly unconscious.
Yet allowed space for humor.
Allowed name correction.

Unexpected:
Smiles when called “Shair-lock.”
Remained at door after session. Did not need to.
Watched me position dolls. Said nothing—but returned.

Tentative hypothesis:
Pride defense masking intense, possibly chronic emotional rigidity. Trust aversion.
No overt signs of malevolence. High cognitive empathy. Emotional empathy... TBD.

Final note:
Observing. Not resisting.
That’s a beginning.

--
She circled the last line once, slowly, then underlined it.

Twice.

_______

He walked a street and a half before realizing his feet were moving nowhere in particular.

Shruti’s clinic—The Roy Institute of Psychology, discreetly marked in an elegant serif plaque on a townhouse near Chester Square, Belgravia—disappeared behind him like a carefully constructed trap he’d willingly walked into.

Her words echoed again.
"Because the rest of it hurts, doesn’t it?"

He winced. “Stop.”

A cab screeched gently to the curb.

The driver blinked at him. “You alright, mate?”

Sherlock slid in without responding, coat flaring.

“Baker Street.”

A few beats passed in silence, and then—

“Stop,” he muttered again, sharper this time.

The cabbie looked over his shoulder. “Stop what? I just started driving.”

“No, not you,” Sherlock snapped. Then sighed.
“Keep going. Baker Street. I’m just... napping. Wake me when we get there.”

The cabbie grunted. “Yeah, okay, weird posh genius bloke.”

Sherlock didn’t hear the last part. His fingers came up, steepled lightly at his chin, and his eyes closed.

He slipped into the corridors.

---

Mind Palace

The long, richly carpeted hallway stretched ahead, walls lined with framed photographs that changed when he blinked—crime scenes, articles, case files, doll faces.

He walked briskly, muttering:

“She said I need to be the one in control.”
A snort. “Utterly ridiculous.”

But the hallway twisted. Became narrower. The light dimmed slightly.

He said aloud:

“If I’m not the one in control, the rest of it hurts.”

He slowed.

Why did that sound... true?

The answer floated in, too easy. Too fast.

“Because I cannot control the consequences if I’m not in control.”

His shoulders tensed.

Another doorway slid open ahead—one lined in soft blush pink.

From it, Mycroft emerged, snidely fixing his cufflink, voice dripping with condescension.

“Tut-tut. You could’ve just asked for access, and submitted your report properly, Sherlock. As instructed. Standard protocol. Your national security stunt was predictably catastrophic.”

“Fuck off, Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered, and his brother vanished like a glitch in the system.

Sherlock exhaled, shoulders tense.
"How in God’s name was he supposed to survive ten weeks of this— 'this psychological character study' when he was already this disoriented on day one?"

The corridor reformed.

Then he saw it—like a projection on glass.

The dolls.

Her doll. His doll.

Sitting across from each other, legs crossed, notepad in hand, glasses of water untouched between them.

Her voice whispered:

“I’m not your puzzle.”

Sherlock stood still.

Then—smiled, slowly.

It was not pleasant.

It was not unkind.

It was... a challenge accepted.

“Fine.”

His voice echoed in the mind palace, richer now.

“You study me, Dr. Shruti Roy-Singh.”

He turned toward the scene, the air around him still with charged tension.

“But don’t expect me to be your perfect patient. The one who repents, admits fault, seeks transformation like a penitent schoolboy.”

He leaned forward.

“If you see Me, I observe You. I deduce you. Because I’m Sherlock Holmes—”

He blinked.

“—and knowing other people’s business is my business.”

The corridor faded.

He opened his eyes just as the cab slowed in front of 221B.

221B Baker Street – Early Evening

Sherlock paced, coat still on, scarf loosened, like the fabric irritated him more than comforted at the moment.

Oh, how he was 'tempted'.

Just a few keystrokes, one override protocol, and he could dig into MI6’s protected internal psyche files. He could finally read more than a clipped dossier and a sterile headshot of Dr. Shruti Roy-Singh—credentials stacked, yes, but otherwise blank. The mystery of it. No personal trace. Not even a résumé typo.

He turned sharply at the fireplace, then back again.

One would think he could read her. Just read her. Like he always had with everyone—shoes, speech, fingernails, posture. People were walking, stammering case files. But no. Not with her. Not always. Rarely, in fact. She was too... constructed. Too aware.

That’s what made her dangerous. That’s what made her good.

That’s what made him twitch.

It was also, if he were honest, the reason he’d refused therapy at every turn—mocking the very idea. Because the real ones—the competent ones—had the power to see.

And he wasn’t sure what they'd see.

He looked at his laptop. Still closed. Still tempting. He could break protocol. Again. If only to make this evaluation less of a blindfolded chess match.

His mind palace version of John stood by the bookshelf, arms folded, dry as ever.

> "You’ve always bargained with Mycroft, Sherlock. 'Do it my way, or not at all.' And he always let you. But not this time."

John didn’t smile.

> "This time, you’re under the glass. You’re the one being studied. And if you mess it up—if you don't convince this Birmingham-born, Barbie-loving psychologist that you're sane and not some rogue national liability—"

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

Another figure slid into view. Mycroft. Mind palace Mycroft was taller than real Mycroft. More theatrical. He adjusted his umbrella just to annoy Sherlock.

> "Behave, Sherlock. Like Mummy used to say when she had you 'seen' by specialists. Your erratic episodes. Your lack of emotional engagement. That borderline psychotic flare in your teens. You were their favourite specimen.”

Sherlock’s jaw ticked.
He hated this.
Hated being at a disadvantage.
Hated needing to impress.

He stopped pacing.

"But she’s bloody closed off, Mycroft!" he snapped aloud, almost at the real room.
"And she’s not incompetent."

A pause.

"She’s actually... seeing me."

He stood still. The phrase hung in the air like the smell of ozone before a storm.

---
Late Evening

Sherlock sprawled across the long couch, legs dangling over one arm, one hand tucked beneath his head, the other holding his phone limply across his stomach.

The cases today were dull.

A possibly stolen cactus. Not stolen—just borrowed and repotted by a neighbour.

A husband accused of stealing his wife's rings (they were in the freezer, wrapped in meat, for safekeeping).

A university student convinced her professor was a serial killer. He wasn’t—just a very bad novelist with poor taste in bookmarks. And a basement full of vintage taxidermy.

A few suspected cheating partner cases, as usual.

He'd responded to most by email. A few with curt calls. He didn’t even get up. No need to leave the flat. No challenge to sink his teeth into.

The familiar creak of floorboards announced Mrs Hudson’s entrance before she said a word.

She froze in the doorway.

"Oh, Sherlock. You must wear something more in mid-January. You’ll catch your death lounging around like that!"

Sherlock didn’t even lift his head. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled to the elbow. His black trousers were creased and somehow still damp near the cuffs.

“Just thinking,” he muttered.

Mrs Hudson crossed the room, peered at the window, and gasped softly.

“Well, stop it and come look outside! The sunset’s absolutely vivid tonight. All coral and violet and gold—it looks like it was painted with a brush dipped in mischief.”

Sherlock turned his head half an inch. Blinked. A glance.

“Nice sunset, Mrs Hudson,” he said flatly. Then turned back to staring at the ceiling.

She clucked her tongue and moved toward the kitchen. Her shoes squeaked faintly against the tile. He heard the cupboard door open and close, then—

“Now that is suspicious.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow without looking.

“This kitchen,” she said. “Far too clean. Cleaner than it ever is when John’s around. No takeaway cartons, no dried tea stains, no science experiments melting in mugs.”

She leaned out from the kitchen.
“But the fridge is still empty! Not even milk, Sherlock. Are you planning to live entirely on caffeine and boredom?”

“I might be Working on it,” he replied. “Bill the bills to me. The Holmes family accountant will sort it. Thank you for the food in advance.”

Mrs Hudson made a soft noise that was halfway between a sigh and a fond huff.

“You’ll need an actual shopping list this time, not just ‘tea’, 'ready to date, 'takeaways', and ‘a knife with more accuracy’ written in biro on the back of an autopsy report.”

She placed the tea in front of him on the side table. The cup clinked softly against the saucer.

Sherlock sat up just enough to reach it. The scent of bergamot and overboiled water.

Mrs Hudson lingered a moment longer, watching him.

Still shirt-sleeved, still pensive. Still that unfocused stare at something he hadn’t yet decided how to name.

“I’ll make the list. And I’ll drop by tomorrow. Do try to eat. And wear a jumper, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Noted,” he said, barely.

She left. The door clicked softly shut.

Sherlock didn’t sip the tea. Not yet.

He steepled his fingers again under his chin, eyes fixed upward once more.

“She’s actually seeing me,” he repeated aloud—though whether to Mrs Hudson, the ceiling, or the mind palace version of Dr. Roy-Singh currently striding down his mental corridors in open-toed gloves, he couldn’t quite say.

---

Sherlock’s phone buzzed against his ribcage.

He didn’t move right away. The vibration pulsed once, twice—then stopped. A quiet announcement. No urgency. Just inevitability.

He finally tilted the phone, lifting it lazily into view. The screen lit up.

•Next session scheduled
Dr. Shruti Roy-Singh
Date: Thursday, 16/01/2014
Time: 11:00 AM
Location: Roy Institute of Psychology

He stared at the text a moment too long, thumb hovering over the screen like he might press into it, open more, find something hidden between the clinical font and the blank-faced precision.

Today was Tuesday. The 14th of January. 2014. A year already too full of complications.

He tilted his head to the side. Two days. Two days to plan his next move.

She hadn’t offered him a tactical advantage—not even a clear opening. But she’d given him time.

And that was more dangerous than it sounded.

He opened a blank text note. Wrote nothing. Closed it again. Then set the phone down carefully on the table, beside the now-cold tea.

Sherlock stood, finally. Walked to the window. The last smear of sunset had faded behind the rooftops. London blinked, headlights flickering on one by one like thoughts returning after a long distraction.

In the reflection, his own face barely visible in the glass, he imagined her again—white gloves, cotton and calm, words shaped like traps disguised as kindness.

This time, he would not be caught flat-footed.

Session two was in 41 hours.

And he had a mind to sharpen.

________________

Shruti's Townhouse

The house was quiet except for the soft hum of the radiator and the flick of pills being pushed from blister packs. Shruti filled a crystal tumbler with chilled water from the bar cart, then returned to the kitchen counter with a sigh. She tapped out two of her prescribed hormone balance tablets, paused, then rolled her eyes skyward as if waiting for the universe to offer another alternative. None came.

She swallowed them with the air of someone resigned to chemical help—to apparently live—years of practice smoothing the ritual into something nearly graceful. Almost.
They were, as her grandfather once said, "the chemical strings that keep the puppet from collapsing."

A minute later, barefoot and now wrapped in an oversized blanket shawl the colour of storm clouds, she settled onto the living room couch. Mishty, legs curled under her in a familiar sprawl, held the remote like a scepter. The giant plasma TV flickered with the opening credits of a glossy British rom-com.

Shruti allowed herself a soft smile. Something light. No tragedy, no unresolved moral tension. Just predictable kissing and better clothes than anyone in real life ever wore.

Mid-scene, Mishty clicked pause. The screen froze on the male lead standing sheepishly in the rain.

"Shruti," Mishty said, eyebrow raised. "I thought you were going to gift the Holmes Ken to him. But he’s still in your showcase. Lounging with Barbie-you."

Shruti didn't look away from the screen. “We’re having a battle of wits. He’ll get his gift later.”

"Translation,” Mishty said, shifting to face her, “you’re halfway to marking him as emotionally conflicted but not a threat. Am I right?”

Shruti snorted. “Not yet. Too soon. Mr. Shair-lock Holmes might be on his way to insanity for all I’ve gathered in one session.”

“Seriously?”

“Just kidding.” A flicker of a smile tugged at her lips.
“He’s one of those who doesn’t really know himself. Maybe afraid to. Oh, he knows how to use his capabilities— wield their intelligence, impressively, even. But ‘heavy introspection’? That’s a rare gift. Perhaps it’s a trait people fail to fully develop as they stumble from childhood into adulthood. Like a muscle they forget to develop while growing up into their genius-shaped egos.”

Mishty rolled her eyes fondly. “Okay, okay. You and your psycho talks, Dr. Roy-Singh. I’m just your PA with an MBA. Remember? I wanted Ken to end up with Barbie, not have an identity crisis.”

Shruti laughed, quiet but full.

Then they pressed play.

Her friend—and platonic partner—Mishty often stayed with her in the townhouse. She did have a well-settled flat of her own, which she shared with her husband of five years, a university-employed software engineer. But still, both women preferred company over solitude, and over time, splitting their days between homes had simply become their norm.

An hour and half later, the credits were rolling. Shruti’s head lolled gently against the cushion, eyes fluttering closed mid-scene. Mishty turned down the volume, reached for the remote, and nudged her friend’s knee.

“Hey. Shruts. Go sleep in your room, you’re dozing. I’ll go home now too—Kabir just texted. He’s back from work.”

Shruti blinked, barely lifting her head. “Can’t you stay?”

Mishty raised an eyebrow, gathering her bag and sliding on her coat. “And that, my dear,” she said, slipping into her flats, “is why your mother insists you find a partner—or at least cohabit this grand old townhouse with your sister.”

“My teenage half-sister, who drives me to full-blown homicidal ideation,” Shruti mumbled, sitting up, rubbing one eye.

Mishty smirked. “And we both know you don’t prefer to live with your mummy. Not since..."

"Don't", Shruti warned, wincing, “mention the Look. The patented you’re-the-sickly-daughter-I-don’t-know-how-to-love-without-blaming look.”

“All the looks of discomfort she gives you when you’re the one with the IV drip in your arm,” Mishty added softly, tucking a curl behind her ear.

“At least I don’t have a 4 AM appointment with one like yesterday,” Shruti muttered, hauling herself up from the couch.

“Yes, yes. Go to bed. Your night staff’s on alert, your security guards are efficient as ever, and your palace is safe.”

Shruti offered a sleepy mock salute. “Sleep well, Mrs. Married Lady Mishty Agarwal-D’Souza.”

“Sleep, Princess Roy.” Mishty grinned, flicking off the lights on her way out.

Shruti padded slowly toward her bedroom, the distant hum of central heat kicking in, a soft thunder in the quiet.

Tomorrow would be hers again.

But the day after that?

That belonged to Sherlock Holmes.