It opens.

The room on the other side is sparsely populated with slightly shabby-looking furniture. Sherlock is sitting on a couch with a violin in his lap, motionless.

"What's having a daemon like?" she wonders softly.

"It does not easily submit to description," he says.

"I guess it wouldn't." She snuggles up. "I'm sorry she's sad. Amariah seems to think that's - really worrying."

"It's an accurate representation of what I used to be like," he says. "And apparently still am, underneath it all." He sighs. "Perhaps I shouldn't have merged my soul back in. I was getting along just fine without it."

"No," he agrees slowly, "I suppose she isn't."

Hugs!

Hugs.

"I love you," she murmurs.

"I love you too, dear Juliet."

Snuggles!

Yes. Those.

"If you're going to torch her gone," Juliet murmurs, "I'm not sure if I want to meet her at least once - or not so I don't miss her."

"I'm not sure if I'm going to torch her gone."

Juliet nods. Just a little; she's pleasantly constrained by snuggles. "But you might."

"But I might. If she is immovably determined."

"Does that seem likely?"

"Am I meant to have a guess?"

"She's yours. She's you. Maybe it's more complicated than I'm thinking, though."