To ask someone something requires the use of a question. You did no such thing.

[ Hell's bells! How did she get past him? Sherlock's heart jumps. How many homes will he have destroyed? London, Cordona, here.

No.

He may not be able fight against a god, but she is not the terrors lurking in the deep, the Abyss that calls for him. Surge understands nothing about him. ]

Patrons of the cafe, I apologize for this interruption.

[ Sherlock snaps his fingers. In an instant, sickly blue-green light projections flood the bottom floor of the cafe. Some are large tentacled and winged eldritch beings. (Thankfully, being created by Sherlock and not the actual Horrors, they will not cause madness.) There are also creatures with gaping maws and sharp fangs. Every surface is covered by glowing drawings of tentacles, swirling shells, ominous seals and piercing bloodshot eyes. Chains and cages, giant axes and floating jagged rocks fill the air between. Large hands reach towards cosmic spheres as more hands and monsters erupt from the walls and ground. A lighthouse blocks the stairs upward with shipwrecks around its base.

And while these light projections have no physical form, they do something Sherlock hadn't managed before. They move. Some act if they are live tentacles writhing around while images undulate as if they are underwater. At this moment, he doesn't fear what he's become, the slipping of his sanity. He embraces it if it means he'll keep his home a safe space instead of having it ripped apart by death, by cruelty, by someone attempting to rewrite the truth to their own narrative. ]

Leave.