Chapter Text
A rainy April in London - is there any other kind?
At 221B Baker Street, John Watson was busy typing up blog for the latest case he and Sherlock Holmes had solved.
“Well, Sherlock solved it and I trailed along like an obedient dog,” John snorted to himself. Self-deprecation aside, John knew that his insights were invaluable to Sherlock, even when he couldn’t be certain how. But he trusted in his brilliant companion’s deductions implicitly, and never doubted the detective for a second.
John was just about to post the finished blog entry when there was a rap at the door. He answered it to find Mrs. Hudson, his landlady and sometimes housekeeper, despite her protestations.
“Hello Dear,” She smiled, all warmth. “Sorry to bother, but I’ve finally got a renter in ‘C’ and I thought you should know, they’ll be in and out for the next week or so painting and such.”
It looked as though Mrs. Hudson wanted to say something else; she wrung her hands and hesitated before turning around to go back down the stairs.
“Was there something else, Mrs. Hudson?” John asked.
“Oh, well...I was going to ask you to try and have Sherlock be nice to this one, it’s so hard to get a lodger in that basement flat and I could really use the extra income, But...Sherlock is Sherlock and I doubt there’s anything we could say to make him change. I’ll just try to make sure our new renter is prepared for his..ways.”
John smiled a bit and put his hand on Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder.
“Well, it’s rather like moving the Rock of Gibraltar but I’ll put a word in.” Mrs. Hudson patted his arm fondly and thanked him, slowly returning back down the steps to her own flat.
John sighed as he returned to his sitting room and flopped into his usual chair. He was extremely fond of Sherlock, and had grown accustomed to many of his idiosyncrasies, but he knew all too well that he was the exception to the rule. The vast majority of people were offended, incensed and insulted by Sherlock’s lack of social graces. As fond as John was of Mrs. Hudson, John didn’t hold out much hope that this new renter would last more than two or three months, even being separated from most of Sherlock’s antics by the ground floor of the home.
Speak of the devil, it was mere moments before Sherlock came bursting in through the door, long coat swirling about. He dropped a boxy, wire contraption on the floor of their sitting room and said, without a greeting,
“Tea?”
“Erm, what’s that, first?” John said, pointing at the object Sherlock had brought in.
“Honestly, John,” Sherlock huffed, exasperated. “A trap. A trap for small animals.”
“Yes, but what’s it doing in our sitting room?”
“Needed it for a case. Isn’t it funny how people throw just anything into the rubbish bins, convinced that once it’s been binned their detritus ceases to exist?”
“I’m not following,” Said John.
Sherlock rolled his eyes with a sigh and said, “Make the tea, I’ll explain while the kettle’s on.”
Knowing he wasn’t going to get anything more out of Sherlock until he’d had his tea, John harrumphed and strode into the kitchen, switching the kettle on and retrieving cups.
“That still doesn’t answer,” John said, fiddling with teabags, “Why there is a small animal trap in our flat.”
Sherlock was lost in thought, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Noting the faraway look in his flatmate’s eyes, John knew that he was going to get nowhere until Sherlock had been given his tea. They waited in silence for the water to boil and John handed over a cup and saucer to Sherlock, an expectant look in his eye.
“Thank you,” Sherlock said, although it was more of an empty phrase than a genuine gesture of thanks.
He turned on his heel and sat on their sofa, John following in his wake.
“Rubbish,” said Sherlock.
“The tea?” Puzzled John.
“Of course not, can’t you keep up?” Sherlock said dismissively. “The answer was in the wife’s rubbish. She’d thrown away any trace of her infidelities, not knowing that her bins were regularly raided by rodents. Fairly common, in a semi-rural area. The rodents had taken much of these discards and used them to pad their holes. I found the rodents, and thus, found the evidence that I’d needed to determine for certain that she had killed those people.”
John nodded slowly and sagely, pretending that the gaps in Sherlock’s narrative had made perfect sense.
“Well, there’s another one for the blog,” He said, sipping his tea.
Sherlock didn’t respond. The puzzle completed, his mind was already jumping to the next thing. John perused the paper as Sherlock sat on the sofa aloof, lost in endlessly complex thought. John was nearly startled when Sherlock sprang himself off the sofa with a graceful leap and hovered near the door. John opened his mouth to speak but was shushed before he could make a sound.
“Unfamiliar footsteps,” Sherlock growled. “Slow, unsure. Female, not male, too firm-footed to be Mrs. Hudson.”
John knew better than to say anything. He simply watched and let the drama unfold before him. Sherlock counted down silently.
“Three...two...one…” he mouthed.
On the count of one Sherlock flung the door open and stood face to face with the person in the stairwell. Short and with dirty blonde hair, it was a woman, late twenties, her face frozen in shock and her hand raised to rap upon the door.
“Yes?” Sherlock said, looking down at her imperiously.
“Ah, hi. I’m sorry to bother you, I was just looking for Mrs Hudson…” The young woman trailed off nervously, trying to regain her composure after the fright he’d given her.
“American,” Sherlock mused to no one in particular, judging the stranger in the hall.
“I’m aware the American educational system is in disarray, however I would hope that they still teach the basics of literacy. This,” he said, pointing a long, slim finger at the brass “B” that hung next to his door, “Is the letter “B”. Mrs Hudson resides in 221 “A.” Are you illiterate, careless, or too stupid to tell the difference?”
The woman before him took a moment to recover from his verbal abuse and, much to Sherlock’s surprise, giggled. He looked down at her as she composed herself, and behind him, John launched himself off of his chair in an attempt to get between them and smooth any hurt feelings Sherlock may have caused.
Her giggles contained, she looked up at him again. “You must be Sherlock,” she asserted. “I’m sorry, I giggle when I’m nervous. I’m sorry to bother you.” John shoved Sherlock over slightly and said with an affable smile and an outstretched hand, “Hello, I’m John Watson.”
The woman shook his hand and introduced herself.
“Jamie,” she responded. “Nice to meet you John, Mrs. Hudson told me about you and your...Sherlock.” She mumbled Sherlock’s name.
“Oh, you must be the new one down in ‘C’!” John asserted, his voice friendly. He didn’t bother to interject that he and Sherlock weren’t a couple. It wasn’t conscious, but over the last couple years he dropped all protests and let people think what they wanted to.
Jamie nodded affirmatively.
“Yes, that’s right. I had a few questions about the remodel and thought she might be up here, since I’d already checked downstairs and she wasn’t home.” She said the last bit pointedly, staring at Sherlock, being sure he got the message.
“No, she’s not here, but I’ll tell her you came by if I see her,” John said generously.
“Thank you. It was...nice meeting you.” With that, Jamie turned and headed down the stairs, her blonde ponytail bouncing behind her.
John closed the door behind them with a sigh. His eyes closed, he made the realization that he hadn’t paid any attention to her figure at all. He was an extremely visual man, and there was a time when he never failed to commit a woman’s figure to memory. It unsettled him slightly to realize that he’d spent several minutes in the company of his young, female new neighbor and it hadn’t even occurred to him to examine the size of her breasts or the shape of her arse.
“It’s Sherlock,” he thought to himself. “I was more worried about smoothing the feathers he’d ruffled than going on the pull.”
He crossed the room in two strides, resuming his place in the chair.
“Insulting the neighbor, excellent work as always.”
John was surprised that there was no immediate retort from Sherlock. He glanced over to see Sherlock lying on his back on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. John recognized that vacant stare.
“Mind palace?” He asked.
“Shh,” Sherlock responded with a wave of his arm and his brow furrowed.
“I’ll be out then,” John said, despite knowing that it mattered little what he said at that point.