Author's Note: Like everyone else, I watched Sherlock season 3 and fell in love with the show all over again and decided to write a fanfiction. Sherlock obviously is not mine, but all my OCs are, as well as most of the plot. Also, I apologize in advance for any formatting issues and/or other errors. I write using an app on my phone and then transfer it to the computer, so the content gets understandably jostled a bit in transition. Point them out to me, and I'll be happy to fix them! There's not really much else to say here except for enjoy and review to let me know what you think! Happy perusing!

Chapter 1

Unlike the common man, Melody Holt did not find plane rides abrasive, nauseating, or tedious. Bach was in her ears, but an entirely different music was playing in her mind. The young woman was prone to spending prolonged periods of time within herself-remembering, reflecting, regretting-and the flight to England seemed a prime time to do just that. Always her thoughts traveled down the same dark road, so often so that in her mind she imagined it as a winding passage well worn by the heavy trudge of contemplation. Now, however, she thought of the person beside her. No, not the middle-aged man with an extreme case of obsessive compulsive disorder and an inferiority complex on her right, but the woman, three years Melody's junior, on her left. Her boyfriend had called her Eliza; others called her Liz or Lizzy. Regardless of what name she went by, Melody knew her by only one title: savoir. Lizzy had been her temporal and spiritual salvation three years ago, and she continued to be so now. She was in every way her opposite: short and light as porcelain, with rosy cheeks and childish eyes, to Melody's taller than ladylike height and skin dark as honey swirled with molasses, with obdurate cheeks and timeless brown eyes; simple and mundane, but kindhearted, to Melody's extraordinary complexity and heart of dubious intent. But despite their differences, Melody inevitably developed an attachment to the hand that pulled her up from her vice, so they got on well.

Annoyance rose in Melody like bile when she felt Liza tap her on the arm, but she ignored the reflex and pulled out her earphones. Oh, how she abhored being disturbed.

"Were you even listening?" came Liza's innocent British droll.

"No." Melody's voice was reticent and cold in comparison, not out of any malice toward her friend but from a strangling hand of caprice that squeezed her heart and came and went as it pleased despite any and all attempts to remove it.

"I asked if you'd do it," Liza continued, unperturbed by Melody's abruptness, "just once, please."

Liza was a perfect angel, but when she was committed to any task she could be a real devil nagging upon one's shoulder. "I've told you before, I'm never doing it again."

She poked out her cherry-glossed lips. "Why? Just do it for fun! Find me a cute boyfriend or something." She pointed to a well-tailored man stepping down the aisle on his way out of the restroom. "What about him?"

Melody sighed and gave the man a perfunctory glance just to appease her friend. "I wouldn't advise courting a man suffering simultaneously from a death in the family and extreme stress from overwork. . . Damn," Melody winced at the triumphant look on Liza's face. Hiding one's identity is difficult; suppressing a subconscious reflex is an entirely different ballpark.

"You don't have to be ashamed. I think being a psychologist is cool."

Melody laughed. Shame couldn't have been further from the truth. "I'm not a psychologist," she said. "Not anymore."

"You never did tell me why you quit." Liza goaded. The woman knew quite a lot of Melody's situation, but even after the state of depravation she had seen Melody in, there were some things she simply refused to share.

"My books have all been safely delivered, yes?" A small smile tugged at the corners of Melody's lips. She loved the little intricacies of their friendship, the way Liza could always be relied upon to understand the subtext of her words.

She threw up her hands, giggling. "Fine, don't tell me. And yes, your bloody books are here, so stop worrying."

Satisfied, Melody put her earphones back in. No music was playing, but sometimes she just enjoyed the way they dulled the intense throb of the outside world to a soft pulse. They were especially useful around Liza, for she lacked the rare gift of silence.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay with me?"

And she tells me not to worry. "I doubt your parents would approve of an ex-drug addict in the house."

That was clearly the end of that conversation. After 3 years, Liza was accustomed to Melody's blunt honesty, but the ex-psychologist could tell that it still bothered her. Bless her for having the heart to tolerate it, not to mention all of Melody's other idiosyncrasies.

Melody turned on Shostakovich and forced herself to relax into a fitful repose, praying as she drifted into oblivion that she did not dream of them again.

Cars and people whizzed past beneath the cover of rain, and colored and patterned umbrellas swirled and twirled across the scene like lost balloons. The air was heavy and cold, but alive. Melody caught her first breath of London: intriguing, stimulating, suffocating, and she wanted more. The iced rain felt good stinging her cheeks, and she didn't even care that her already curly hair would frizz up from the water in the next 20 minutes. This city was a symphony she could listen to indefinitely, one that would dance across the score, and take her up in its arms and waltz with her, only to surprise her with a dip or a spin or a charming smile.

The two women said their goodbyes with a promise of meeting later, and they both called a cab. Melody loaded her suitcases into the trunk of the car and climbed into the back. "Baker Street, please," she said as she settled in to the slippery leather seat. Unable to reign in her inner psychiatrist, she studied the cabbie from the bridge between the two front seats. He was old, with shabby clothes and glasses sliding down his nose. A picture of children with someone noticeably cut out told Melody family problems, and that whomever was missing in the photo probably had taken the kids, but other than that she wouldn't be able to tell much about him without starting a conversation. Fortunately, the cabbie seemed more than willing to do that himself.

"Goin' to see Mr. Holmes?"

"No," Melody replied, somewhat cautiously, "I'm looking at rooms. Who is he?"

The cabbie smirked at her in the rearview mirror, and in that smile and in those eyes Melody saw hints of mental instability taunting her. "If you're stayin' at Baker Street, you'll know soon enough."

A red light stopped them, and the cabbie slammed on the breaks. Several bottles of pills rolled under the passenger seat with a clink. Melody picked one up. They were little white powdered capsules with flecks of pink and red, one to a bottle.

"My medication," he said. Melody found the explanation suspicious; why was it needed, unless he assumed she would think otherwise? Trying to cover something up. Drugs, maybe.

Melody shrugged and put the bottles in the cup holder, sneaking one into her blazer pocket when he wasn't looking.

After a few more minutes of the silent drive, the cabbie pulled to a stop, slowly this time. "'ere's Baker Street. Help you with your luggage, miss?"

"No." She paid the man, retrieved her bags from the trunk, and stepped onto the safety of the crowded sidewalk as quickly as she could.

Melody knocked on the building door, trying her utmost to ignore the pill whose presence in her pocket burned like poison. It and the cabbie seemed to be hiding something beneath the pretense of normality, and her curiosity would not let her rest until she found out what it was. But that would have to wait, for unless she was mistaken, Melody heard someone coming down to open the door.

"Good afternoon." Melody greeted, trying to be as polite and as unlike her usual abrasive self as possible.

The woman smiled and motioned her inside. "You must be Melody Holt, here about 221A? I'm Mrs. Hudson, dear, nice to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine." Melody left her suitcases by the stairs and followed Mrs. Hudson up to 221A, listening to the woman's comforting chatter.

Dust bunnies hopped out of the room when Mrs. Hudson unlocked the apartment door, and Melody shooed them out of the way, stepping inside the living room. It smelled like all things shut up and old: moth balls and damp moisture, stuffy air and forgotten and rediscovered memories. Grime covered the two windows in the room, opposite the door, the hardwood floor was scuffed and discolored, and the wallpaper hung off the walls in strips like the leaning tower of Pisa. The tacky plaid sofa against the wall (the only piece of furniture in the room) was frayed and well-loved, but clean. The room was not exactly in the best condition, but it was a bubble of sensations all its own, and Melody loved it. Somehow, seeing the ghosts of residents past gave her a sense of comfort; it was at least one place in the world where she would never be alone.

"I do apologize for the state it's in. It's been ages since anyone has lived here, but I'm sure we can get it cleaned up."

Melody shook her head. "Besides painting and the addition of furniture, it hardly needs any work at all. It's already beginning to feel like home," she smiled. "May I see the other rooms?"

Mrs. Hudson couldn't show her around the rest of the flat fast enough. The kitchen was in a slightly better state than the living room; it had a beautiful oak dining table, and all of the appliances were in surprisingly good condition. The two bedrooms would need to be repainted as well, but Melody didn't mind much, seeing as they both had nice, large beds. The bathroom in the master bedroom was clean and in working order, if dusty, but overall the apartment was very nice. It was a downsize from her living arrangements back in America, but then again, the salary of an orchestra conductor would also be a downsize from what she had in America.

"Mrs. Hudson, I really do love this place," Melody said, finding herself able to be surprisingly open with the woman.

She smiled, and the thousands of tiny wrinkles in her face seemed to smile as well and light up her face with a pure, contagious joy that Melody had never seen. In her life and especially in her work, she had seen many forms of depression, depravation, and pain, but never had she experienced such happiness. This, Melody decided, is definitely the place to be.

"I'm glad you like it, dear! But there's one more thing you ought to see before you make up your mind." Mrs. Hudson's face turned serious as she led Melody back out of the apartment and locked up.

Melody laughed. "I assure you, nothing will deter me from moving in now that I've seen this place."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "You'll change your mind once you meet the neighbors. Dr. Watson is as sweet as can be, but Mr. Holmes…"

Melody nearly tripped on the stairs in her surprise. It seemed that everyone except her knew of this Mr. Holmes! Just exactly who was he, and what made him so special? Still, in the midst of her frustration, she had to admit she was more than a little excited at the prospect of yet another mystery.

Mrs. Hudson stopped on the landing of 221B and pushed open the unlocked door. "Boys, I'm coming in!" she called, "And I've got company!" She ushered Melody inside, following behind her.

Their apartment was well-decorated, but messy. Newspapers littered the parlor floor, as well as some books and other strange things ranging from clothes to a cane leaning (wobbling, really) haphazardly against the door. Most peculiar of all was the skull that sat perched on the fireplace. What on earth could that be for? And then there was that horrible yet almost familiar scent that she could not quite place yet.

A blond, mousy looking man reached for his cane and hobbled out of his armchair by the fireplace when he saw Melody come in. "Oh, hello. You're new," he said.

"I'm looking at the rooms upstairs, and I believe I may be your new neighbor." She held out her hand. "Melody Holt."

He shook it with more strength than she had given him credit for. "John. John Watson. I hope you'll decide to move in, God knows we could use another sane person around here."

"Surely you don't mean Mrs. Hudson, so where is the insane one?" Melody asked, looking around for the other man.

John laughed. "Make yourself at home. I'll go get him."

Mrs. Hudson had gone off to make tea and biscuits, so Melody had at least a few minutes to look around unwatched. Nosiness was an unsavory but necessary trait when one was a psychiatrist, and for better or for worse, that habit, among others, had never left her.

She wandered off into the kitchen, and found the same stench that had greeted her earlier, only in much stronger concentration. The table in the middle of the room was filled with scientific equipment and chemicals: a microscope, test tubes, beakers, flasks, even a ring stand and buret. The countertops were cluttered with much of the same, and when she peaked in the refrigerator, she found a bloody bag full of assorted toes. Dissatisfied with the results, she shut it and moved her exploration to the sink, where she found the cause of the horrible odor, and realized why it smelled so familiar.

Melody's investigation was cut short by the sound of footsteps. "Who are you?"

The sonorous baritone came from directly behind her, and Melody smirked. Trying to startle me, are you, Mr. Holmes?

She reached into the sink and grabbed the reagent bottle by the base, and slowly, with excessive care, put the cap back onto it, taking her time just to annoy him. "You know," she said at last, "you really shouldn't leave bromine sitting out in the open. It's bad chemistry." She set the bottle back in the sink and turned around, leaning with her back against the countertop.

As she expected, he was extremely close, but of course she was too stubborn to be the first to retreat. He was surprisingly well-dressed with dress shirt, suit, tie—the entire ensemble— and rather attractive, if she were interested in dating. His hair was as curly and as dark as hers, but Melody's was longer by just a hair, reaching the nape of her neck.

"Who are you, and why are you here?" His voice rose to a rumble, like a deafening plane or helicopter passing close overhead.

Melody shrugged. For some reason, she didn't want him to know anything about her. She wanted to be as much of a mystery to him as he was to her. A game, a stimulant, a distraction. That's what she was always searching for, and she read the same need on him. She knew brains inside and out, and she knew that they were both at the stage of determining whether or not the other was a suitable enigma. All arrogance aside, Melody knew that she was more than qualified.

"Maybe at my core I'm nothing but atoms, little more than the particles that compose me. Maybe I'm stardust and space debris and the ashes of galaxies. Am I my parents, with all their faults and fallacies? Or, am I the sum of all my thoughts and actions, the memories and experiences that overtime have accumulated on my tabula rasa?" Melody's lip quirked, the way it always did when she was in thought. "Do any of us really know who we are, Mr. Holmes, let alone why we are here?"

The man rolled his eyes. "An eloquent speech, but you still have not answered my question."

Melody rose to her full height, tall, but not tall enough for Mr. Holmes. She reached only to his shoulders, but she compensated for having to look up to meet his eyes with a defiant jut of her chin. "My name is Melody. I'm moving in upstairs."

"Boring." He sighed, and left the kitchen.

Melody was not in the least bit offended. Honestly, she was just thinking the same thing about him. Other than the strange crap lying about the house, Mr. Holmes was utterly a disappointment. He was far from insane, and even farther from interesting. Oh, well, at least there's still the pill, she thought, putting her hand in her coat pocket to make sure it was still there.

"I've brought goodies!" Melody heard Mrs. Hudson ascending the steps. "Where's Melody?"

"Here." She walked back into the living room, taking a seat on the couch. Really, she would have liked to just leave now and finalize her apartment, but seeing as Mrs. Hudson obviously regarded the two men very highly, she couldn't be impolite. Yet.

Mrs. Hudson cleared a space at the desk and set a tray of cookies and cups of tea down. "Help yourself, Melody."

She shook her head. "I'll just have tea, thank you. I'm not hungry at the moment."

Unfortunately, her stomach thought otherwise. Neither Mr. Holmes nor Mrs. Hudson paid her rowdy stomach any attention, but John was giving her a serious look. She knew exactly what it meant, but of course she pretended she didn't.

"What? It's just a Pavlovian response. I normally lunch at this hour, but I've already eaten."

John Watson did not look convinced. It wasn't like he could prove anything without a medical examination (which was certainly not happening), so why did he care? There were clinical things Melody could see about him, but she wasn't his psychiatrist, and it wasn't her business, so she let it alone. Couldn't he have the decency to do the same?

Melody reached for a cup of tea to calm herself down, and in the process her scarf slipped from its tight noose around her neck. She hurried to tie it back in place, hoping that no one noticed. Mr. Holmes did.

He rose from his chair in one lithe motion, noticeably more graceful than John had been before, and walked over to the couch with a saccharine smile. "I am so sorry," he gushed, "it is unforgivably rude of me to have forgotten to take your coat. Please, allow me." He held out his arms, expecting Melody to stand and shrug off her coat.

Bullshit. Melody had known children who were better actors and liars than him. "Thank you, but I'm fine. It's actually a bit chilly in here to me."

Mr. Holmes looked down at her with hard, blue eyes. "You're perspiring."

"Perhaps I'm nervous," Melody shot back.

"With a perfectly steady body? I think not. No, you're hiding something."

Melody crossed her legs and sipped her tea, indeed the exact image of ease Mr. Holmes had pointed out before. "Because I refuse to remove my coat?"

He shook his head, curls bouncing adorably around his face. "You wear that coat at the expense of your own personal comfort. And your scarf, wool, yes? That is clearly an outdoor scarf meant for the cold, and you are still wearing it indoors. Of course that could be sentiment, but you are not a sentimental woman. How do I know? People frequently pass down items of familial importance, especially jewelry, and I see none on you." Mr. Holmes smirked at the end of his little tirade, egoism leaking from his lips like the remains of a delicious meal.

Mrs. Hudson and John were silent throughout the entirety of the conversation, but the apologetic and embarrassed looks upon their faces relayed more than their words could have: I'm sorry, he can't help it, it's in his nature, don't punch him, please. Melody smiled to reassure them that she was fine, and they seemed to relax.

"Well, Mr. Holmes-" Melody began, only to be interrupted by the orchestral ringtone of her cell phone. She let it ring, not even bothering to check to see who it was.

"Aren't you going to answer that?" He demanded, pacing back and forth across the floor, hands behind his back.

"No."

"Why?"

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson sighed, apparently fed up at last. "Leave the poor girl alone!"

Melody could have laughed. Little did Mrs. Hudson know that she was actually entertained by this conversation. "When facing an adversary of unknown or superior strength, it is good strategy not to divide one's army. My mind is my army, Mr. Holmes, and I don't like to be distracted."

He said nothing, but as he turned to finish his last stride across the room toward his armchair, she could see a small upturn of his lips. He crossed his legs at the ankles and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "Finish your sentence." He tacked on a begrudging "please" after a glare from John.

Melody played with the frills on her scarf. Not sentimental, huh? "I admit that that was an impressive deduction, but I will not tell you if it was correct."

"Of course I was correct," he snapped.

"Why don't you deduce something else about me, and I'll be the judge of that."

Melody was stepping into deep waters, but she was not afraid to drown. It was not so bad, once you got used to it. The darkness, the desperation suffocating and burning your lungs, the water dragging you down no matter how hard you kicked your legs. Melody had lived that way for three years, and at some point she had simply given up kicking and allowed herself to sink to the bottom. That part, the shame of defeat mingled with the pleasure of giving up, felt the best.

Mr. Holmes stared at her for a while, his eyes darting here and resting there, reading Melody's body like its own language. It was enthralling to watch him work, to see where he looked and wonder what he saw beyond it, to feel the weight of his intelligent gaze look at her the way no other human did. This man's mind was truly a gift.

After no more than a couple minutes, but what felt like an eternity beneath those eyes, Mr. Holmes spoke. "You are from America, Massachusetts judging by your accent. You left because you felt your parents were smothering you, or because you had a falling out. The twenties is a rebellious age, so either is likely. You are clearly watching your weight, probably for relationship or self-esteem reasons. You are well-read, and, lastly, as stated, you are hiding something, perhaps your identity. Don't want your parents to find you?"

Melody couldn't help laughing at the smug look that had been steadily creeping its way onto Mr. Holmes' face. Unlike Melody, however, he was not amused.

"Why are you laughing?"

Once she had composed herself, she said, "With the exception of me being from Massachusetts, everything you deduced about me is wrong."

From the twisted-up expression forming on Mr. Holmes' face and the stunned silence of John and Mrs. Hudson, Melody could tell this did not happen often. Now would be a good time to take her leave, she felt.

She stood, setting her tea cup on the desk. "As much as I would enjoy watching your impending stroke, I really must finish discussing business with Mrs. Hudson. Goodbye all." She paused halfway out the door. "And, John? Might I suggest taking up a new hobby? Something manly and intense like shooting or skydiving."

He raised an eyebrow at the odd suggestion. "Um, why?"

"Because you are not adjusting to civilian life as well as you and your therapist pretend."

Author's Note: I hate to leave it there, but there was really no other place to cut it. Please let me know what you think, and see you next chapter!