221C
Mrs. Hudson says she's finally rented the downstairs flat. Looks like Sherlock and I will have a neighbor. Hope whoever it is doesn't object to violin music at all hours, or the occasional gunshots/explosion/fire that happens when Sherlock's bored. Still, might be nice to have someone other than Mrs. H to borrow the odd egg from.
-oo00oo—
Moving day from the sounds coming through the hallway downstairs. Sherlock's at St. Barts at the moment so he's missing all the fun, although he'll probably be able to tell me exactly how many men lifted what items of furniture and where our neighbor's from just from the smell in the hall and some scratches on the wallpaper. Most of the time that ability of his is amazing, but every now and then it does get a bit annoying too. I suppose it would be the neighborly thing to pop down later and introduce myself, maybe warn the new tenant in sort of general terms about what to expect from up here—forewarned is forearmed and all that.
-oo00oo—
The nameplate on the mailbox says Elliot Roth, so I suppose that's our new neighbor. Haven't seen him yet, but it's bound to happen soon I'm sure. Sherlock's brought home two bin liners and he looks a bit too pleased with himself so I'm going to guess that they're from Molly, that they're going in the fridge and that I probably don't want to look inside them. Sometimes I feel like I'm living with the modern equivalent of the Ripper, which is enough to put anybody off their tea.
-oo00oo—
Ran into an utterly scrumptious woman standing down in the hall today when I went to collect the post. Hoped she was a client coming up to see Sherlock since it's been a while, and she certainly wasn't hard to look at—a little taller than myself, curvy in all the right places, masses of thick red-brown hair. All right yes, it's been a while, but at least I'm not denying my natural instincts, unlike someone else I could name.
I introduced myself and mentioned Sherlock, trying to be casual about it and she smiled. Lovely smile, really. Definitely.
Then she held out her hand and I noticed she was wearing gloves. Thin little cotton ones, medical quality—the sort we put on burn victims. I was so focused on them that I nearly missed her introduction, but there it was:
"I'm Elliot Roth, your downstairs neighbor. Good to meet you."
Ah. I had no idea women could be named Elliot. Not that I mind or anything; my own sister calls herself Harry so there you have it. I just wasn't expecting our fellow tenant to be female. Sometimes it's good to be surprised.
"Sorry about the gloves but I have a condition that makes touching a little painful," she continued. I let go of her hand quickly, but she just smiled. "You didn't hurt me, it's fine."
"Burns?" I asked, and then had to add, "I'm a doctor," because I didn't want her to think I was nosy. I am of course, but when you tell people you're medically qualified they don't seem to mind as much. I figured that out ages ago, before meeting Sherlock even.
"Not exactly."
She sounded American, and I asked about it; Elliot told me she was from South Carolina and that she knew Mrs. Hudson from some time spent with relatives in Florida. The whole time she was talking I was listening and trying to figure out what sort of skin condition she might have, because the rest of her—what I could see anyway—looked fine. I'm no expert in dermatology, but Elliot didn't look as if she had psoriasis or eczema or any of the usual afflictions.
Thinking about her skin led to a brief fantasy about seeing her nude, and I took myself off that train of thought right away because let's face it; mentally undressing women you've just met is creepy. Mind you, it's a thought I might return to later, in private, but it's a bit not good when you're standing in the hall together.
Anyway, Elliot added that Mrs. Hudson had already told her a great deal about us and that she was pleased to meet me and hoped to meet Sherlock at some point. I sort of nodded but didn't say anything because I wasn't sure exactly what he'd make of her. Probably be rude as usual.
-oo00oo—
Someone's been leaving dead sheep all over London. I tried to get Sherlock interested in it, but he says it's trivial and that he's not going to follow the flock. Ha Ha. Maybe he won't feel that way if one shows up on our doorstep.
Lestrade might give the case for us; Sherlock is twitchy but not completely manic yet, so I'm holding out hope. I've got a shopping list started, and I'm debating on whether or not to get a little housewarming something for Elliot. Sherlock still hasn't met her but gave a grunt when I mentioned our meeting and added some comment about Mrs. Hudson needed more money since the telly license fee is going up again and God forbid she miss a single episode of EastEnders.
Ah well, he's not quite as snide as he used to be.
I think maybe some Walkers for Elliot; I'll see if she's as partial to them as I am.
-oo00oo—
More sheep; someone left a carcass two days ago right near the tube station near St. Barts. The animal rights people are up in arms; Sherlock remains uninterested in mutton remains. Most people seem to think it's a prank but some of the conspiracy folk make the case for some sort of bizarre Anthrax testing on the population. There are even a few that claim it's sheep rustling ala Wallace and Grommit. You have to love Londoners I swear.
It turns out Elliot adores shortbread, which is the first bit of good news in a while. She invited me in to share a few and her place is quite nice. A bit small and damp of course, being a basement flat, but she's got comfortable furniture for it. I took a look around and could make some obvious assumptions—she's living alone, she's moderately well-off and well-read if the size of the bookcase is any indication. The tea was a bit weak, but I chalk that up to her being American. She'll probably get better at it if she stays.
Apparently Elliot works—and I kid you not—at the London Sperm Bank in Harley Street. I don't think I stopped blushing for the first twenty minutes after she told me that. Apparently she's part of their media support and information team, hired on from some cryogenic company back in America. I tried to put my best physician's face on, but she just sort of rolled her eyes and smirked, and told me to go ahead and ask her all the questions now and get it over with.
The things I do to better myself. So I asked about donations and whether it was a successful field, and Elliot got out her laptop to show me the website and blog. Very professional, what with official certification from the HFEA. I did notice that she took off her gloves to type, and that I couldn't see any scar tissue or burns anywhere on her hands. Pretty hands, graceful in fact.
Anyway, it was a lovely little visit and I offered to show her around London if she needed any help with that. Elliot told me I was very kind and told me she'd take me up on that some weekend. I went back upstairs feeling rather pleased with myself until I realized that Sherlock had apparently used the last of the milk to put out a fire on the table.
"Done flirting with the neighbor are we? Tell me John, were a few stale biscuits and hideous tea worth the chat-up?"
"Actually yes," I told him and went to get some paper towels from the kitchen. "It was fascinating."
"I doubt it's your brain that's responsible for that particular reaction," he rumbled at me. "Given the state of your trousers and the flush to your face."
"You never mind my trousers," I shot back. Honestly, I should be used to that withering sort of remark but I wasn't going to let him ruin a perfectly nice visit, particularly when his insinuations might have some truth to them. A bit, anyway.
"Did it have to be the milk? We have got a fire extinguisher and water you know."
"It was the first thing at hand and never mind that. Tell me about her cotton gloves," Sherlock snapped at me.
"Cotton. Standard burn gloves you can get a dozen in a pack for under three pounds. Told me she had a condition that made touching painful. Wait-I thought you hadn't seen her—how did you know about Elliot's gloves?"
"Well obviously from the fibres on the edge of her post box. Mrs. Hudson put the name plate in a few days ago, but there are fresh fibres on the left-hand edge of the box where MS. Roth reached in for her mail. Most people take their gloves off once they're inside their own foyers but she didn't, which tells me she didn't want to risk touching anything that's communal. Now why is that do you think?"
"Dunno. She didn't strike me a germaphobe or a hypochondriac," I mused, "her hands looked perfectly normal when she took them off to type."
"She took her gloves off around you. Interesting," Sherlock drawled out in that insinuating way that drives me up the wall sometimes. I shot him a look that he ignored as he set another slide in the microscope.
"All right, what is it you're implying?"
"Nothing. Only that she trusts you to a certain degree. Very flattering, I'd think."
I thought that over. "Yeah, it is."
Sherlock snorted, which could translate to pretty much anything, but I'm sure it was his shorthand for you're an idiot, John.
"Any more sheep?" I asked him, just to change the subject.
"What? Oh, no, not that I know of," Sherlock muttered impatiently. "But I suppose 'wool' see what the morning brings."
"Oh very droll, very droll. I'm telling you Lestrade is going to beg you for help on it sooner or later."
"If he does I'll tell him where he can ram it."
"Sherlock!"
I think he's getting spoiled; anything less than outright murder seems to be an insult to his skills.
-oo00oo—
A long couple of days doing clinic and waiting for Lestrade to text Sherlock with something juicy. Spend some time looking at the Sperm Bank site and noted that I'm just on the end of the age range to donate. Not that I was planning to, God no.
Sherlock's still within the range, the bastard. I'm sure there are dozens of women out there who wouldn't mind having a shot at his particular genetics—height, cheekbones, intellect—but I just can't picture him you know . . . just not something he'd do. Sometimes I doubt he wanks at all, although I'm sure he must. God only knows what turns Sherlock on; probably naked mensa members thinking up complex puzzles.
I need to get out more.