The flat was dingy, dank and smelt of cold, untouched air. It was small and aesthetically displeasing, dirty, mould thriving in the corners. The tiles of the bathroom were yellowed with grime, the mirror cracked, the warm stream of the shower interrupted by a burst of ice cold water every few minutes. Not something one particularly looked for in a flat in the middle of October... but it was cheap and in Central London; Baker Street, even. The landlady seemed pleasant enough, if not subdued in her manner. There was a man living in 221b, but he did not return often and was apparently planning to move out.

'It's... nice,' Evie said slowly. She plucked a scrap of peeled paint from the wall.

'Oh, you don't have to spare my feelings, dear,' Mrs Hudson, landlady, said. 'I know it's a proper mess.'

'It does need work,' the young woman conceded.

'Listen, I'll lower the rent,' the landlady offered, shuffling toward the door. 'It's just unfair, to charge as much as I was on a place like this. Besides, not many people have applied since Sherlock – since he -' She broke off. Evie smiled sadly.

'Thank you very much, Mrs Hudson,' Evie responded.

'So you'll take it, then?'

'If I may. I do play the violin, though. Not at any unreasonable hour, of course. Is that alright?'

'Oh, it's fine, fine dear,' Mrs Hudson fussed. Her eyes glazed over. 'Why, Sherlock used to – at all hours – no matter how often I - '

She woman stifled a small sob. Evie placed a hand on her frail shoulder and guided her from the room. 'Alright now, Mrs Hudson,' she soothed, 'there, there. Would you like some tea?'

The elderly woman dabbed the corner of her eyes with a handkerchief. 'No, no, it's alright. Oh, silly old me. It's been weeks, and I just can't seem to... you know, the oddest things just seem to tip me right over!'

'Nothing to be embarrassed about,' Evie reassured. 'I'm sure he was a great man.'

'He was,' she sniffled. 'But never mind me, Evie, dear. When should I expect you?'

'Is tomorrow too early?'

Mrs Hudson gave a small chuckle.

Almost at the door, she turned around again.

'And Mister Watson? Will he be here tomorrow?'

Mrs Hudson smiled so sadly, like a grandmother in a nursing home whose son no longer visited.

'He'll come by when he's ready,' she said.

Evie wasn't one to follow tabloids. She found them dull, uninteresting, and so she came later than most to the Sherlock Holmes scandal. She had heard his name a few times before, but only when he jumped from the roof of St. Bart's did she get a proper glimpse at the world's only Consulting Detective. Once thought to be a brilliant man, now considered a hoax, Sherlock Holmes had committed suicided once it was revealed that he had made up the notorious criminal Jim Moriarty. Whether or not she believed it was irrelevant; it was of no importance to her, didn't effect her day-to-day life. She was content with not knowing.

She maintained this philosophy when she moved into 221c Baker St. She wasn't interested with finding out the truth; she didn't know a thing about detecting. But she did know a little about losing someone close, and resolved to not speak ill of the deceased man, because he was of importance to her new landlady, and the man in the flat above. She merely smiled and offered sympathy, murmured words of reassurance.

She had unpacked her belongings and stored them all away, cranked up the heater to the highest setting to try and fend off the cold. She wasn't doing anything impressive, only tuning her violin, when the door to her flat was slammed open.

'Sherlo-' He started. A man, around his mid thirties with sandy hair and bags beneath his eyes, the same height as Evie, wearing a knitted jumper. When he saw the violin in her hands, the light in his eyes went out, and the name died on his lips.

'Sorry,' Evie blurted, though she wasn't sure why she was apologising. No, she knew why; she felt bad for this man. This man who looked like he had not eaten a proper meal in weeks, nor slept a wink or brushed his hair. This man who looked as if he had aged before her eyes in that moment he realised she was not who he had hoped.

'No, no,' the man replied. 'It's my fault. I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else. I thought maybe you were-'

'It's alright.'

The man sagged, dejected. 'You must be the new tenant.' He looked as if he were going to fall over.

She tucked her violin beneath her arm, the bow swinging from her smallest finger. She stepped forward and extended her free hand. 'Evie Blackwood. Pleased to meet you.'

He grasped her hand in his. His grip was weak. 'John Watson.'

'Pleasure,' she smiled. He returned the expression tiredly. She hesitated.

'Mister Watson-'

'John, please.'

'John. Are you... are you alright?'

His expression closed. 'You're another one of them, aren't you,' he growled, voice dripping with venom. His hand closed tightly around her forearm, jerking her forward with such a force that she had to hop on her feet to remain upright. 'Another of those stupid reporters. Well, you can tell whatever paper you're working for it that you have an exclusive: Doctor John Watson tells tabloids to fuc-'

'No, no!' Evie exclaimed, trying to pull herself free. 'I'm not a reporter! I was just – I mean – Here, I've got my ID -'

She held out her violin and John held it gingerly by the neck. She dug through her pockets, pulled out her wallet and jimmied her licence free from the tight slot. She handed it to him, and he examined it with a critical eye. Then the fire died out and he was left with that drained, weary expression.

'I'm sorry,' he apologised. 'I'm sorry. It's just been a bit... hectic recently. That's all.'

'It's okay.' Silence fell as she reclaimed her drivers licence and slipped it back into her wallet. 'I read about him, you know.'

'Sherlock?'

'Yeah. In the papers.'

John's lip curled bitterly. 'You think he's a fake, then?'

'I don't know.' She shrugged and he handed her instrument back to her. 'It's hard to believe that someone could be so clever.'

'Sherlock could.'

She strummed her fingers across the strings of the violin. The sound, familiar to them both, of four notes clanging together filled the air.

'He must've been pretty great then,' she said, 'to inspire such loyalty.'

He gave her a tight smile which she returned. She shuffled on her feet, trying to phrase her next sentence.

'John,' she hesitated. 'I know this might seem forward... I mean, we only just met... but I was sort of wondering if you were coping alright? I mean,' she rushed on, 'I know you're not. Losing someone so important to you is hard, to suicide especially so, and I guess what I'm trying to say is that if there's anything I could do for you, all you have to do is ask.'

She could see his expression was all just politeness. He didn't want any help from a stranger. He just wanted to grieve alone. But still, he said, 'Thank you, Evie. I'll keep that in mind,' before he excused himself and returned to his flat, leaving Evie alone in hers. She let out a sigh, packed up her violin and sat down with a good book.