Hello, everybody, ModernDayBard here! Here's my stab at a Sherlock Fanfic. This is going to a series of one-shots featuring my OC, Jenny Meyers and everyone's favorite acerbic detective. Just to be clear, she is NOT a replacement for John as Sherlock's tag-a-long, nor is she a romantic interest.
And (not that you think I do) I do not own BBC Sherlock, or any of the characters that inhabit that wonderful world, I'm just borrowing them for a bit.

Jenny put the last box down, glancing around the gloomy apartment at the towering stacks that served as a daunting reminder of all the unpacking she still had left to do...No, no, she wouldn't think about that now. Now, she would revel in the small victory of at least having gotten all of her boxes into the apartment, and take a moment to breathe in her new...home?

The young brunette honestly had to stop her thoughts there, glancing around as if to ask herself if she truly considered 221C Baker Street to be home already, before she'd even spent a single night there. Sinking down onto a box she hoped would hold her weight, she gave into introspection, wondering how someone who hated change as much as she did could, at the same time, adjust so quickly.

"Hello?"

The unexpected, unfamiliar female voice so startled Jenny that she toppled backwards from her precarious perch, landing breathless but unhurt on the kitchen floor. At the clamor (the young woman had kicked a box of dishes as she tried to regain her balance) a slightly older, blonde woman hurried down the stairs and through the open door. Jenny pulled herself to a sitting positon just as the stranger reached her, a look of concern on the other woman's face.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to startle you—are you alright?"

"Fine, yes! I'm fine. It's okay—not your fault—I wasn't paying attention." Jenny flushed, aware that she was rambling, and painfully aware of her American accent, which marked her as an outsider here in the middle of London.

The woman offered her a hand, a surprisingly strong grip hauling the brunette to her feet. "Well, as long as you're not hurt." There was a pause as the older woman seemed to size up the younger, though her smile was still friendly. "So, Mrs. Hudson finally found a tenant for 221C?"

"Yep! A-Are you the upstairs neighbor?" When she'd spoken with the landlady, Jenny had been surprised by the list of noises she'd been warned to expect, and she'd been given no more by way of explanation than to say that the occupant of 221B was a little...peculiar.

"Heavens, no—just a friend of his. Well, he's my husband's best friend, but I think he counts me as a friend, too. So, you haven't met him yet. It'll be an interesting, believe me. I'll admit, I was surprised to see the door open and all the boxes." Jenny blinked as the blonde woman suddenly stuck out her hand. "I'm Mary, by the way. Mary Watson."

Jenny shook the proffered hand. "Jenny Meyers. Just moved here from Northern Virginia."

Mary glanced around the apartment, then back at the younger woman. "If you need a break from the gloom—" (and the look she gave Jenny made it clear she thought this was the case) "—I know Mrs. Hudson has cooked extra. We're having dinner at her place, just the four of us, and there's always room for one more."

Jenny shuffled awkwardly, wanting to make friends, but not wanting to insert herself into a long-established group. "I-I don't want to intrude on a private dinner—"

"Private? Tush! Just family," Mary insisted, "the Baker Street family—which you're a part of now, too. What better way to get to know the neighbors?"


And that was why, only a few minutes later, Jenny found herself seated at Mrs. Hudson's table, surrounded by—(a part of?)—quite the menagerie. Mrs. Hudson, of course, she'd already met, as well as Mary. Mary's husband, John, was nice enough, but Jenny noticed that he kept glancing between her and the fifth and final occupant of the table, as if anticipating an explosion.

Curious, she turned her attention to the tall, thin, dark-haired man. It seemed that this Sherlock was observing her in kind. His gaze bored into her, but rather than take offense at his silent stare, Jenny found herself waiting for his assessment with a feeling of amusement.

She wasn't disappointed.

"No rehearsal tonight?" It was the first thing he'd said all meal, and Mrs. Hudson had just gotten up to fetch desert.

Startled, John glanced at his friend, only to find the piercing blue eyes were locked on Jenny's hazel ones. "Sherlock?" he queried.

Jenny tilted her head to one side, one eyebrow slightly raised. "Rehearsal? What for?"

"Oh, please," her new neighbor replied in a bored tone, "you're not fooling anyone—it's obvious."

"Sherlock..." John muttered in a warning tone.

The detective pushed on, undeterred. "It's clear from the thickness of your accent that you have not been here very long—not had your adjustment period yet. You're not here for vacation, you've picked at least a semi-permanent residence. There are a variety of reasons why someone would make so drastic a change.

"Given your age, energy and paradoxical blend of confidence and timidity, you are finally emerging into the world beyond school, so: just graduated. Estimating your age to be in the mid-twenties, and that you don't really seem fully accustomed to being on your own, given your few nervous tics during the meal, you likely did undergraduate and graduate in one straight shot, so you probably aren't in a field you can get a job in without a higher degree.

"This was a big move away from you family, but there's absolutely no residual bitterness—highly indicating you were running to something, not away from. Could be a romantic motivation, but no one's been over to help you move, so that's not likely.

"Next logical choice: a job. You do have a job, as you felt financially confident enough to rent an apartment on your own. However your confidence is limited and you chose a much cheaper apartment—job isn't guaranteed, or the pay is low, or both. You did come all this way, so the job is likely in your field of study.

"Finally, some of the hair on your shirt is long, blonde, and fake—so, a wig. What job is uncertain, low-paying, can require wigs, and necessitates higher degrees to gain employment? Theater. What shows are opening soon and have already begun the rehearsal period—that also have a blonde character in your general age range and body type? The new local production of Matilda the Musical—which, if you are cast in, I strongly encourage you to pay more attention to your accent."

As the extend monologue at last came to its conclusion, the three who knew the detective stared at him, internally relieved that he'd been—for him at least—on the polite side. Then, to their surprise, Jenny laughed.

"That was good! But are you sure you weren't clued in when I was practicing my songs while bringing in the boxes today?"

"Yes, well, there were a few other shows that fit the criteria, but the music was the final give away. That's also how I knew your accent needs work."

"Noted," was the brunette's glib reply. "And to answer your first question, tonight's rehearsal was cancelled. Our Miss Trunchbull had a bad fall last night, so the director wanted to give him a chance to recover. Apparently, last season, the lead actor popped his Achilles' tendon, so everyone in the company's a little on edge."

"Don't you mean 'her'?"

Jenny regarded John blankly, but before she could ask what he meant, Sherlock cut in. "You referenced a Miss Trunchbull, then said that the director wanted to give him a chance to recover."

"Oh, well, you seemed familiar enough with the show—" Jenny began by way of explanation, but Sherlock waved it aside.

"Cursory knowledge—I don't devote much mental effort to trivial entertainment theater."

For the first time that meal, Jenny found herself get angry, but she did her level best to keep her calm façade intact. Choosing to ignore Sherlock and his insensitive comment, she turned to John. "The role of Miss Trunchbull is traditionally filled by a male actor."

Sherlock snorted and muttered something under his breath, and it took conscious effort on the actress's part not to strike out at him—physically or verbally.


She held her tongue on the matter until after the Watson's had left (saying something bout relieving the babysitter) and Mrs. Hudson had went into the kitchen to clean up. Finally, Jenny spoke her mind.

"'Trivial entertainment theater'? You're so full of it, aren't you? A play doesn't have to be over a hundred years old before it's worthwhile."

Sherlock smirked at the much-shorter woman before replying. "But theater isn't exactly one of those professions the world would end without."

To her credit, Jenny didn't back down, glaring right back at him as he attacked her chosen vocation. "Not all occupations are about keeping people alive," she retorted, "some give people something worth living for. That's what plays and musicals do: capture imaginations, stir emotions, put truths into stories, and create a communal experience."

"Maybe for lesser minds, but to anyone of a superior intellect, it becomes childish playacting, escapism, and simply a waste of time." Sherlock was surprised by his own rudeness, but something about this American's attitude had gotten under his skin.

Jenny crossed her arms, all but spitting out: "You know, in my field, we have a term for people like you."

"What?"

"Divas!"

So, yeah. They sure got off on the wrong foot. And yes, I know Sherlock is a little ooc, seeing as how he softened a bit by the end of season 3. My justification is the same as I give in the story—Jenny rubs him the wrong way at first, and defensive Sherlock is arrogant Sherlock. Also, these stories will be more along the lines of 'Bored' instead of my other fics (laid back instead of plot-driven) with one possible exception.
Anyway, if you see something you like, or something you think I can fix/improve for next time, don't hesitate to leave a review and let me know!