HELLO MY LOVELIES. Welcome to my story, and I hope you enjoy this mess I've put up. (All rights are reserved to BBC and the creators of Sherlock, only the Original Character's and the plot belongs to me)
I must warn you - THIS STORY IS CURRENTLY UNDER CONSTRUCTION. As of this moment, I have fixed chapters 1-5, and I'm working on 6 as I'm typing this message. I'm changing minor details, but they will still conflict with the flow from chapter to chapter. So new readers, sorry for the confusion but I will fix up to chapter 11 and put up chapter 12 as soon as I can.
Also disclaimer for the new readers, this story is rated M - which means this story contains adult themes, explicit sex scenes, strong use of language very frequently, vivid descriptions of violence, mentions of rape, child abuse and heavy drug/alcohol abuse. Please continue reading at your own discretion.
After I'm done updating all the chapters, I would suggest all my followers to go back and read from chapter one, just to keep up with the changes I've made. Sorry for the inconvenience and the confusion
ENJOY! AND WHEN I'M DONE DON'T FORGET TO FOLLOW/FAVORITE MY STORY. AND PLEASE DO NOT FORGET TO PUT ON A REVIEW. I really love reviews and they help me keep motivated to finish a story.
She blamed the shit tequila here. When she went to the store across her hotel and asked for tequila, they had no idea what it was. She was already beginning to regret coming to England to study abroad, but she needed to get away, for a while at least. She was forced to quench her thirst at a local Wetherspoons, where the shit, watered-down tequila not only gave her a hangover, but actually made her sick. She winced, pulling out her glasses and rubbing her tired eyes. She really let herself go this couple of years. Tucking her glasses over her head, she reached out for her pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, taking one of the death sticks and pressing it against her lips. Ayra fucking hated cigarettes, she really didn't like drinking either, nor did she thoroughly enjoy getting high. But you gotta do what you gotta do.
It was been a week filled with a mixed array of emotions – mostly relief, and freedom. Taking a drag of her cigarette, she tucked away strands of sweaty hair and fanned herself. "Jesus fuck I feel like the underside of a sweaty pair of balls…" she whispered to herself, taking another long drag.
The sorry excuse for a sun was beginning to set behind the gloomy outline, painting the grey sky shades of dark purple. She could feel sweat drip down your neck, probably soaking through her thick sweatshirt. With the half-lit cigarette on her lip, she went back to the truck and pulled out another box, dragging it out. She pulled down the last of her boxes down from the truck, her fatigue body practically crashing on the pavement. She didn't care if people stepped on her – she was too tired and hungover to notice anyhow.
"Oh dear… look at you." An elderly voice said, somewhere close. Arya popped open her eyes, revealing her strange mismatched eyes. It was a genetic defect, something she wasn't always particularly proud of; but as time went on, she learned to embrace her uniqueness and understand it was indeed beautiful at times. "This is dreadful… I told you to wait for the boys.
"I used to be quite the athlete back in my day Mrs. Hudson." Arya smiled, her left cheek denting into a dimple. "Guess you lose the physical attributes with age."
"Ooh, hush now." Mrs. Hudson giggled, playfully fanning her new tenant. "You are on top of the Everest – still so young and beautiful. What will you do when you come to my age?"
"I tend not to think that far ahead anymore." Arya shrugged, picking herself up. Her new landlady handed her a bottle of water, which Arya gulped down in no second. She could feel the cold water run down her sore, dry throat, bringing it at ease. "Don't have anything stronger?" Ayra smirked.
The elder lady smiled and shook her head. "Oh I like you Ayra." Mrs. Hudson took a seat to the lovely new girl she rented 221A off to, nervously biting her nails. Being sharp as she was, Arya knit her eyebrows, tilting her head to observe the kind lady who gave her a home. "If you don't mind me asking, Mrs. Hudson, you seem worried."
"Oh… it's just that… I haven't really told the boys about you." Mrs. Hudson murmured.
"You mean my neighbors?" Arya asked, pulling her long, thick hair up to a ponytail.
"Yes… those two." Mrs. Hudson said, her face contorted into worry.
"I sense they aren't very pleasant." Arya commented sarcastically, although she herself was growing worried.
"Oh, no… honey. The boys are wonderful." Mrs. Hudson chimed in enthusiastically. "John… you're going to love him. Quiet and polite, that one is; always ready to help."
"But?" Arya asked, leaning closer to Mrs. Hudson.
"But Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson shrugged. "God knows how he's going to react."
"He didn't want any more tenants?" Arya asked, finally gaining the strength to stand up. "What is he, like some kind of anti-social asshole?"
"Oh, not at all, Sherlock is such a sweet boy… if you try to understand him." Mrs. Hudson convinced her, shaking her wispy hair. "But, unfortunately, that's how most people perceive him."
"It's okay, I'm used to handling the odd ones, if you will." Arya winked, making her landlady nervously smile. "It seems like you treat those two like your own children. One is the beacon of pride, the other is the troublemaker."
"Mrs. Hudson!" Someone with a deep baritone voice shouted from few feet away, making both Arya and Mrs. Hudson jump in sudden intrusion. Arya widened her eyes, nervously ticking her irises. There, she was greeted with a tall, pale man in a thick wool coat, his hands in his pocket and neck hidden with a musky blue scarf. His eyes were shooting arrows, but they were entrancing nonetheless – with a beautiful shade of crystal blue. With his dark mop of unruly curls and the alabaster skin, what was most striking about him were his sharp cheekbones, chiseled to perfection. He was fucking gorgeous.
Arya gulped, sniffing in the chilly air. The last thing she needed was living with a sex bomb. "Please explain why there are so many boxes here filled with household and clothing items, shipped from… LAX." He said, squinting down at the boxes. Arya crooked her eyebrows, looking down at her packages – there weren't any labels on his side.
"How do you know they are from LAX?" Arya asked, finally making the man of the hour look up at her. Sherlock froze, looking at a new clueless face. The girl, about average height of five-four, had her head tilted, her eyes fixed on him. She was… rare-looking, as he could deduce. Her face certainly wasn't one to blend in within thousands – with her round face, honey-brown skin, thick dark brown hair and heterochromic eyes.
Sherlock stood straighter, fixing his coat. "I also know they have been in England a week now, as have you, shipped from Southern California – Orange County." He said, watching the girl's eyes widen.
Ayra tilted her head and looked at him, narrowing her eyes. Ayra was a very, very careful person, and she did her research. She knew exactly who he was - Sherlock Holmes, a self-acclaimed "consulting detective"; he was a sociopathic, enigmatic genius who helped the police solve crimes for his own pleasures. He was of no threat to her, so what he was saying was based on his superior sense of observation. Ayra straightened her back and smiled, her left cheek denting. "Please continue, you were starting to reel me in."
The man had a startled expression on his face, giving her the impression that her reaction was rather uncommon. He crooked his bushy eyebrows, squinting even more.
"Please don't get him started." Another voice popped behind the taller guy. This one was much, much shorter – mid-forties, light graying hair and tanned skin. Dr. John Watson who was discharged from active duty in Afghanistan four months ago. In his report it was said he had a psychosomatic limp, but that seemed to have disappeared as he was standing straight, his feet planted on the ground. "Hello… I'm John." He said, extending out his hand. Arya took in gladly, shaking it firmly. Strong handshake, tan-line only below the wrist… smelled like hospital disinfectants.
"Hi… John?" She asked. "I'm the new girl."
"Mrs. Hudson. Explain yourself." Sherlock demanded, cowering over the poor lady.
"I need a tenant!" she practically screamed, making everyone in the street look at the little drama show. "I have a perfect flat, laying bare… all because you're insufferable in most people's standards – I need the money Holmes!"
"I said no more tenants." Sherlock chewed out.
"And why should she have to listen to you?" Arya asked, putting her hands on her hips. "Apologize to the poor woman."
"Mrs. Hudson has more money than you can imagine." Sherlock waved his hand in the air, heading for the green door. "She doesn't need this circus show!"
"Sherlock!" John whined, watching the door get forcefully shut. "I am so sorry." Sherlock Holmes said nothing, but dramatically turned away and stormed through the open door, disappearing into the hallway. Even from the bustling of Baker Street, she could hear Sherlock thump his way up the stairs forcefully.
"You do not need to apologize on behalf of a grown man, John." Arya assured, giving him a warm smile. John nodded, without question immediately reaching for her boxes and luggage and dragging them towards the door. Arya let out a breath of relief – at least John could balance out the environment.
"Wait… somethings off." John said, putting the first box inside.
"What?" Arya asked, looking at him.
"He… he didn't finish." John murmured, looking up the narrow set of stairs, the wallpaper slowly wearing off.
"Finish what?" Arya asked, tucking a strand of hair away from her face, throwing the finished bud of cigarette on the floor and stomping on it.
"Showing off."
Sherlock wasted the first hour pacing back and forth in his living room, the next unknown amount of time locked in his Mind Palace. His memories were his only escape when it came to tedious times such as these. He pays Mrs. Hudson handsomely, and she already is filthy rich… why did she have to add a girl to all this mess? This flat had no place for the ordinary.
Although many things told Sherlock she wasn't entirely ordinary – first was her reaction to his deductions. Most people blabber on nonsense and throw insults with their privacy intruded… she was calm.
Sherlock jumped out of his thoughts, when that face he was thinking about popped in front of him, that mischievous smile plastered on her face. Her glasses hung on the bridge of her nose as she fluttered her long eyelashes and looked at him, with those strange eyes. There was something about them, other than the obvious fact they were two different colors. Behind the pleasant warmness, lay something cold, and calculative. He crooked his eyebrows, straightening his back. "What are you doing here?"
"Seriously… you just noticed?" She asked, swinging her leg back and forth while tucking the other one over John's armchair. "It has literally been ten minutes."
"I was thinking." Sherlock mumbled, fixing his coat. "What are you doing here?"
"What is it? Hallucinogens or opioids?" the girl asked, tilting her head. Sherlock could feel his muscles tightened, his cupid lips formed into thin line as he gritted his teeth.
"I am clean!" He announced, using his lanky legs to hop off his chair. He circled around her like a predator, watching her still amused reaction – why wouldn't she just freak out and run away like the others. "My original question, why are you here?"
"All of the above I guess, I like that." She mumbled, rolling her eyes comically. "Oh… right… John said you didn't finish. Still have more tricks up your expensive suit sleeve."
"You're really here for me to tell you your life story?" Sherlock asked. "Fine… if this is what you wish." By this time, a worried Mrs. Hudson and John appeared from the kitchen, both ready for Sherlock to explode into his usual rude being.
"Twenty-three… or twenty-four… no twenty-three. Bangladeshi parentage, but grew up in America most of your life. You are well traveled, probably because your father worked a job which required you to move a lot… explains your ease with foreigners and new cultures. You graduated with honors from UC Berkley, now you're here to pursue your postgraduate degree… I'm guessing either Kings College or LSE. You were quite the trouble maker in your university years. The Mascot shirt you're wearing is rather old, with beer and tequila stains from three years ago still on it. College was your first break from a conservative home, which lead you to act out against norms, but that bewildering lifestyle stuck to you pretty hard as you did grow quite a bit drinking habit, and also enjoy the occasional high."
Her plump lips were parted, not in rage, but in amazement. "Fascinating." She mumbled, making John and Mrs. Hudson exchange looks. "That… was… fucking amazing." She exclaimed.
Sherlock looked down at the girl, his nose wrinkled in confusion. "You think so?" he asked, completely unsure – so far only John has been so amazed with Sherlock's sense of observation; everyone else just… found it to be creepy.
"Of course!" She blurted out in excitement. "I mean I am not all that amused that you had to announce that I enjoy the occasional drink in front of a group of strangers, but that was still dope."
"That's one odd way of looking at this." Sherlock frowned, moving her aside. He stopped, watching his beloved dining table cleared out of his test tubes and lab equipment's and filled with food. "What is this?"
"Food… ever had it before?" the unnamed girl shoved past him, taking a seat. "I ordered Chinese because I am sure everyone is as famished as I am."
"We don't eat in here." Sherlock commented grumpily. "This is for my experiments." Whoever she was, already sat down and began chowing down on her meal hungrily.
"Sherlock, nothing was destroyed. We just got really hungry from moving all her stuff." John said, in between taking small bites of his food. "Just sit down and calm down for a while… will ya?"
"I don't eat while I'm on a case." Sherlock pouted, crossing his arms and looking at the takeout's as if they were poison.
"What planet are you from?" the girl asked, her mouth full of food. "Don't eat… you're fucking bizarre."
"Please refrain from talking when you're mimicking Gargantuan." Sherlock said, creasing his eyebrows. "It's unappealing."
"Does it look like I care about appeal right now?" the girl asked, her food finally gulped down.
"Your eyebrows are perfectly tinted and you follow a daily skincare routine, not to mention you have three cartons labeled 'makeup'… and let's not even talk about the clothes." Sherlock murmured. "So, I would say… yes."
"Wow you're like, the queen bitch of this place huh? That takes a little pressure off of me." She said again. "Oh, by the way… my name is Arya Chowdhury." Sherlock nodded, acknowledging her. He momentarily phased out as everyone ignored his presence, eating and conversing like ordinary people do. He looked at their new tenant, unsettlingly pleasant with everything that's thrown her way. He narrowed his eyes – the girl had a deeper layer he yet did not peel.
"So, how many did I get right?" Sherlock asked, eager to keep his perfect track record. His usual monotone and cold expression turned into a smile – these were the only occasions Sherlock would genuinely have a reason to stretch his facial muscles. Arya stopped eating and looked at him, tucking away strands of her baby hair and smiled at him.
"I'd say about five percent." Ayra shrugged. "Ya need to do better than that, Mr. Holmes."