AN: GUYS I'M WRITING A SHERLOCK FIC! I'm so excited! This is gonna be fun;) I'm thinking about starting a Doctor Who story. And I'm writing an original piece:) As always, let me know what you think!
"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson called, coming up the stairs. "Sherlock, I need to talk to you dear." She walked into 221B's kitchen and saw Sherlock mixing some chemicals. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock didn't even look up. "Yes?"
The sweet old lady smiled at his focus. Only a few people understood Sherlock's quirks and the way he devoted himself to his work. Oh, how he loved his work.
"I was wondering if you would mind taking on a third flatmate for a few months. I know you use the third bedroom to store your notes, but it would only be for a little while.."
"That will be fine," he responded, cutting off her timid rambling.
Mrs. Hudson smiled and started to walk away, small tears welling in her eyes.
"When will you need the room cleared?" Sherlock called after her.
"Sunday."
Sherlock was moving the last of his notes into his room. The room was now extremely cluttered. Too cluttered to sleep in. However, Sherlock liked the couch when he was on a case, anyway. That was if he even slept. Most of the time he was up all night, never eating, always thinking. Away in his mind palace. Focusing. Always focusing.
John walked in, carrying a bag of groceries. He set it down on the kitchen counter and started putting things away. Milk in the fridge. Ice cream in the freezer. Cookies in the cabinet. Bananas on the counter. That was a dangerous place to leave food.
When he finished, he went to find Sherlock. Sherlock was still in his bedroom. He had decided to reorganize all of his notes while he was at it. Currently, he was busy sorting the differences in stabbings between different types of knives. He picked up a few pages on a harpoon stabbing. Where to put that?
"Not even going to ask," John said and walked out. He sat down in his chair and pulled his laptop onto his lap. He pushed the power button and watched the screen turn on. A few moments later, it was ready to go.
As John started typing away, a girl living just outside the city was packing her things. She picked up a ring off of her bookshelf and held it in the palm of her hand. It was cool against her skin. For a moment, she stared at it, lost in the memories of a past life. The girl threaded a silver chain through the ring. She fastened the clasp behind her neck, dropping the ring so that it fell against her chest. The girl walked to her mirror and stared at the new pendant lying against her ghostly skin.