A sleek black cab pulled up short, hugging the curb. The door opened to reveal two duffel bags, a backpack and a girl of about sixteen years. After a brief argument with the cabbie, she paid him with 30 pounds and a dirty look, then turned around to face the building of flats in front of her. A narrow building of flats stood wedged between some shops. Its door proclaimed 221B, and the girl checked the street name again just to be sure. Baker Street.

"So this is the place," she muttered, wrapping her coat around herself tightly. She liked London well enough – the people were all right, and the city itself was charming, but it felt cold and unfriendly with its perpetual state of gloomy weather. There really was no place like home.

The girl grinned to herself as she picked up the duffel bags and walked towards the door. There really is no place like my home, anyway.

She knocked on the door, leaning on the doorframe to wait. Mrs. Hudson had a bad hip, after all – would take her a while to get down.

People passing by on the pavement were starting to give her second looks as she waited. Obviously, Mrs. Hudson and her tenants didn't get too many visitors.

But Ebony garnered attention wherever she went. She possessed a strange mix of features, due mostly in part to her mixed heritage. She had choppy straight ebony-black hair, ashy grey eyes, and sculpted cheekbones that gave her a cold, sharp appearance when paired with her white-pale skin.

And although her fifteenth birthday drew near, she gave the impression of a child with her weak-looking build, even though she was lean and strong. It didn't help that she wasn't particularly well-endowed.

Ebony had a strange accent, too; it was mostly British, since she had been born in Coventry, but she had lived in so many countries, absorbed so many local brogues, that it was now impossible to pinpoint exactly her nationality. Scottish, American, South African, German, even Indian – her voice was a unique blend of inflections and lilts. It made her difficult to read, which was how she preferred it.

A thumping noise came from inside the flat, and the door swung open. A mousy-looking woman with a short stature and friendly face peered curiously out the door until recognition clicked into her eyes and she let out an excited squeal that didn't fit her age.

"Ooh! My stars and garters, Ashland Ebony!" Mrs. Hudson enveloped her with a wide grin. Ashland only stood an inch or two over her.

"Why the old lady expressions, Mrs. Hudson?" Ebony asked wryly, a large grin lighting up her face. "You've got a few years left until that stage."

"Oh, you…" Mrs. Hudson swatted her shoulder, beaming, then leaned in and spoke in a conspiratorial sort of whisper. "No, that John decided to start some sort of swear jar business, if you'll believe it. Ludicrous, but I thought to myself, 'Well, look here, old maids like me shouldn't curse like sailors'. That's what I told myself."

"John, your tenant?" Ebony remembered from Mrs. Hudson's letters.

"That's him," Mrs. Hudson clarified. "Him and Sherlock. You'll like John, but Sherlock, well… he's a little difficult," she whispered loudly, as if it were an open secret that she daren't say aloud. "But come in, first. You can find out about them for yourself."

Her face was a little worried as she ushered Ebony in, but she smiled sunnily when Ebony glanced at her.

The flat was completely empty, being the flat that Mrs. Hudson could never find a tenant for. It was small, but it looked durable, and it left enough room for Ebony's minimal amount of things. Of course, her shipment of books would arrive soon, but the flat seemed big enough for them.

"All right, dearie, this is your place. I left all the books you left with your mother and all, but that's it, mostly," Mrs. Hudson smiled at her.

There was one bed in bedroom, a study table and a moderately large bookcase with the books mentioned, but empty otherwise. Ebony deposited her things on the bed and turned back to Mrs. Hudson.

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson –" she began, but before she could get anything else in, she was cut off.

"Oh, goodness, Ashland! No need to thank me. I should thank you, really. I've been without company for a few good years and I'd like young blood around my flat. Young blood that doesn't shoot the living daylights out of my wall, anyway."

"Sorry? Didn't catch that last part." Ebony pretended to be startled, but grinned to herself. She had heard the last part perfectly clearly.

"Oh, nothing. And what's with this 'Mrs. Hudson' rubbish? You really should call me your great-aunt, it's only right, you know. You got it from your mother, I suspect. You really are alike." Mrs. Hudson's cheer seemed to fade as she slipped into thought.

Ebony stayed silent. She hadn't known her mother, as she had died when Ebony was only a year old. She wished she were alive. Her life would've been so much better if she had been there.

"Well, anyway." The older woman was cheerful and sunny once more, clasping her hands together. If only London's weather mirrored her moods. "Since you're not a tenant, give a shout if you need anything. I'll call you up for meals and all – I just thought you'd want a separate flat for a bit of privacy. And it was empty anyway.

"It's a nice gesture," Ebony smiled at her, a little weary. Mrs. Hudson was nice, but she talked too much.

"Well, I'll leave you to it. I'm sure you'll meet John and Sherlock somehow. I'll tell them to drop in, shall I?"

"Anytime," Ebony said. "Not like I'll be busy or anything, now that I don't have school and all."

Mrs. Hudson gave her a friendly wave as she walked out. "Ask if you'd like tea. Oh, and listen, dear." She stopped short in the doorway. "There's a room a little down that way," – she gestured vaguely down the hallway – "that is filled with old furniture and items and things that other tenants left behind. Take anything you need from there, all right?"

Ebony nodded as she sat down. "I'll keep that in mind."

Mrs. Hudson smiled one last time. "Well, all right, dear."

Once she was safely out of earshot, Ebony groaned to herself and massaged her jaws. She hadn't smiled so much in such a short expanse of time in years. She'd forgotten what is was like with Mrs. Hudson – cheerful, light, and lots of insincere smiling.

"Why does everyone smile when no one means it?" she wondered aloud, staring at the ceiling.

"That's what I've wondered since childhood."

Ebony dropped her head to glance at the man in the doorway. He seemed maybe 30 years old or whereabouts, an expression of intense boredom on his face. He was tall and gaunt, with alabaster skin and a shock of curls as dark as hers. His face seemed similar to her own as well – high, sculpted cheekbones with peculiar pallors and shadows, like a Victorian mansion. His eyes were most intriguing, a glasz mixture of green, grey and blue, a weird mix of fierce intelligence and preoccupied thoughts.

"Sherlock Holmes, I'm guessing," she said, nodding in greeting.

He drummed his fingers on the doorpost. "Yes, and I suppose you're the niece Mrs. Hudson was waxing poetic about. How's the book writing going?"

Ebony blinked once, and then dropped her gaze to her wrists. They had indents on them from her late night typing sessions, and the last time she had glanced in the mirror, swollen bags had taken residence beneath her eyes. It was easy to see his reasoning about the book, too, since most teens her age only stayed up late writing books when it was on their own time.

"Not bad, I suppose. It's not a book, though. It's essays."

Mr. Holmes seemed slightly surprised. "You're not impressed?"

She gave him a queer glance. "Should I be? What about?" Then it came to her. "Ah, the deducing?"

A hint of color mixed in with his pale complexion. "Well. Judging by the fact that Mrs. Hudson gave you a flat without rent, you're to live here, yes?" The adept way he ducked the subject didn't go unnoticed, but Ash played along.

"That's right."

"A fair warning, I have strange habits and stranger clients coming in at all hours. You might find it hampering."

"I don't sleep for more than two hours at a time. It's tedious."

Mr. Holmes studied her, seemingly appraising her in a new light. "Don't you have school?"

"I was homeschooled by private tutors. Since I can work at any time it suits me, I finished school a few weeks ago." She looked him dead on in the eyes, which unnerved her slightly, but she was careful not to let him see that. She was careful not to let anyone see anything.

He half-smirked. "No school? Always a positive." Then he remembered something and said, "You were talking to yourself earlier."

"I was."

"I have always wondered that since childhood."

"Social convention is centered around open secrets."

He dipped his head and changed the subject adeptly.

"Your name?"

"Ashland Ebony."

Mr. Holmes nodded to himself, as if confirming something in his mind. "Ebony. Ashland seems tedious. Best be off, then."

And he was off.

Ebony was left wondering what Sherlock Holmes was.

"Hello!"

It was maybe three hours later, just after tea, when a sandy head popped in through the door of the flat.

Ebony looked up from her bed, not surprised. She had heard the sound of footfalls upon the staircase, and it had been shorter and less hurried than Mr. Holmes' frantic pace.

"Oh, hello. You must be Dr. Watson." She got up and smiled as she walked towards the door, extending her hand.

The rest of the man popped through the door. He was rather short, only about two or three inches taller than her, but he had a friendly, handsome face, with shortly cropped blond-ish hair and interested blue eyes. He looked ordinary, like one might find walking down any London street, but he felt special. He had a weird aura that Ebony couldn't quite pinpoint - he felt, for a lack of a better word, safe.

He was obviously military, with the way he stood and spoke crisply. Wounded in action, probably, and sent home - he didn't seem the type to retire and come home. This was a man with nerves of steel.

"Yes," the man said, smiling as he shook her hand, "but you call me John, all right? I have quite enough of the doctor bit at work."

Ebony inclined her head. "Well, John it is. I'm Ashland Ebony. Most people call me Ebony though." Not that she knew many people or anything. About six or seven in total, perhaps.

"That's an interesting name," John said, looking intrigued. "So you're to live here, yeah? Have you met Sherlock?" He seemed suddenly worried, as if Sherlock were some dangerous predator on the prowl. Which he might be, for all she knew.

"Yes, about 10 minutes after I came, actually," she said. "He's an interesting person. If you don't mind telling me, were you wounded in action or did you retire from the service?"

John stopped short. He stared at her for a second, and then sighed in a resigned manner.

"Good God. Don't tell me you're a deducing genius like that Sherlock. God, he drives me crazy." He shook his head, but he answered her question, which was all she really wanted. "I was wounded. Did you figure that out from my leg or something?"

"Ah, well, you don't seem the type to wimp out and retire from service, is all. Nerves of steel and all that."

He smiled at her. "Well, thanks, I suppose. Anyway, if you need help anytime, don't hesitate to ask, you hear? And come up any time you like. I need some human company from time to time besides Sherlock. He could survive in isolation for years if we let him, if he didn't die of starvation first." He paused and snorted after a bit of thought. "The git probably wouldn't have even realized he was dead."

Ebony smiled. "Can't be all that bad."

John shook his head fervently. "Oh, you'll see." It sounded slightly ominous. "Well, be seeing you, yeah?"

She nodded a goodbye as he left, listening to his plodding footsteps on the stairs. Faintly, she heard an exasperated, "Sherlock!"

It seemed Baker Street would be more interesting than she had previously thought.