Famous Last Words Chapter 1 - Neighbors, a sherlock fanfic

Just a warning, this is a practice run. I am seeing if you people like this story. If you do, I'll continue. If you don't, I'll wait. Keep in mind that this chapter has NOT BEEN EDITED, so there's probably be a few mistakes. Other than that, I have to go through the usual disclaimer. I do not own Sherlock, John, or any other characters that belong to BBC and Steven Moffat and that lot. I don't mind fan-art, in fact that would be flattering. Just if you share it on the internet, please send me the link, 'cos that'd be really cool to see how people interpret my character. Same thing on the bottom, so don't bother reading it.

~ Lore XD

Chapter 1

Neighbors

(First POV)

"Yeah, gun shots, again," I sighed exasperatedly, looking across my flat and through the window to the opposite room, getting a clear view of a man firing a gun at his wall, "I don't know what they get up to across the street. One time I saw him wrestling some guy in a turban. Makes for good inspiration, however distracting it may be."

"Why don't you head over and confront them?" asked Ellie on the other end of the line, "Unless…OHMYGOD! ARE YOU LIVING ACROSS FROM TERRORISTS!?"

I laughed at how absurd that sounded, though I was beginning to feel as though confronting them may be a good idea. I had been plugging out my next novel, the fourth in my incredibly popular series 'Masters of Disguise'. "Yeah, I think I will go check them out," I grinned, ignoring her yell of 'NO!' from the other end. "I'll be fine, and besides, I've been bored. Suffering from writer's block, and all that, maybe a gunfight would help me get this show on the road."

"How are you still alive!?" Ellie giggled.

"No idea."

We shared a laugh and I hung up, putting my mobile down and going to change into clothes that weren't so, revealing. I had almost forgotten to change out of my bra and sweatpants, but that was no way to greet new neighbors. Though, they may not mind it, since one of them was always bringing home one girl or another. The other, as far as I could tell, was completely insane and may have worked for the police. There were sirens up and down the street what felt like every night, and so many days, too. I couldn't stand the racket, which was why I needed to go and get them to at least respect the peace that many of us preferred to the sound of bombs going off.

I pulled on a tank top over my bra and decided that jeans would suffice, pulling my sweatpants off and slipping my jeans up my legs. I was too lazy to pull on socks, so I just slipped my feet into slippers and stuffed both my phones into my pockets. One for friends and one for work. The work one I had never used, but I still carried it around out of habit. I opened my door and walked down the stairs, across the street, and rang the doorbell for the flat across from mine.

"Sherlock!" I heard from inside, "Someone's here to talk to you! Oh for god sakes, fix your door bell!"

The door opened and I fixed a smile on my face. After all, first impressions were everything when meeting your gun-wielding neighbors. I kindly-looking older lady looked cheerfully up at me, "I'm sorry dear, you can head up. He's in a right old state, never answers the door. I keep telling him to get it fixed, but…" She spoke over the gunshots as she led me upstairs. I didn't want to seem nosy, so I didn't ask any questions about her tenants.

When we made it up to the landing, she opened the door and called, "Sherlock, will you stop it, you've got a guest!"

"Yes, I know," he drawled, sort of draped over the sofa and shooting a-was that a smiley face made out of bullet holes? In the wall?! Jesus, he really was insane.

"Hi, I'm-

"Our next door neighbor, I already know," he said, focusing on me, "Were you ever planning on getting rid of the binoculars?"

I blushed. I had, in fact, been using binoculars to spy on them whenever something interesting was happening. But how had he known? "No, I'm not psychic," he sighed, and I stared at him. For someone who lacked ESP, he sure was good at reading my mind. I turned around and the woman had left. A second later she bustled into the room, carrying a platter of tea.

"Do you know why I'm here?" I asked, taking the mug the woman offered me. As far as I could tell, she was their housekeeper. Why didn't I get a housekeeper? No fair.

"The gun, undoubtedly," he sighed. The other man who lived with them walked into the room.

"Sherlock, will you stop it, I'm writing!" he said. He was rather shorter than me, with blonde hair and a frustrated face. He stopped when he saw me, and I waved, smiling at him. "Um…who are you?" he asked. I suppose I do look rather different. It's the eye patch, I know it, though my hair looks a bit strange, as well. Gold and white, completely genetic, no hair dye whatsoever. It went with my 'code name', or my code name went with my appearance. All white and gold, with a black eyepatch thrown into the mix. I did look rather like a sci-fi pirate or something.

"I'm Equinox," I told him, holding out my hand to shake, "Your neighbor."

He took my hand, nodding, "John. Is that…uh…your real name?"

I shook my head no. "It's the name people recognize," I informed him, "I write books, see, and that's my pen name."

"And the eyepatch?"

"It's not for decoration, I was born with a birth defect in my left eye. Completely blind."

John opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock interrupted, "You remove it often, and you take good care of it. The way you're standing suggests that you are used to seeing the entire room. You don't turn your head to look at me when I'm speaking. You can see through it. You do not need it, and so the eyepatch is in fact for show. Don't try to trick me."

I froze, dumbfounded, while John glared at his flatmate, "Sherlock…"

"I was born with a defect in this eye. The other one as well. My parents messed around with chemicals, worked at some place called Bakersville or something." I indicated my gold and white hair. Wavy, gold wrapped around white wrapped around gold, "This is not a fashion statement."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, "I suppose it's possible, if your parents messed with your genes as a child. Still, improbable."

"Well, here I am, sue me," I said flatly, turning to go, but then I remembered why I had come and turned back, "And could you please keep it down. The sirens are already enough, do you have to fire a gun because you're bored?"

"How did you know I was bored?" he asked.

"Why does anyone do anything pointless unless they're either bored or addicted or think it fun?" I responded quickly, "You're not addicted or this would happen more often. The wall shows that you don't do it as often as it would be required for an addiction. If you thought it fun, you would be a psychopath and John would be dead. Which leaves boredom."

"I could have another reason."

I raised both my white flecked eyebrows, "Décor? Please."

He stood up, "Mystery novelist. Writer's block. Mother issues, father died when you were young, maybe twelve, probably ten. You moved to London as soon as you could and have lived across from us ever since. You published a few books, and whenever you got tired, you watched us. Tattoos, old ones, so a rebellious childhood that resulted from physical abuse from your mother. Faded scarring around your ankle proves that you grew up near woods and didn't know them very well, distinct bear trap pattern. You didn't tell us your real name, so you don't trust us, but you did come over here, so you're not so mistrustful after all. You have two phones, one in each pocket, the one on the right is slightly more worn, showing that you use that phone more often. The one on the left old as well, but the phone looks as though it's never been used, so you keep it with you out of habit. You're wearing very little, so you're not afraid of what we think, but you've been polite, so you do care about first impressions. You haven't asked us as many questions as I may have expected, but then again, you only came to tell me to quit shooting. You weren't afraid to come over and confront a man with a gun, so brave. But not very brave, or you would not be standing in such a fashion, turned so that you can now see me, leaning towards the door. Those slippers wouldn't get you far, though, the stairs are slippery."

He said all of this in the space of thirty seconds.

I turned to look at John, but he had already left. "How did you-

"Consulting detective," he said, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling.

"But you're-you're-

"Far more intelligent than you, so don't try to imitate me. Buh bye."

"But you did get one thing wrong," I hastened to inform him. He turned to look at me and I stood a little straighter, "Mom's dead, too."

"But then…" he paused, apparently sizing me up. He stood too and I took a sip of tea, waiting for him to realize what I meant. Finally he got it, "An orphan at thirteen."

I merely nodded, waiting for him to continue. "Then most of the abuse came from the kids at the Foster Homes. Sexual as well, apparently, and then you tried to hang yourself. Twice. Now why would you-

"You're not the only person who gets bored," I said, glaring at him, before walking out. I felt his gaze leave me a second later, as I tried not to trip on my way down the stairs. He was right, they were slippery.

"No, he said he was a detective, not a terrorist," I told Ellie over the phone as I walked back from Speedy's with a cup of coffee and a scone, "Though he wasn't very nice either. He told me my life in one minute. Even knew about the suicides. How would he know about the suicides?"

"I dunno, but I imagine it found its way into the paper somehow."

"But the caretakers wanted to keep it quiet!"

"You did jump from the banister, people were bound to find out," Ellie rationalized, "I was there. I'm surprised you didn't just fall and hope it killed you."

"I don't think I was done with life yet."

"All this death talk has got me sad. Do you wanna tell me about the guy?"

"What guy?" I asked as I entered my flat and slipped my boots and coat off.

"You know," Ellie sighed, "The guy. Sherloaf, was it? The gun guy."

"What do you want to know?"

"Well, you told me he was tall and dark, but was he hot…?"

I laughed, "Remember last time you tried to set me up with someone? You can have him if you want, but I'll try to stay out of his personal life. Besides, I have a boyfriend."

"No you don't."

"Don't rub it in."

"I could try to set you up. There's this guy that hangs around the restaurant sometimes, I've talked to him and he's single. Pretty cute, too…"

I was about to respond when BAM! "Goddammit!" I jumped.

"Was that the hot one?" Ellie asked, "The tall, dark, handsome one?"

"El, they're firing guns again," I groaned as I pulled my boots back on and slipped a jacket over the wool tank top, "Seriously, I thought I told them to stop!"

"It's only been two days, he's probably forgotten."

"I'm still going to have to call you back. Lunch?" I asked, checking myself in the mirror before pulling on a leather jacket that I hoped would be a little intimidating. I didn't wear slippers this time, the stairs really had been oily.

"No, sorry, I've got a meeting from eleven to three. Some four hour team building shit. Maybe tomorrow, though."

"Right, see you," I said hastily, before hanging up and rushing out the door and across the street, almost running into a disgruntled looking John, who was going the opposite way. We exchanged a nod and I knew that he was leaving for the same reason that I was heading up. I rang the doorbell and the older woman came for it again.

"Mrs. Hudson, seeing as you seem to be coming by quite often," she told me, leading me upstairs, "Are you and Sherlock-

"Oh, definitely not," I laughed, "It's just the noise that's bothering me. It's funny how gunfire distracts me from writing about gunfire."

"Oh! I recognize you! You wrote those detective books! What was it again?"

"Masters of Disguise?" I prompted, and she nodded excitedly.

"Oh, I loved those books, though the whole thing was rather violent," she winced.

"Based off my childhood," I informed her, and she looked taken aback. I entered the room, grinning at the look on Mrs. Hudson's face, and saw Sherlock, sitting in the same couch as before, firing at the wall and not even looking. I flinched as another bullet found its target. The face on the wall was almost complete, which annoyed me.

"I thought I told you to stop!" I yelled over the bangs of his pistol, and he finally stopped to look at me.

"Yes, you did."

"Yet you're doing it again!"

"Bored."

"What?"

"Bored. Bored, bored, bored!" Every time he said that he fired once more at the wall.

"Jesus, what is wrong with you!?" Behind me I heard Mrs. Hudson enter. She seemed so nice, I was almost jealous. Still, Mrs. Devyn was kind, if not a little strict, and always put in an order for my books when they came out, bless her. She never did my shopping, however, and she certainly never brought me tea. It got kind of lonely, actually, and I wondered what it would be like if I went looking for a flatmate myself.

"Oh, I'm sure something'll turn up, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson told the sulking man as he crossed to the window, ignoring me, "A nice murder-that'll cheer you up." A nice murder? Wow, this man seemed crazier than I'd expected. The only people I'd ever heard use that term were me and my friend Blaze.

"Can't come too soon," he sighed wistfully. I ogled him, which he further ignored.

Mrs. Hudson finished her unloading and went to take her bags back downstairs, but stopped at the door. She had just noticed the smiley face. "Hey! What've you done to my bloody wall?!" Sherlock smirked at his 'masterpiece' on the wall. "I'm putting this on your rent, young man." Then she left, muttering to herself about how rude young people were these days and whatnot.

"Why on earth would you fire a gun at the wall?" I asked Sherlock, who had moved to stand at the coffee table and was grinning exaggeratedly at his work.

"I said bor-

BOOM!

An explosion erupted from the wall near the window, throwing both Sherlock and me back into the wall. I think I must have blacked out, but not before I tumbled down the stairs to the landing below. I heard a groan from upstairs, Sherlock probably, and the next thing I knew, some guy whom I'd never seen in my life was helping me up the stairs, where I was plopped down on the sofa, and then I think I must have passed out again, because I can't remember much of what happened for a few hours.

When I finally came to, I discovered that I was lying on John and Sherlock's couch with a throbbing head ache and what I hoped wasn't a broken rib. I sat up groggily as everything around me began to come into focus. Sherlock was playing music, which I couldn't hear very well, while the man from before argued with him. Their words faded in and out of focus, like my vision, but I did hear phrases like "national importance", and "lives at stake". Suddenly John burst through the door, shouting. Both men ignored him, and I was too tired to care, as well as too busy taking in my surroundings.

Papers and pieces of splintered wood and glass littered the floor, yet another reason not to stand up. I felt my head and flecks of dried blood peel off onto my fingertips. From what I could tell, it was a nasty cut, but it wasn't bleeding any more. It'd leave a mark, though, that was for sure. Still, my first explosion. That sure was a new experience. I groaned as my ribs gave another twinge and I pulled my shirt up to my belly button. Nothing seemed out of place as I felt around, but my abdomen was almost completely black and purple.

"Oh my god! Equinox, are you alright?" It was John, bless him, he at least had noticed my pained existence. He came over and sat down next to me to check me, saying, "It's okay, I'm a doctor."

"Thanks," I winced as he pressed the bruise, "I don't think anything's broken."

"I saw it on telly. Are you okay?" John asked, standing up to go talk to the violinist, leaving me to fend off uncomfortable pings from my head.

"Hmm, what? Oh yeah, fine. Gas leak," Sherlock said distractedly.

"Well there's a first," I mumbled and they all looked at me.

"What?" John asked.

"I've never been caught in a gas leak explosion before. Time to scratch that off the bucket list-wait! What about my flat!?"

"Fine. The one next to it exploded, but yours seems alright," Sherlock informed me, going back to the violin. I yawned, relaxing. If my laptop was destroyed, my laptop with all of my work on it, I would be reacting completely differently. I just couldn't wait to go home and write about my gas explosion experience to reference in later chapters. However, I kind of wanted to stay and watch what happened.

"Five quid says someone planned this," I piped up and Sherlock nodded at me. John rolled his eyes and Mystery Man ignored me, going back to trying to convince Sherlock of something. I tuned them out, only vaguely interested, and instead made sure that my boots wouldn't slip off, before standing up and walking to the door.

"Wait," John called, and I turned back, a little annoyed. New sentences were already floating to the surface of my mind, and I wanted to type them out ASAP.

"I've really got to go," I told him, "Writing stuff, you know."

"No, I mean you might have a concussion. It'd be a good idea to get you to the hospital for them to check it out."

"Listen, I know you mean well, but honestly, I've been through way worse and lived, so…"

"Doctor's orders."

"Oh my, it must be serious," I laughed sardonically, and then I winced as my skull twinged once more. "Fine," I sighed, "Should I wait, or…"

"I imagine you won't have to wait long," Sherlock called indifferently with a pointed glare at the man who rolled his eyes in return. I looked around for a mirror to make sure my eyepatch was fully covering my 'blind' eye, and when I found one over the mantle, I found that it hadn't moved at all. I did not feel very relieved, however, when I saw the cut across my forehead. It didn't look too deep, but there was a purple bruise where my head must have hit the wall. My golden eye was as unnerving as ever, and my hair was all disheveled as well, so I took to trying to get it slightly less chaotic as the man and Sherlock said their 'goodbyes'.

"Think it over," the man (whom I later learned was Mycroft, to make it easier) said to Sherlock, leaning over him threateningly. He then turned away, "Goodbye, John." They shook hands and Mycroft gave a somewhat creepy smile, "See you very soon." I really wanted to yell "GAY!" but I figured that'd be rude, so I instead stood, rooted to the spot, as John responded and Mr. Mycroft left the flat without so much as looking at me.

Sherlock went back to playing, glaring at Mycroft's receding backside, while John voiced his question, "Why'd you lie? You've got nothing on-not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

I waited.

"Why shouldn't I?" Sherlock shrugged.

I waited some more, briefly considering that Sherlock and Mycroft were brothers.

"Oh," John sighed, seemingly realizing something, "I see." His eyes drifted to Sherlock and he nodded, "Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere."

Sherlock was about to say something, probably deny it, but the phone ring interrupted him and he picked it up to talk. "Sherlock Holmes," he said into it, and then he listened for a little bit, "Of course. How could I resist?" Some more listening, and then he clicked the phone off and placed his violin on the chair.

"What?" I asked, half to remind them that I was still there.

"Lestrade, I've been summoned," he told John, "Coming?"

"If you want me to," John said.

"Of course. I'd be lost without my blogger."

John nodded turned to me, "Wanna come? We could take you to the hospital afterward." Sherlock shook his head behind John, and I grinned. Sounded like I would be hearing an actual detective interaction with the police. Plus Sherlock didn't want me to come. Better and better.

"Sure," I smiled, feigning innocence. Sherlock flashed me a dirty look and went down the stairs. I followed John, wishing that I had a notebook on me. From now on I vowed to carry a notebook wherever I went in case this type of opportunity came up again (which it did countless more times).

The ride to the police was rather awkward, because I was stuck on the receiving end of quite a few glares from Sherlock. I merely grinned back, enjoying annoying him. That's what you get, you bastard, I wanted to tell him, but again, rude. He seemed to realize what I was doing however, and went back to ignoring me. We arrived at Scotland Yard and I hopped out, literally jumping for joy. I had a good feeling about this.

"What are you excited about?" John asked me as we entered the station, following Sherlock.

"I love this type of thing," I grinned. He just looked away and followed Sherlock, no doubt wondering if it had been a good idea to let me tag along. Too late now.

People looked up at me, mainly because I looked like a bloody pirate in a leather jacket, with fricking white and gold hair stained with blood and purple that showed through my white shirt, but I was too happy to care. Many of them probably recognized me, since I was sure police read my books as much as any other person. I was rather well known, after all.

We met a man on our way and he walked with us. I assumed this man was Lestrade, the guy who'd called Sherlock earlier. "Who's she?" Lestrade asked, obviously referring to me.

"Neighbor."

"And you brought her along?"

"Oi, I'm right here you know," I said, "Equinox, at your service." He did a double take, staring at me, and I smirked.

"The author?"

"Yep."

"Why are you here?"

"Cos I'm bored and John invited me. I was in their flat when it was blown up. And the eye patch isn't for show," I finished, glaring pointedly at Sherlock, who scoffed.

"Uh huh…" Lestrade muttered, wrenching his eyes off me and turning to Sherlock with a hint of urgency, "You like the funny cases, don't you? The surprising ones?"

"Obviously."

"You'll love this. That explosion..."

"Gas leak, yes?"

"No."

"Yes!" I fist pumped.

"No?" Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes and handing me five quid.

"No. Made to look like one," Lestrade informed us.

"What?" John asked, confused.

"Hardly anything left of the place except a strong box – a very strong box – and inside it was this." Lestrade handed Sherlock an unopened envelope. I couldn't wait to see what was inside. This sounded like a good mystery story.

"You haven't opened it?" Sherlock asked the Detective Inspector.

"It's addressed to you, isn't it?" Lestrade said, "We've X-rayed it. It's not booby-trapped."

"How reassuring," Sherlock sighed, picking up the envelope and taking it to another table with a lamp. He held the envelope up to the light and examined it, taking in the rather pretty handwriting on the front, by hand. "Nice stationery," Sherlock said when he was done, "Bohemian."

"What?" Lestrade asked and I had to admit I was wondering the same thing.

"From the Czech Republic. No fingerprints?"

"No."

"She used a fountain pen," Sherlock said after staring at it for another few seconds, "A Parker Duofold – iridium nib."

"She?" John and I asked in unison.

"Obviously."

John apparently struggled not to roll his eyes, "Obviously!"

Sherlock slit the letter carefully open and I waited in suspense. I was disappointed, however, when it turned out to be just a phone. I had hoped we might have received a message from our bomber. But my mind was already hard at work thinking up theories on what the stunningly pink mobile phone could be and why we'd been given it. "But that's – that's the phone, the pink phone," John gasped from next to me, and I looked up, perplexed and intrigued.

"What, from the Study in Pink?" Lestrade asked, and my bewilderment grew. Was this a code of some sort? No, more likely a previous case. I waited for someone to explain it to me, but no one did.

"Well, obviously it's not the same phone," Sherlock began, "but it's supposed to look like…" He suddenly turned to Lestrade, "The Study in Pink? You read his blog?!"

"'Course I read his blog! We all do! D'you really not know that the Earth goes round the Sun?" A black woman who had come up to us at some point in the conversation scoffed. Sherlock glared at her, and I smiled. John seemed embarrassed for some reason, and it took me a minute to realize that some people didn't necessarily was people to read their writing.

The woman left the room but I stopped her. "Equinox," I reached out to shake her hand, "And you are?"

"Sally Donavon," she said, shaking my hand, "You know the freak?"

"Unfortunately," I sighed, guessing correctly that she meant Sherlock, "We're neighbors and I got dragged into this."

"That's a nasty cut you've got there," Sally said, "An eye injury. An eyepatch, though?"

"I wear it anyway, birth defect."

"Ah."

"I was just wondering if there's a bathroom anywhere nearby. I've so far neglected to clean this cut, and I want to see how bad it is."

"Down one level," Donavon said, "Sorry, the one up here's out of order."

"Thanks," I smiled and caught the elevator down.

When I made it to the floor below, I hopped out of the elevator and nearly ran into someone. Two people, actually. "Oh my!" yelped a small, young woman in what appeared to be a lab coat of sorts. A scientist of some sort, I was sure of it. Behind her a man about my height grabbed her to keep her from banging into me.

"Oh, sorry," I said quickly as the man let go of her and we all relaxed, "Just looking for somewhere to clean this." I gestured to my forehead and went on.

"Wait!" called the woman, and I stopped to let her speak. "Molly Hooper," she said, "I can help you clean that if you want. This is Jim, by the way."

"Hi," Jim said.

"That'd be great," I grinned, "Because I'm starting to feel light headed. Jesus, John was right, I should probably go to Bart's. I'm Equinox, by the way," I said, doing a little mock bow, "At your service. Or vice versa, considering I can't really be of much service at this point." I leaned against the wall to keep myself upright. I really was feeling dizzy, but I hoped I didn't look that bad. Then again, I looked like an escaped science fiction pirate lab experiment at best, so…

"Jim, if you bring her to the bathroom, I'll got grab a sponge and a flash light to check for concussion," Molly said, running to a janitor's closet to grab the supplies. I followed Jim down the hall, where he opened the unisex bathroom door for me and followed me inside. I sat down next to the sink and waited for Molly to return. A lot of people here were nicer than I'd thought.

"So, John?" Jim asked.

"Yeah, he's my neighbor. Him and Sherlock, funnily enough. God, I hate Sherlock," I muttered, reminding myself of how infuriating he was with another painful twang.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah."

"And you're that author!" he exclaimed excitedly, "Why do you have an eye patch?"

"Everyone asks me that! I have a birth defect! Is that so hard to imagine?!" I burst. Thinking about Sherlock had put me in a bad mood. Molly came in a minute later, carrying a small white sponge and one of those mini flashlights. She tossed Jim the sponge and he soaked it and padded my forehead while Molly shined the flashlight in my eye.

"This one's fine. Do you mind if I go, I've got a report to give? Jim, if you could check the other eye…" and Molly left the room. I felt a little awkward, letting a complete stranger touch my face.

"I should probably check your other eye," he said, reaching toward the eyepatch, but I stopped him.

"I'd prefer if you didn't, actually," I growled. He raised his eyebrows and stared at me skeptically, but I was pretty sure he was trying not to smirk.

His voice changed, as well as his accent, from English to Irish in a heartbeat, "Feisty."

"Stop it."

He sighed, "Seriously, take it off, if I don't do this, Molly'll kill me. Off."

~ Lore XD