For the third night that week she lay in bed, back stiff like a piano string. Her hands placed neatly on top of her stomach, her half-lidded eyes staring at the ceiling above her.
She could hear them clattering around in the kitchen. She could hear the hum and vibrato of their voices through the poorly insulated floors. She could hear nonsensical words being thrown around. She could hear Russian last names.
221C Baker Street wasn't as expected. Nothing about her move had gone as expected. In fact, she wasn't even sure what there was to expect. She had fantasized a posh young British woman to live above her, who would've invited her to her cocktail nights and show her off to her friends ("Listen to her precious American accent!"). She would've spent her time lost in the blur of constant drinking and the company of people she would never see again.
Instead, there were two men she hadn't met, but they terrified her.
The feeling in her stomach told her they were bad news. It seemed stupidly coincidental (if that was even the right word) that of all the places to end up, she'd end up right below Britain's most prized darlings. The initial excitement wore off quick as she pictured the amount of potential danger she could be in just by living below them. It suddenly struck her why the apartment was so cheap.
But why had they let her stay? How did they know she wasn't some kind of obsessive stalker? All it had taken was a few e-mails back and forth, and here she was. Her tired mind cycles with unanswered questions, she figures it's entertaining at least for a few hours.
Her watch lets out a quiet beep, indicating that it was now three in the morning. Not like it mattered, it just meant in four hours she was out the door for another round of failed job interviews.
Fresh out of college, the idea of travel on her mind; she had thought it clever to go traveling and gain some worldly wisdom. Instead, all she got was a dreadfully uncomfortable flight, some sort of 24-hour flu, and a miserable little room where the people above her enjoyed playing violin into the wee hours of the morning.
She sighs audibly, dragging herself out of bed. She imagines she looks like Garfield on a Monday. Grabbing her pack of smokes, she walks in the darkness to her door. Carefully feeling around as to not bump into anything.
She enters the hallway, shutting the door at an intentionally loud volume. Perhaps they would get the subtle hint that they were keeping her up. She took a moment to collect herself, still staring at her own doorway. A passing consideration of slamming her head into it quickly darts through her mind. She tries to adjust her thinking to be a bit more positive; After all, they had withheld the violin tonight.
"Hello?"
A voice awakes her from her dazed stupor. She spins around to find a man with nicely combed blond hair. He was buttoning up his well-kept coat.
"Hi. A bit late to being going out, no?" She wonders if he can smell her morning breath from the distance they're at.
"I could say the same for you." He laughs, "What are you up to?"
She wiggles her cigarette packet at him. He nods in understanding.
"Oh. Well, I hope we haven't kept you up with our n—"
His words were cut short as the sound of someone's feet making their way down the stairs. Another man came into sight, haughtily throwing his scarf over his shoulder; he looks her over very briefly. Then turns his eyes away.
"I know we haven't been very accommodating neighbours. Sorry again." He reaches out his hand to her. "I'm John."
She can't help but smile slightly. Maybe it was the fact that she knew who he was, or maybe it was that he was so much more charming in person. His blog didn't do his voice justice.
"Margo."
The two shake hands. She notes the roughness and size of his. It was nice to actually touch a person. She immediately regrets that train of thought and withdraws her hand in fear that he might have heard it through their touch somehow.
"What a beautiful sentiment."
Her eyebrows furrow.
"Excuse me?"
"Being named after your grandmother."
Without even glancing at her, the taller of the two exits the apartment.
Her smile drops. The all to familiar venom sinks in. The infamous anger that constantly nestled deep in her stomach arises. Being belittled by the world's most intelligent man should be some form of a compliment, that is, if you squint.
"Ah, look, that's Sherlock, he's…look, I'm sorry about that. Don't take him too seriously."
"It's not like he was wrong, after all, I was named after my grandmother."
Chuckling, he sends her a half hearted wave.
"Have a good one."
Then, she was alone, with that fucking horrible feeling in her stomach.
She gives up on the idea of a smoke. What she needed was a lot stronger.
xxx
She opens her eyes to him. Not his pacing footsteps, his hyper speed talking, or his endless hours of violin: but him.
"Lighter sleeper than I thought." She hears him mumble into his scarf.
"Was that all you thought about when you decided to enter my room?" She considers ripping his hair out of his skull.
"Yes, well, I'm afraid I left something here prior to your whole…arrival." He hasn't looked at her once this whole encounter.
Eyeing him, She notes how oddly his hands moved when he spoke. She also notes that she should install a new lock. Also maybe invest in pepper spray.
"There wasn't anything here when I came." She pulls her blankets up above her sports bra. The likelihood of Sherlock also being a pervert seemed very high.
He doesn't answer, instead he moves around her room in search of God knows what.
Checking her wrist, she observes the time and groans. Five thirty in the morning and she hasn't slept a wink. An aching headache begins to settle in, and the feeling in her stomach still remains.
"Do you do this to all your new neighbours? Most make cookies or something."
Grunting in reply, he continues ruffling through her pile of laundry. She can't help but lay there in silence, her knickers being flung around the room in some sort of fabric show.
"Do you mind?" Her head reaches a stage of tremendous throbbing.
He suddenly stands erect and begins to leave.
"…Thank you"?
His next action is to pat along the outside of the doorframe. Wonderful.
She feels her eyes practically roll to the back of her head. She almost throws her pillow at him, but instead covers her face with her hands and sighs.
"Look, can y—"
"I thought since you weren't going to be sleeping you wouldn't particularly mind. The jetlag should wear off by tomorrow night, and you'll be able to sleep efficiently."
"Oh, it wore off already."
"Excellent!" For a moment she questions if he's addressing her anymore. Her question is answered when he removes something tucked into the doorframe. Nothing surprised her at this point.
He begins to leave, the whirling in her stomach reaching a high intensity.
"Wait."
He stops.
For a moment she feels she has power, and she lets this sink in.
"It's Sherlock Holmes."
"I know, I have a computer."
"Then what?"
"My full name is Margaret. Like Atwood. I call myself Margo like The Royal Tenanbaums. You know? Wes Anderson?"
"Hmm."