The sound of opening cupboards and the metallic shake of slammed drawers jolted him into consciousness. Bleary eyed and confused he rubbed the sunlight streaming over his face. He recognised the feel of cotton sheets clinging to his bare body, and could vaguely make out shapes and colours dancing around the room. Images began to flash in his mind; a curve, a knee, an arm, a neck, a heel,an ankle. He had not drunk, he felt no pounding in his head. Sitting up swiftly he pulled the covers around his shoulders and strode into the kitchen.
She stood in nothing but a man's pale blue/grey shirt - his - and black breifs - also his. Brow creased beneath his tangled black mop, he studied the back of her red head. Not Irene, too tall for Molly, most definitely not Mrs Hudson. Her posture betrayed familiarity, hands on hips, drumming fingers. Hands.. Hands.. Why did he know they were soft? Soft, firm, strong..quick. A red jumper sprang to mind. The girl in the red jumper. From what she was wearing, and his lack thereof, he could only assume they had engaged in sexual intercourse. Impossible. He wrapped himself tighter in his makeshift robe, startling her with the rustling. Hair fanned as she spun to face him, a cheeky grin quickly replacing a look of shock. "About time you were up Sherley," she spoke with a Scottish accent, mild after spending much of her life in an English village. This still didn't help place her. Her knowing smile made him slightly uneasy, considering he was unsure of what was going on, "Where on Earth do you keep your pans?" "Mrs Hudson.." he asked slowly, his brow still furrowed "I told her to take the day off," she replied "And go where? She lives here!"
"For goodness' sake Sherlock, she's a grown woman, I'm sure she can find something other than mothering you to occupy her time!"
He was slightly taken aback; no-one ever spoke to him like this, save for John, and even then it was rare. "She doesn't mother me", he muttered darkly, at which the girl stifled a laugh.
Does too."By the look of things, you haven't met me yet. I know asking my name would be beneath you, The Great Sherlock Holmes", her sarcasm went unappreciated, or unnoticed, "but I'm Amelia Pond, in case you hadn't figured it out yet", she stuck a hand out, which he stared at incredulously. He wondered about the impossible; he didn't feel the after-effects of drugs, or alcohol, and he couldn't have willingly... could he? "Did we...?"
"Don't flatter yourself Sherley", her reply was sharp, embarassed.
"But-"
"My clothes were wet."
"Then why-"
"Look, I have no idea why you sleep stark naked, and no intention of finding out", she huffed, spinning back to the slamming of drawers. "Do you own anything remotely useful for cooking?" He remembered the pans were sent through a window one particularly still week. Let her look. "Where is John?" "Up ages ago. Said he'd be back with food." Whatever John was avoiding, he would pay for when he got home; how dare he leave him alone with a complete stranger. Only, she wasn't a stranger. Possibly a victim of being erased, unimportant information. Something told him she wasn't unimportant information.
A/N: Hope it was okay, not sure about this at all.