I hated Sherlock. He was a cocky, arrogant bastard. He wasn't nice in the slightest; why Molly Hooper liked him I will never know. He pried into the private life of everyone he met, pushed away the people who cared about him, lied, cheated, insulted. But, of course, he was still utterly amazing. Enthralling. Wonderful, really, until you actually got to know him. He was a dark, twisted person inside, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Although despite that, I didn't believe the papers for a second when they dubbed him the fake genius. It was me- I was the one who planted the idea, the little nagging thought in Lestrade's head that the consulting detective had faked the cases, committed the various crimes himself. No one could be that clever, no one could be that brilliant. But Sherlock was, and I hated him for it. I hate him for it. I suppose that was why I did it. Once, I was heralded as one of the best young detectives, well, ever. Intelligent, energetic, dedicated. And then Sherlock came along; no training, no experience, not even fully employed, and suddenly I'm an idiot. Suddenly I'm boring, ordinary, worthless. Was it so wrong of me to have wanted to be noticed? To have wanted to be known as at least a good detective after all the work I put in to get where I was? I didn't think so.
It was a cold November morning when I came home to find him in my flat. I had been working on a case; it was a tough one, it had taken a lot of work to solve. I had stayed at the Yard overnight working on it and finally gotten somewhere. I thought nothing could spoil my good mood- I was wrong. I put my key in the door, turning it, only to realize that it was already open. Worse, the lock was broken. I was pretty sure I had been burgled. Nonetheless I pushed the heavy wooden door open slowly, and I heard an odd sound. A very odd sound, actually. I heard a violin. It sounded like it was coming from the living room. The melody was slow, sorrowful. I listened to it as I walked silently through the hallway. The beautiful noise stopped suddenly, and I turned to look at the musician, his dark curly hair flattened against his forehead from the rain he must have been caught in, his soaking wet coat and scarf draped across the arm of his chair. His purple shirt clung to his body, and drops of water fell periodically from his hair onto the violin, which was still positioned under his chin. We stood in silence for a long time. I stared at him, and he gazed at some point on the floor as if deep in thought. I knew one of us had to say something eventually.
"You're not dead, then."
"Obviously." He said quietly, still not looking at me.
"Why are you here?"
"I need somewhere...somewhere to stay. Before I go back to Baker Street. It could be a while, maybe a year or two..."
"Give me one good reason why I should let you stay here."
He finally lifted his gaze from the pattern on my rug, staring sadly into my dark brown eyes with his own green-blue. "I can't."
I sighed, looking at the man I had hated for years. All this sadness was most likely an act; no, it wasn't. Eyes never lie, even if their owner does. "You don't need to."