Sherlock's Wife
The first time John saw her was like any typical overcast London day. He had just returned from another dull yet exhausting day at the clinic when he saw her lingering by the door, dark hair and coat, arms crossed, clearly irritated, eyes soaking up every detail of Baker Street. Their eyes met for less than a second, but he got the distinct impression that she despised him, despite having never met him. John shook it off and unlocked the door, closing it behind him and bolting it. If she was another of Sherlock's obsessive fan girls, then he did not want to make it easy for her to break in. Probably just another fan girl, he assured himself for a second time. Still, fan girls typically acted like they wanted to crash-tackle-hug you, not murder you in a dark secluded basement.
Sherlock almost crashed into John on the steps. "Lestrade just called. He has a case for us: 'unusual circumstances' surrounding a break in. Typical, but he claims it's interesting. We're taking a look," he rattled off quickly, seizing John's elbow and propelling him back down the stairs. John's lust for danger overruled his desire for a substantial dinner and sleep. He followed Sherlock out the door. As Sherlock hailed a cab, John glanced back to look for the creepy woman. For some reason, she was no longer there.
As it turned out, Sherlock did believe this case could turn out to be interesting. Anderson, on the other hand believed they already had already solved the crime. It seemed obvious enough that the banker's son had stolen the jewelry from the safe. Sherlock, on the other hand, firmly believed the son's story. He claimed that he had been trying to catch the thief. This, in turn, led to him being caught seemingly red-handed, though without the stolen jewelry. When Lestrade mentioned that the evidence certainly did seem to be stacked against the teenager, Sherlock merely snarled, "Once again, you see but you don't observe." John actually agreed with Sherlock in this instance. If the kid really had stolen the jewelry, then why would he not have it on him when he was caught? Still, he had no idea who could have taken it or how. Lestrade, at least, was smart enough to recognize that with Sherlock as confident as he was it would be impossible to win this argument against Sherlock and let the matter drop.
Back in the flat, Sherlock was setting up an experiment which he claimed was vital to discovering the true culprit in the latest case. For some reason, it involved dismantling the toaster. It was already past ten, so John began scavenging for something that could possibly resemble dinner. So far he had discovered that Sherlock's bug collection had somehow migrated to the cupboard and found an intact small intestine in the fridge, but could not find anything that could really be considered edible.
"John?" Sherlock called.
"Hmm?" John responded absentmindedly, replacing a jar filled with some sticky orange substance in the fridge.
"I need you to go pick up some samples from the Yard."
"Got it," John sighed. He'd given up questioning why he needed to run errands like this a long time ago.
John came back less than an hour later. Unsurprisingly, he heard violin music filtering down the steps. The surprise came when he opened the door. The creepy woman from before was in their flat. She was also occupying John's chair. Neither she nor Sherlock looked at John as he entered the room. John set the box of samples on the kitchen table and turned back curiously to look at the lady sitting in his chair. Clearly, there was a logical explanation. There had to be. She was probably a client. Less likely, she might be a third Holmes sibling.
"Sherlock?" John asked. Sherlock was too absorbed in his thoughts to notice, forcing John to try several more times before he got his attention.
"Hmm?" Sherlock responded glancing over at John who was still in the kitchen.
"I got the samples."
"Excellent," Sherlock stated. He set down his violin and dashed to the kitchen. He flicked open the box and began to remove the samples carefully. The mysterious woman followed Sherlock and wrapped her arms around his neck. She glared at John as if to say "leave".
"I'll make some dinner, then," John announced nervously. "I'll just...go ask Mrs. Hudson if we can borrow some of the...uh...missing ingredients."
Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson was still awake and completely willing to supply her tenants with everything they needed to make spaghetti except the water (which was the only part they already had). She reminded John that she was not their housekeeper, and he thanked her multiple times. He tried asking her about the strange woman Sherlock had let into her flat, but Mrs. Hudson had apparently not even noticed that they had a visitor. John thanked her once again for the food and promised to pay her back before he went back upstairs. When he arrived, Sherlock was electrifying various metals using what used to be the toaster. The woman was using Sherlock's shoulder as a pillow. She glared menacingly at John as he crossed the room to the stove. John did his best to ignore the invader.
John placed a plate of spaghetti on the table for Sherlock even though it was unlikely that he would even touch it. Sure enough, he ignored John's latest attempt to get him to eat in favor of staring vacantly across the room. The strange woman, on the other hand, took a bit more interest in the food. In fact, it was almost as though she had never seen such a thing before. She stabbed the spaghetti violently with her fork multiple times. She cackled as sauce and noodles splatted on the floor. She did not, however, eat the food. She was simply having gleeful, malicious fun with it.
"It looks a bit like spilled intestines, doesn't it," she sighed wistfully. John had to focus on not spitting out the food in his mouth. He swallowed, waited a few seconds to compose himself and began in the most polite manner he could manage, "Uh, hello. My name is John. We haven't met, but it's pretty clear you, uh, know Sherlock fairly well..."
"I know perfectly well who you are," she replied, continuing to mutilate Mrs. Hudson's pasta. John glanced at Sherlock who paused for a second attempting to deduce what John wanted him to do. After only a few seconds, he apparently realized what it was.
"Oh, yes. John, this is my wife," he clarified.
"Oh, alright...Wait, what?!"
"She's my wife," Sherlock repeated, seemingly under the impression that John had misheard him. Sherlock's wife rolled her eyes.
"Hold on," John spluttered, setting down his silverware. "Sherlock, why didn't you tell me you were married. I mean... We're friends. Friends should know this kind of thing about each other. Why haven't we met before?"
"Please, he told me about you the day after he met you," Sherlock's wife snorted. When John only looked confused, she continued mockingly, "Don't you remember? 'I consider myself married to my work.' Honestly, you're so dense. I don't know why my husband bothers to let you in on his cases."
"So...you're his...work," John said slowly.
"Finally, the idiot is actually understanding something," Sherlock's wife ridiculed him. Sherlock glared at her. "Don't call John an idiot. Only I get to call him that," he said to her. To John he explained, "She's an anthropomorphic personification of my work."
"What?"
"An anthropomorphic personification," Sherlock repeated.
"Yes, but anthropomorphic personifications don't exist," John protested.
"When you have eliminated-" Sherlock began, but John interrupted him.
"They don't exist! They are impossible," he half shouted. John could not believe that someone as logical and down to earth as Sherlock could believe in such ridiculous notions. He breathed deeply before continuing in a normal tone, "Anthropomorphic personifications are literary devices. They show up in books but not in real life. Frankly, I'm shocked that you of all people would believe nonsense like this so easily. And as for you," he added to Sherlock's wife, "whether you're another delusional fan girl or you truly believe that you are a literary device used to describe my flatmate's work, it's pretty clear you need some serious help."
Without warning, the anthropomorphic personification of Sherlock's work flung her plate of spaghetti across the room like a frisbee aimed at John's head. Fortunately, John managed to duck in time to avoid it as it smashed against the wall. Spaghetti sauce oozed down the wall. It would probably leave red colored stains. John briefly wondered which would be more difficult: explaining to Mrs. Hudson why a plate of spaghetti had been used as a projectile in her house (doing even more damage to her already abused walls) or convincing the people at the Yard that the red stain on the wall was most certainly not blood, but was actually spaghetti sauce.
"Annie! Not good!" Sherlock gasped, despite himself unsettled. He actually got up and rushed over to scoop John up off the floor. "Are you alright?" he demanded.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just wish your psychotic girlfriend wasn't throwing plates of food at my head," John muttered. Even though John thought he was trapped in a room with a murderous lunatic, Sherlock noted that he was acting surprisingly calmly.
"Oops, missed," Sherlock's wife drawled carelessly. She rose from her seat and returned to occupying John's seat by the fireplace.
"Now, Sherlock, dear," she sighed dangerously, "I'd say it was time to stop fussing over your flatmate and start giving more attention to me. He can either find something to make himself useful or get out or else I'll start using this delightful utensil on him." She waved the fork about ominously to force her point home. John heard Sherlock take a sharp breath.
"Are you okay being alone with her?" John asked Sherlock quietly. Sherlock nodded stiffly.
"Of course, I'm not a child. And she came out of my own head anyway," he reasoned. John had the feeling he would have said anything to get John out of the room at this point.
John tentatively climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He wished he had his phone to call the police, but Sherlock had confiscated it earlier that day. He sat on his bed quietly, listening attentively for any sound that could indicate that Sherlock was in danger. It was going to be a long night.