London.

It always seemed so foreign when I was growing up. A place my grandmother spoke of with a deep longing that made it seem magical. But when my grandfather died, she moved back to the city she loved so much, and our contact was limited. The magic of London was lost and replaced by the jaded mind-set that it was just a city. Living in New York, the thrill of large metropolitans turned into minor aggravation.

Needless to say, I wasn't expecting much as I waved a taxi and gave the driver the address my mother was having me meet her. I hoped that she was just going to give me the rundown of the next few days and let me find a hotel to stay at. I was exhausted and in no mood to make small talk.

I swiped open my phone to take it off airplane mode and text my mother that I had made it past customs and was on my way. While I was midway through thumbing the letters, it vibrated and the notification popped at the top of the screen to indicate I had a new text. I ignored it and continued typing. Then it did it again and again. This was no need for alarm as I had just turned my phone back on from a lengthy flight. Finishing my note to my mother, I swiped open my inbox to see that all three messages were from the same person - an unknown number. Now this was slightly off, but again, nothing to freak out over.

I opened the first up, prepared to politely tell someone they had the wrong number, but the words startled me.

"Come at once. Your mother is hysterical. SH"

"It is boring. SH"

"Are you tip toeing through customs? SH"

I pushed a heavy breath out of my nose and shifted in the seat, coming to the conclusion that it had to be one of my distant British relatives that I would be expected to make small talk with. The taxi found its way to an older part of the city with tall, Victorian houses and faded street signs. I had of course heard about the dreary weather of London, but being in it was a whole other story. It looked like a picture one of my college friend's would paint.

The house the driver pulled up to one of the larger houses on the street that looked like it had once been painted a brilliant blue that had since faded into a dull grayish color. Katherine, my mother was already out the door with an umbrella and running through the overgrown yard to meet me before I could count out the correct money to give to the driver (though in typical American fashion, it did take me an extra moment to be sure I had the correct amount in British currency).

"Anya, how was your flight?" she asked, pulling me into a tight hug that was hard to return with one of my arms pinned to my side and the other carrying my suitcase.

"As well as to be expected," I answered, pulling back to look her over. There were dark circles around her eyes and her wrinkles looked deeper. Her hair was matted and in need of a brushing. She looked absolutely exhausted. I got the call at five this morning to take the first plane out of Newark but she had been summoned long before. "Is David coming?"

"I doubt it. I told him I would pay for his ticket but he said that he had exams this week," she answered, tugging my arm. My knock off canvas sneakers didn't keep out the water that coated the jungle made of grass. It was October and there were no exams; my brother was lying. I didn't blame him. I didn't really want to be here either - as cruel as that sounds.

"So how is she?" I asked a bit quieter.

Katherine's greeting smiled morphed into a frown. "Not out here. Come in and say hello to everyone and then we'll talk."

I wanted to protest and tell her that I just wanted to say hello to my dyeing grandparent and then find a hotel to take a nap in, but that was not appropriate. So I put on the best smile I could offer and followed her through the door frame, trying to stay as much under the umbrella as I could.

The greeting was overwhelming. Second cousins, third cousins, great aunts and uncles, all with accents and the bright green eyes and brilliant red hair of my mother's side, introducing themselves and saying that they were so happy to meet me. It reminded me how much I disliked pleasantries. I had to hide my discomfort of physical contact. Not to mention I felt more than a little out of place. My mother had the American accent, but she was a mirror image of my grandmother (and everyone else in the room). I had taken from my father's side of the family: chestnut brown hair, plain brown eyes, skin that could neither achieve the creamy paleness of my mother's nor the tanned tone of my brother's, scrawny, short, quiet… basically the polar opposite of every other person in the room.

Someone had taken my suitcase and coat. Someone else offered me tea. Alyssa I think her name was? Either way, I declined and caught my mother's eye. "May I please go see her? I've come all this way."

She tried to smile but it looked like a nervous grimace and gently guided me through the crowd to the set of wooden stairs that looked far too old to be walking on. I could understand her nervousness. When my grandmother had first moved, I had been intrigued by the thought of writing letters back and forth. But that became tedious as a teenager. Still, when she came to visit two years ago, my brother and I came home from school to spend time with her. Things had not gone well, to put it mildly. David had a boyfriend and I was going through a fun phase where I enjoyed dying my hair bright colors - I think it was blue that day. In the nicest term, my grandmother is "old-fashioned". That's the word Katherine would use. My choice of language in regards to her was not so kind.

Still, she was dying and my mother's mother. And, for some crazy reason not yes explained to me, my coming to London to speak to her was imperative.

As we approached the room, the sound of heavy object being tossed about became obvious. I would've heard it downstairs if it had not been for my large family all gathered into one small space. I raised my eyebrows at my mother hoping for some type of explanation but she kept her eyes focused in front of her, walking quickly to avoid everyone's gaze. The stairs only led to a maze of hallways and left me wondering what in god's name the architect was thinking.

"I know you're wondering why I told you to get here as soon as possible," Katherine said in a hushed voice.

"My grandmother is on her deathbed?" I answered. She gave me a sour look so I quickly justified it. "That's a reasonable assumption. Lots of people travel to see sick relatives."

"But I told you that you needed to get here on the next flight," she pointed out.

"I figured she's really sick," I suggested, examining the cabbage rose wallpaper.

"You're lying Anya," she said bluntly.

I smiled at her cheekily. "Alright. I try not to think too deeply about my inner conspiracies but you've convinced me otherwise. Why did you need me so quickly?" We walked past the door where the slamming was loudest. Apparently it wasn't worth talking about.

"Your grandmother says she's been murdered. She said that the 'machine' killed her," her voice was much too calm. She had rehearsed this conversation many times on my way here.

"I was under the impression that she was sick," I quipped, slightly aggravated that I had been called on an emergency international trip to explain that a robot hasn't killed my grandmother… who isn't even dead yet.

"She is, but when you talk to her, it seems so much more than the cancer," my mother continued, halting in front of what I had assumed was my grandmother's bedroom. The banging from the other room stopped.

"Pneumonia?" I offered.

"Good guess but no," a deep voice said from behind us. Katherine jumped while I spun around, my wet sneakers causing a squeaking sound on the floor. Standing but five feet away was tall man with paler skin than my mother's. His facial features were pointed and his hair was in curly, dark brown locks. Piercing eyes, a color between green a blue, stood out in the dingy room.

"Mr. Holmes, you startled me," my mother said, bringing a hand to her throat. He wasn't a family member nor a doctor, judging by her use of "mister".

"My apologies," Mr. Holmes replied.

Then her hand was on my back, pushing me away from the door towards the lanky man. "This is Anya. Anya, this is Sherlock Holmes."

That startled me.

"You gave him my number?" I demanded to Katherine, remembering the mystery texts I received had been signed "SH" and making the connection. It wasn't a cause to freak out earlier, but Katherine and I have had this issue before. When I broke up with Finn two years ago, she gave my number to every single man she met until I told her that she had to stop and I wasn't interested. I had left out what he had done to create the disinterest, not wanting to go into the nitty gritty of my past relationship with my mother.

"I did no such thing. What are you talking about?" she asked, holding her hands up in defense.

I opened my mouth to snap but the door behind me creaked open. "I gave him your number."

Whipping around, I found my grandmother in a pink nightgown, much too large for her, leaning against the doorframe, her cunning, green eyes boring into me.

"Mom, you're awake," Katherine was by her side in an instant but was quickly shooed away.

"I can stand on my own!" the old woman barked. "I need to talk to both of you, now that you're here."

"It's about time as well. It's tremendously boring," Sherlock groaned, casting me a sideways glance. "You were supposed to be here an hour and a half ago."

I felt trapped. I was now in between a senile old woman and a stranger who had randomly text me.

"Well are you coming?" she demanded, spinning back into her room with the door open. "Katherine, fetch us some tea."

My mom gave me an apologetic smile. "She'll do the explaining. I'll go make tea."

I had to physically fight my urge to say that there was no way I would be in any room of this house without her and twisted my lips into what I hoped would be a smile. She squeezed my hand and returned to the labyrinth of hallways while Sherlock walked past me and into the doorway. He glanced back at me and looked me over before fully entering the room.

I blew a stray hair that had fallen in front of my face away with frustration and walked into the room. It smelled of urine and mothballs – a dreadful combination that accompanied the dying. The wallpaper was a nauseating bright pink and clashed against the floral, mint green, stuffy furniture and matching bedspread.

"Shut the door Anna," my grandmother said, plopping herself down in one of the loveseats. Sherlock was intrigued by something on her mantel.

"Anya," I corrected, closing the door quietly behind me, leaning against it in case I felt the need to make a swift exit.

She ignored me and continued. "It has come to my attention that you work with machines professionally." I blinked slowly, starting to piece together that to her "machine" and "computer" were interchangeable.

"I'm a software developer," I offered pointedly. It was what I called myself when people asked, but the known term for my profession is "hacker".

"It doesn't matter," she continued. "Will you sit? You too Sherlock." She gestured to the loveseat across from her. The tall man turned on his heel and caught my eye, tilting his head at a slightly awkward angle as if he was gauging my reaction. I timidly approached the loveseat and scrunched up to one end as much as a could while he comfortably sat next to me.

Satisfied, my grandmother continued, "Whatever you call it, your mother has informed me that you're quiet good. So I asked you to come here and assist Sherlock."

I gazed over him. "I think Katherine exaggerated."

"You brought down a Wall Street criminal single single-handedly and relocated his funds to a charity in New York two weeks ago while completely staying under government raider," I felt the blood drain from my face at Sherlock's words. I didn't do that. Well, Anya Kazakov didn't. "Rellik" did that. "Don't worry; I'm not going to tattle," he continued, his mouth turning up into a closed smile before instantly dropping and his gaze returning to my grandmother. "Mrs. Hammond asked that you assist me."

"And he was against the idea until you pulled off that stunt. But you caught his interest enough for him to keep an eye on you before then," my grandmother added, her uncomfortably proud.

I was extremely uncomfortable by this point and had to put more distance between myself and my apparent stalker, so I hopped off the couch and began to pace to make it seem less awkward. "What do you mean 'keeping an eye' on me? What is going on?"

"Anna," my grandmother began.

"Anya," I corrected again.

"Don't interrupt. Anna, I've been murdered. I don't know how, but the machine is trying to murder me. Your dreadful second cousin Peter brought it for me to look at pictures on the face book. I threw the blasted thing away when it started haunting me, but I fear the damage has already been done," her tone suggested she thought the explanation made perfect sense.

I stopped my pacing and tried my best not to give her an idiotic expression. "What?"

"You're a smart girl and I know you heard me," she quipped.

A soft knocking rapped on the door. "Tea mother," Katherine's voice called.

I hurried over to open it for her, grateful for her presence.

"You have the worst timing Katherine!" my grandmother scolded. "Give the tray to Anna and go."

"Anya!" I said much louder than I had previously. "My name is Anya."

"Your mother's family resents your father. Your surname is Russian, implying your father picked out your first name, the Russian version of Anna. A painful divorce ensued between your parents, and you and your brother wanted to stay in America with him while your mother wanted to return to be with her family in England. They wanted her back as well, but she couldn't bring herself to be away from her children, so the resentment grew to the point they've been calling you Anna for years. My guess is that they address things to you and your brother with the last named Hammond."

Katherine looked like she was going to burst into tears. I glared at my grandmother, assuming she had given him this information. "Here Anya," Katherine mumbled, shoving the tray into my arms and disappearing quickly to hide her hurt. I may not look like her, but I understood the need to be alone when you were in pain – that was something she passed down to me.

I turned back around to see Sherlock and my grandmother watching me expectantly, realizing they were waiting for their tea. Walking awkwardly, I made to the coffee table, all silent except for the wood creaking under my steps. I set the tray down on the table and glanced to both of them. My stereotype of English people flashed through my mind as I assumed they held tea in some kind of high ritual. I blinked, deciding that I didn't like either of these people anyway and poured the tea in the clumsy, American way I saw fit, slightly filling with pride at the fact as if I was doing my country a great service. America, fuck yeah.

Leaving their cups on the tray, I took my own and sat back on my side of the loveseat, once again trying to shrink into a small size. "Why do you think the computer murdered you?" I asked in a grumbling tone, really annoyed that I had traveled all the way for this.

"It told me," she answered simply.

"It told you," I repeated.

"That's what I said!" she snapped.

"When? What were you doing on it?" I asked.

"I was trying to make one of the email accounts with the directions Peter gave me and the bloody thing went all black. A clock was on the screen," she answered, reaching forward to grab her tea.

This was not the answer I was expecting. "A… clock?"

"A timer," she said, taking another sip. "A countdown till it murdered me."

I blinked, trying to make mental notes. "What did you do after that?"

"I called Peter. He said to turn it off and back on again, idiot boy. The blood is on his hands too! It did the same thing only this time it had words under the time," she coughed a little before continuing, "It read 'now wither away.'"

"Where's the computer now?" I asked, shifting in my seat and leaning forward. Placing the tea back on the coffee table, I looked very closely at my grandmother.

"I told you, I threw it away," she hissed before going into another coughing fit.

"Like, in the regular trash can?" I asked, my expression twisting at the thought.

"That's where trash goes," she answered coolly.

"When?" I stood up as I spoke hurriedly.

"It's no longer here," Sherlock answered for her. "We're going to have to go to the dump to find it." He stood up in an odd manner, kipping to his feet rather than just standing and acting like this was a completely normal notion.

I frowned. "Well, I actually need to find a hotel," I said, quite ready for this conversation to be over.

Sherlock seemed slightly disappointed by this notion. "Meet me at my flat at 8am tomorrow. I should have the computer by then and we shall investigate."

I blanched, not even bothering to question how he would find the computer. "Eight in the morning!" I know I sounded like a whiny child but I wanted to sleep for a long time tonight. "I have jet lag."

He looked unimpressed. "I'll text you the details." He nodded his head to my grandmother. "Until next time Mrs. Hammond."

He left swiftly, his feet barely making sound in the old hallways, and I realized, now that he was gone, I slightly missed his presence. He was definitely one of the strangest people I've ever met, but I kind of liked that about him. And I found myself looking forward to seeing the seemingly magic man again.

Hi everyone, Annie here. My first attempt at a Sherlock story so I hope the first chapter was interesting enough to get people invested. Let me know with a review!

There will be an eventual Sherlock/oc romance - but it will happen later in the story. Hoping this take off enough to have sequels.