a/n This story was inspired by the Inkheart trilogy, where the main character has the power to read herself into books. For the sake of the story, I had to change the Sherlock television series into a book series. But all the characters and scenarios are the same. Hope you enjoy it and please review!

'FOR FECK SAKE!' I cry out in frustration, staring miserably at my computer screen. I had a 3,500 word assignment due the next morning and the insubordinate internet connection was allowing me to get to, hmm let's see, roughly 500 words.

To say I was in a bad mood was an understatement. I was in an extremely very not good mood. My second semester in King's College was almost at an end, and I still felt more out of place here in London than if I was stranded on an island in the middle of the Pacific with all but meerkats to keep me company.

'At least the meerkats wouldn't make fun of my accent..' I grumble to myself. I felt like a complete pleb with my Irish accent, especially around some of the lah-di-dah, my-Bentley-is-bigger-than-yours (yes I did mean that as a euphemism), Made-in-Chelsea-wannabes that pratted around campus.

'Right' I sigh, snapping my laptop shut. I was getting nowhere with the essay, and did not intend on spending the evening willing the infuriating little yellow exclamation sign over the wifi icon to disappear. I haul myself from the couch and make my way over to the kitchen, stubbing my toe on the doorstopper in the process (cue colourful profanities), to make a cup of tea. I hobble back to my bedroom, to nurse my very nearly broken toe, grabbing my book on the way. I had recently become obsessed with the new Sherlock series. The books were a modern twist on Conan Doyle's works. I settle into the pillows and soon become lost in the pages.

'Heuheuheu' I chuckle. 'Catsby, hey Catsby listen to this.' The fat Persian cat napping at my feet lazily opens one eye. 'This is funny, listen:

"You took your time.

Yeah I didn't get the shopping.

What? Why not?

Because I had a row in the shop with a chip and PIN machine.

You had a row with a machine?

Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse."

I continue to chuckle until I hear a distinct, 'Have you got cash?' coming from the kitchen. I gulp, stopping mid-chuckle. Why does it sound like I'm not the only person in my apartment?

'No, take my card.' Another, deeper voice replies.

Oh shit. There are strangers in my apartment. This is it Audrey. This is day you die. Oh crap crapping crap.

I breathe deeply, fighting back tears. It takes a moment for me to collect my thoughts and for my brain to register the situation.

'Stop being so melodramatic and girly.' I tell myself. 'If I'm going down, I'm going down fighting' I whisper, scooping Catsby up into my arms. That way, any burglar daring enough to mess with me will have to go through Catsby and his claws first. Creeping towards my door, I gently grab the handle. This is it. Go hard or go home. I take a deep breath..

'I am armed and dangerous!' I cry before wrenching the door open and charging at the intruders in my apartment.

Or should I say, not my apartment. Because the room I left twenty minutes ago was certainly not this one.

Two men turn to stare at me incredulously, one seated and one standing by the stairway.

'Sherlock,' the shorter, grey-haired man says to the other, 'Who the bloody hell is this?'

The dark haired man turns to look at him. 'I could ask you the same thing, John.'

I look from one face to the other, realisation dawning on me. I swear to god I hear a bulb lighting up above my head.

Sherlock? ..John?

'Oh you have got to be shitting me.' I utter, completely dumbfounded.

'Sorry, who are you and why are you standing in our living room?' John shakes his head in disbelief and looks down at my arms. 'With a cat?' He asks.

'My thoughts precisely.' Sherlock echoes, rising from his chair to stand in front of me.

'I..I..' I stutter, looking up into the piercing blue eyes staring into my soul. Good god he's beautiful. Dark, curly hair, cheekbones that could slice through brown bread and perfect, cupids bow lips.

He sighs, rolling his eyes. 'John, kindly escort this delusional cat lady out of the apartment.'

The little shit. Delusional? Cat lady?

'Now, hold on one bloody second.' I retort angrily. 'I was just in my room, minding my own business, reading my – Oh' I gasp, looking wide-eyed at both men.

'Oh my Jesus Christ our lord in heaven above and all the divine saints.' I whisper. 'I read myself into the book. I'm in the book!'

I look around excitedly, still clutching Catsby to my chest. '221B..I'm in 221B!' I dart past Sherlock, running over to the skull on the mantelpiece. 'The skull!' I exclaim happily.

'Yes, I'll thank you not to touch my possessions' Sherlock snatches the skull from my hands, earning a quick biff to the hand from Catsby.

I eye him grumpily. 'Yeah, you're just as snarky as the book describes you.'

John steps towards me, smiling kindly. 'Come on, let's get you back to your own apartment.' He says slowly, as if addressing a mental patient.

'This is my flat!' I shout. 'I live in number 1 Hyde Park! At least...' I falter '...I did until I discovered I had the magical ability to transport myself into fictional novels.'

'Fictonal?' John stares at me, bewildered. 'What on earth are you talking about?'

'You're not real! None of this is! You are characters in a story. A very popular one might I add.' I explain earnestly. They continue to eye me dubiously.

'Fine, don't believe me? Later on today you will find the body of one Eddie VanCoon, dead in his apartment. The police will think it is suicide, but he will be, in fact, shot through the head from outside his window. His assassin will be the one behind all the Black Lotus killings.' I raise my eyebrows in a deduce-that-motherfucker sort of way.

Sherlock brings his hands to his face, thinking. He strides past me and into the kitchen. I turn around to face John, who's watching me sceptically. 'You realise you've just made yourself a prime suspect for the killings.'

Shit. Why did I say that? Damn my vexatious need to constantly sass people.

John looks over my shoulder, frowning at something. 'Sherlock what are you-'

Suddenly a hand snakes around my neck, tilting it upwards and I feel the cold, hard jab of a needle.

'The fuck is – ' I slur, unable to keep my balance. I topple to the floor in a heap, Catsby jumping out of my arms with a strangled hiss.

I struggle to overcome my unconsciousness.

'..necessary precaution.' I hear a voice say.

'You drugged the girl, Sherlock! You know that's illegal, right?'

Woah, back up. He drugged me? I squint my eyes, lifting my arm to shield them from the brightness.

'Ahh!' I gasp as a sharp pain shoots up my left arm.

Sherlock smirks. 'I wouldn't do that if I were you.' John looks up quickly and hurries over to take a look at it.

'Oh, for the love of – Sherlock, this is too far! You took a blood sample!?'

Sherlock shrugs. 'I may need it.'

Oh hell no.

I move to sit up, John helping me. I look at my bandaged arm, and then to Sherlock, and then back at my bruised, violated arm.

Oh, I was fuming.

I stand up, stumbling and walk towards him.

'Now listen here, you psycho, what the he-' I stop abruptly, my eyes darting around the room. 'Where's Catsby?'

'By Catsby, I assume you are referring to your cat. I locked him in the coat room.' Sherlock sniffs disdainfully.

'WHAT?' I yell, running to free the angry ball of fluff. I lovingly scoop him up into my arms, smirking as he hisses and spits at Sherlock.

I sit on the opposite sofa, both of us giving him the ultimate evils.

A staring match like none other ensues.

John sighs, breaking the silence. 'Well, you were right.' He says to me. 'About VanCoon. Bullet to the head.'

Sherlock sits up. 'Yes, how did you know that?'

I shift nervously. 'Ha ha ha …. Lucky guess?'

'Hardly.' Sherlock scoffs.

I narrow my eyes at him. 'Fine. I already told you how I got here. It's up to you whether you want to believe me or not.'

He raises his eyebrows. 'You honestly expect us to believe you "read yourself" into existence?'

'Yes.' I reply, as if stating the obvious.

Sherlock rises from his seat. 'I don't have time for this. Come on John. We're going to the Lucky Cat Emporium.'

My ears prick at this. Seeing as neither myself nor the cleverest consulting detective in England can explain my current predicament, I may as well enjoy myself while I can.

'Can I come?' I ask innocently.

Sherlock stops, eyeing me suspiciously. 'Why?'

I shrug. 'Well I have nothing better to be doing.'

'Umm…No.'

John puts his arm up to stop him. 'Wait a sec Sherlock. She could be helpful. I mean, she was right about Van Coon.'

Sherlock pauses, refusing to face us.

'Fine.' He says eventually, wrapping his scarf around his neck and stalking out of the room.

John turns to me. 'What about your cat? Er...Catsby?'

'Oh he'll be fine here.' I assured him, petting Catsby on the head, who was now purring contentedly. 'He just sleeps for the day anyway. And don't worry, he's house trained.' I add encouragingly.

'O- kay..' John says warily.

We make our way down the stairs and into the taxi Sherlock's waiting in.

'After you.' John gestures inside the car, raising his arm. I sit, slightly squashed, between both of them. Not the most uncomfortable situation to be in, I think mischievously, giving myself an internal high-five.

John speaks up, breaking the awkward silence. 'I don't even know your name! How rude of me.' He apologises.

I smile. 'Audrey, Audrey Dubois. I'm from Ireland.'

'Who would have guessed?' Sherlock mutters sarcastically.

I throw him a dirty look. We sit in a growing awkward silence before my curiosity bests me.

'So..Sherlock?' I do a little taptap-tap thing on his arm.

He turns to face me with a look not far off disgust.

'I was wondering if you could..um..deduce me?'

He looks slightly taken aback, but agrees nonetheless.

'Right well first, stating the obvious, you are Irish. I'd say from the south. You've moved here to attend University in London. You're from a wealthy background, judging by your decision to study here rather than Ireland. That's quite the commitment, financially of course. Perhaps UCL or Kings College? You have dark circles around your eyes, though this is common to most students, from looking at your laptop screen for extended periods of time. Your fingernails are cut neatly, which would suggest you spend an amount of time typing essays. So I'd say you're veering towards a degree in Arts and Humanities – English? Perhaps History? You're about twenty years old and in your second year of university. You're sentimental, not used to living on your own, hence the cat. Your mother named you Audrey after the slight resemblance you share with Audrey Hepburn, though how she saw that in you as a baby, I'm not quite sure. You are a film fanatic, especially the classics, judging by your style of clothes – You're wearing an outfit almost identical to that worn by Mrs Hepburn herself in Roman Holiday.'

'Woah.' I sighed, my inner fangirl swooning. 'So you think I look like Audrey Hepburn?'

'I said your face bears a slight resemblance. Other than that you look nothing like her, you're too..' He gestures to my body '...small.'

I huff and turn away from him. Prat.

'Sherlock, you can't just break into someone's apartment.' I say, glancing around to check if anyone noticed him pulling the ladder down, but knowing full-well he'll do whatever the hell he wants.

'Yes I can.' He proceeds to climb up said ladder.

I sigh. There's no use in trying. I know how the story goes anyway. John however, is looking rightly pissed.

'I'm not the first!' We hear a muffled shout coming from the window above.

'What?' John asks.

'He said he's not the first, there's already been someone in there before him.' I explain.

Sherlock shouts down some more incomprehensible nonsense.

'What are you saying?' John looks up tiredly. There is no reply.

He sighs in exasperation. 'I'm wasting my breath.'

I nod sympathetically and pat his arm. 'How's Sarah?' I inquire.

John looks at me. 'Wha- How do you know about Sarah?'

I tap my head and give him a knowing look. John stares at me uneasily.

He sighs again and begins pacing the ground. 'Anytime you want to include me.' He shouts up to Sherlock. 'No, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no-one else can compete with ...'

Oh balls. 'N-No John, I really wouldn't say that.' I warn him.

'... my MASSIVE INTELLECT!' He finishes.

Shit. Too late.

My wind whirs into action, battling an internal debate. How am I supposed to warn them about possible danger without altering the story line? I grab both his arms and turn him to face me. 'John, whatever you do, DO NOT order Chinese with Sarah after your date tonight.'

'How do you know I have a date?'

'Doesn't matter.' I cut across him. 'Promise me?'

'Alright.. I promise.' He replies, bewildered.

Moments later Sherlock emerges from the front door, massaging his neck. I smirk.

'The, uh, milk's gone off and the washing's starting to smell. Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago.'

'Somebody?' John asks.

Sherlock nods. 'Soo Lin Yao. We have to find her.'

'But how, exactly?'

Sherlock picks up a folded envelope. On the back of it is written:
SOO LIN
Please ring me. Tell me you're OK.
Andy

He unfolds the envelope and looks at the front of it. Printed in the bottom right hand corner is: NATIONAL ANTIQUITIES MUSEUM

'Maybe we could start with this.' Sherlock points to the envelope.

He stalks off without a moments delay, gesturing vaguely with his hand for us to follow. 'Is he always like this?' I ask John. He just throws me a sympathetic look and starts after the consulting detective.

'So, tell me Audrey. If we are fictional characters that belong in a story, how does it end? Tragically, I daresay.' Sherlock inquires, leaning forward in his chair.

'Uhh...I haven't read that far.' I lie. Badly. 'So does that mean that you believe me then?'

Sherlock casts me a haughty glance. 'I never had much time for stories, fairy tales. It's just silly nonsense.'

'Every fairy tale needs a good old – fashioned villain.' I mumble absentmindedly.

'What was that?' Sherlock asks sharply.

'Uh nothing.' I reply quickly. 'Just talking to myself.'

Wow. Way to go Audrey. Now he'll think you're in co-hoots with Moriarty.

'Anyone seen Mrs Hudson? I was meant to move that dresser for her.' John asks from the doorway.

'Yes, come to think of it' Sherlock says, sitting up. 'I haven't seen her since this morning.'

John glances at the stairway worriedly. 'You don't think something's happened to her?'

I frown. I don't remember the disappearance of Mrs Hudson being a chapter in the book.

'Only one way to find out.' I say and brush past John towards the stairs.

I push Mrs Hudson's door open, only to find the flat empty. A tea cup and saucer lay broken on the floor in the middle of the room, as though she had vanished into thin air and dropped them.

'There's no sign of a forced entry.' Sherlock observes from behind me.

Vanished. Thin. Air.

Oh crumbs.

I turn to look at John and Sherlock.

'I came in to the story..' I say slowly. '..and Mrs Hudson went out.'

~Meanwhile in the real world~

'Well, at least she has good taste.' Mrs Hudson remarks as she observes the kitchen she suddenly found herself in this morning.

She checks the time. 'Six O' clock. I hope Sherlock has eaten something.' She bustles about the kitchen, locating a cup and the tea bags. 'That boy is much too skinny.' She mutters.

She sips her tea from a mug with Colin Firth's face printed on it and sits gingerly on the sofa.

'Now, how do I get out of here?'