This is meant to be pure, unadulterated fun, with some semblance of a plot thrown in. Enjoy.

Chapter One: You Are Not Mrs. Hudson

Erin stared dismally at the cramped, empty room that was 221C.

This is where orphans come to die at the hands of a serial killer dressed like a clown. And it's not even the joker, because even he would kill himself in this room.

I doubt Anne Frank would hide here. In fact, she'd probably beg the germans to come take her.

I'm going to hell.

It was either the room where dreams came to suffocate slowly, or Mrs. Hudson's small flat. As much as Erin loved her grandmother there was a peculiar, geriatric odor hanging around the bed. The smell of old people was not exactly a scent she was willing to adopt.

Also, she found what may or may not have been a vibrator in one of the drawers.

"Mrs. HUDSON!"

Erin tilted her head upstairs.

"MRS. HUDSON!"

That must be Sherlock.

"MRS. HUDSON!"

Grandma told me about him. Probably should see what's going on. Maybe he killed someone and has to store the body down here.

Erin wandered into the upstairs flat. There on the couch was a tall, lanky man in a bathrobe. It was three in the afternoon, and he was still in his pyjamas. The only person Erin knew to stay in their pyjamas that long was a drunk uncle, who liked to shout profanities at the TV. Which, as it happened, was exactly what Sherlock was doing. The flat itself was littered with books, papers, and other miscellaneous items.

Oh God. They're hoarders. I'm living in a flat with homosexual hoarders. They're going to collect two more victims and conduct a human centipede experiment on us.

Please let me be the lead.

Tentatively, she knocked on the wall. "Hello?"

Sherlock's head rose slowly. His eyes widened at the sight of Erin. In a flash, he practically leapt across the room like some excitable, large dog. Erin staggered backward.

Sherlock leaned in closely, his nose merely centimeters from her face.

"You are not Mrs. Hudson."

Erin shook her head, slowly.

Sherlock squinted. "I called Mrs. Hudson."

"She's on vacation," Erin answered slowly. "My name is..."

The detective leaned in even closer, causing Erin to stop mid sentence. She could smell old tea on his breath. "What have you done with her?"

"Nothing! She's doing the whole Eat, Pray, Love thing. So, Italy. I'd imagine."

Sherlock brushed passed her. "MRS. HUDSON? MRS. HUDSON!"

Erin ran after him. "She's not here!"

Oh God I'm going to wind up dead in that room. I don't want to die in that room! It's awful!

Sherlock proceeded to barge into Mrs. Hudson's flat. He knocked over Erin's boxes, rushed into the bathroom, and came out looking very angry.

"Why is Mrs. Hudson gone?" He demanded.

"Well," Erin began, in the slowness, knowing full well this explanation could very well save her life. "She wanted to get out of London for a while..."

"It was rhetorical question," Sherlock snapped. He looked around the room, and then at Erin.

Before she could speak again he said, "You are obviously a late in life granddaughter. 24. Student. MED student. Been living in America given your lack of an accent. No boyfriend...ever. Take care of your body, though. Coffee addiction..."

"Sherlock?" A short man wandered into the flat, looking confused.

That must be John Watson, then. The normal one. Or the one who lures the orphans into 221C.

"What's going on here?"

"Mrs. Hudson has been kidnapped," Sherlock replied casually.

Erin's jaw dropped. "NO! She's on vacation!"

"You are clearly here to lure me and John into a false sense of security," Sherlock explained methodically.

"I am not!" Erin shouted. "Wait, what are you doing? Stop...STOP!"

Sherlock lifted Erin, and carried her to the door. The consulting detective practically threw her out onto the street.

"Sherlock you can't-"

The door slammed shut ending the doctor's protests. Erin stood outside, shocked. She pounded her fists on the door.

"Can I at least have my things?"

"NO!" was the resounding answer from within.

Erin kicked the door. "You're PSYCHOTIC!"

The door opened, and Sherlock peeped his head out. Firstly, "I'm a high functioning sociopath and I can't afford your stupid to infect the flat."

"That's two things."

Sherlock glared at her.

Once more, he began to slam it shut, but Erin stretched her arm out, thus catching her forearm between the doorpost and the door itself.

And that's how Sherlock got a new, amputated arm to experiment on.

Just kidding. But it did really fucking hurt, enough for Erin to scream and alarm the entire street, and cause Mycroft (who was watching the entire affair through his secret cameras and CCTV), to bow his head into his palm.

Thus, Erin began her first day as 221B's landlady.