Hey Guys I'm back! I've decided to dive into a new idea that has been on my mind for a long time. My friend Emma and I co-wrote this and we really wanted to see how John and Sherlock would react to a teen girl who is just like Sherlock. (PS THIS IS NOT A SELF-INSERT FIC. THAT WOULD BE WEIRD FOR US TO LOL. BUT I JUST WANTED TO LET ALL OF YOU KNOW THAT). (PPS THIS ALSO HAS JOHNLOCK SO THERE) (PPPS IT TAKES PLACE AFTER THE REICHENBACH FALL AND AFTER SHERLOCK HAS COME BACK AND IN THIS STORY MARY DOES NOT EXIST) Ok well enjoy! *Disclaimer* We do not own Sherlock or John or anything….All rights go to the fabulous Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Sherlock and John sat in the warm cab on the way back to 221B Baker Street. The space between them was an easy gap to close, but neither of them made a move. The case they solved tonight made Sherlock quiet. John gazed out the window and watched London fly past. His mind ran around in circles about the details of the case. It was a typical string of murders that had Scotland Yard at a loss of who did it. Sherlock solved it relatively quickly, but someone informed the murderer. When Sherlock and John and Scotland Yard showed up to make the arrest, they found the murderer dead. He had hanged himself, rather than get caught. There was a note, too. 'He is coming'. It gave John the chills just to look at.
The cabbie pulled up the 221B. John opened the door and stepped out to the cold London air. Snow decorated the air and the sidewalks. Sherlock stepped out of the cab and onto the sidewalk where John was waiting. John shivered as Sherlock's intense stare settled on him. Snow collected in Sherlock's hair, making him look like an angel. John smiled. He knew Sherlock was no angel.
"What are you smiling about?" Sherlock frowned.
"Nothing." John replied.
Sherlock walked up to the door with John following him. Sherlock stuck the key in and pushed open the door. John walked in and closed the door behind him. He was taking off his coat when long arms snaked around his waist. A face nuzzled into the crook of his neck. John turned and treaded his fingers though Sherlock's hair and kissed him softly. Sherlock tightened his grip around John's waist, bringing them even closer together. John pressed his lips harder against Sherlock's when suddenly he pulled away. John went to speak, but Sherlock pressed a finger to his lips.
"We have a guest." He whispered.
John looked at Sherlock with wide eyes, and then pounded up the stairs. He heard Sherlock following him. John entered the living room and stopped. There was all their usual clutter, some sort of science experiment that was being conducted in the kitchen, but then John noticed something else. There was a teenage girl lying on the couch. Not lying, but sleeping, John thought. Sherlock loomed over her, probably deducing everything about her.
"She's 14, is 5'5'', and is a musician. She's smart too. She is an orphan and she lives on the streets, judging by the state of her clothing. Her parents died in a car crash. Her name is Willamina Thomas." And with that, Sherlock promptly poked her shoulder with his long finger.
She groaned, mumbled something unintelligible, and rolled away from Sherlock. Sherlock huffed and this time poked her in the back, hard. Willamina sleepily reached back and karate-chopped Sherlock's hand. Finally John walked over to Sherlock and grabbed his hand.
"Let me try, okay?" John patted Sherlock's hand with his and gently nudged Sherlock aside.
"Willamina, wake up." John gently shook her shoulder.
I was like a bucket of water had been thrown on the poor girl. She jumped up and promptly rolled off the couch.
"What? Who? Where?" As Willamina lay on her back on the floor, her eyes did a rapid scan of the room before resting on John and Sherlock. "Oh. Hi." She gave them a weak smile and a meager laugh. "I'd say 'surprise,' but—"She paused and glanced up at Sherlock before continuing. "I figured you would have already deduced the presence of someone in your flat." Willamina looked around the flat before added thoughtfully, "It's not a very clean flat, is it though?"
Sherlock appeared to be non-respondent for a moment before he muttered something with the words "experiments" and "thumbs" and "Billy doesn't seem to mind."
"Billy?" she inquired, her head cocked to the side as her black curls tumbled down from her loose bun onto her shoulders.
"Don't ask," replied John. "He is my competition in this relationship; I try to avoid his name at all costs." Silence hung in the atmosphere before John proposed the question Sherlock probably already knew the answer to: "So—not to be rude or blunt or anything of the sort—why are you here?"
Willamina blinked once. Then she blinked twice. It appeared she was mulling over the question and trying to comprehend what he had just asked her.
Just like Sherlock, he thought.
"Well…" she began after a minute seeing Willamina crease her forehead, furrow her brow, and bite the right corner of her bottom lip "…why I am here as in why I exist is a story that involves two lovesick teenagers who decided to have sex before marriage. Why I am here as in why I am in London has something to do with my parents saying that this is where they met and how it would be soooo romantic to go back and live there." She scrunched her nose up in disapproval as if she thought the idea of love was a nuisance to society and romance is only meant for the pages of a fantasy novel and not actuality. "Why I am here in your flat is plain and simple. It's cold; I have no home; and I didn't feel like walking that extra block to crash at some old lady's house again who believes I am her dead husband Herald. Why I am here on the floor this moment is you're doing. Why I am here having this conversation with you is because—"
"I get the point," John cut off, rubbing his temples in exhaustion.
Sherlock came up from behind him and draped one arm over John's shoulders, grinning from ear to ear. "I like her."
John groaned in annoyance at this. Then Sherlock kissed his neck and that groan quickly became something more. "Of course you like her," he murmured into Sherlock's soft curls as Sherlock began to leave a trail of kisses up and down his neck. "You and her can team up and make a night of whipping dead bodies for fun and—"
Sherlock chuckled at the thought before saying, "Wouldn't that be a night of excitement? Making you go insane all night while all you hear is the beating of dead flesh on leather? Tell me John, would the sound turn you on?"
"Sherlock!" John exclaimed in horror. "There is a child here—"
"Teenager," Willamina corrected. "I'm fourteen. Not four."
"Same thing," John answered.
"Actually it's not," Sherlock said from behind. "You are done being what is considered a child at the age of twelve."
"Oh, shut up!" John moaned.
Sherlock pretended to feel hurt. "It looks like Billy is a better boyfriend after all."
Willamina raised her hand as she added to Sherlock's comment, "I second that."
"You don't even know who Billy is!" John cried.
"Doctor Watson—"
"How do you know I am a doctor?"
"Irrelevant. Anyhow, I was saying it is quite clear who Billy is considering your consulting detective of a boyfriend is ogling the skull on the mantle. For any mundane life, this accusation would be out of the question. However, since you seem to be drawn to violent deaths and war and Mr. Holmes and how Mr. Holmes takes pleasure in seeing serial killers dance and murderers desperate to be caught, Doctor, I would say this accusation is not as far-fetched as it would seem to be to the average imbecile."
"Impeccable. Sherlock, I found your twin," he said over his shoulder to Sherlock. Now facing Willamina, he said, "Now if only you had blue eyes instead of hazel…"
"And if I were a male," she added thoughtfully.
"Fair point."
A minute of silence passed before John realized Willamina was still stretched out on the floor, now propped up on her elbows.
"Aren't you uncomfortable sleeping on the floor?" he asked, worry written on his face.
"Look, Doctor Watson, if this a polite way of kicking me out, I'd appreciate if you would not go and circles and just tell me—"
"You are not as cerebral as I assumed you were," Sherlock interrupted. "You can read our life story, but not our meanings behind our words."
"I'm sorry?"
"Spare bedroom. Upstairs. Left side of the hallway across from the bathroom. Goodnight."
And with that, Sherlock left and headed to his room.
Willamina stared after him, jaw slightly open in shock and awe.
"He does that. My boyfriend." John smiled at the sound of my boyfriend on his tongue. He picked up a spare blanket from the sofa before walking towards the staircase.
Willamina sat—still stunned—on the couch.
"Are you coming?"
She nodded her head slowly before getting up from her seat and followed John up the stairs to her temporary home.