Disclaimer- I DON'T OWN SHERLOCK AND HIS CHARACTERS. The only thing I own is the plotline and Amy.
BBC1 TV show 'Sherlock' Fan Fiction.
Please, if you have no idea about this programme, or have never watched it- Do. Seriously. If you're British, or if you're not British, then look it up somewhere online as it's not on iPlayer anymore.
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ONE.
Pit-Pat, Pit-Pat, Pit-Pat.
The sound of rain bounced off the standard, black London taxi, and a rather bored Sherlock Holmes sat expressionless, looking out of the window.
His black hair was matted to his head, damp from the short walk to the taxi; his piercing blue eyes bore through the window at the miserable atmosphere outside- miserable people, miserable weather, miserable everything; his damp, black coat and blue scarf chaffed his skin as he fidgeted restlessly.
His phone beeped- a message. He clicked 'open' and read.
Sherlock- out of milk. Pick some up on the way home.
JW
Sherlock sighed. John Watson, his flatmate, was giving his lame attempt of revenge. Sherlock, however, wasn't stupid enough to get in a row with a chip-and-pin machine. He leaned forward in his seat. "Stop here," he told the driver just as they approached a corner shop. "Wait while I buy milk."
He opened the door quickly, rushing through the shop doors, passing a few irrelevant people.
The milk was at the back of the store, near most of the dairy products, like most shops. He picked up a two-litre carton of Full Cream milk and headed towards the counter at the entrance of the shop. Sherlock's eyes flickered to the cigarettes behind the cashier's head. "No," he told himself mentally. "Remember: you quit. Nicotine patches are your addiction now. Less harmful."
'Just the milk, thanks.' Sherlock mumbled, setting a shiny two pound coin on the countertop. After receiving his eighty-nine pence change, he walked briskly out of the shop and into someone.
Sherlock looked down. A small brunette girl, about his age, with astonishingly strange eyes and an average beauty of a face was looking up tearfully and fearfully at him.
'S-sorry!' the woman stammered.
From what Sherlock could tell on first real glance was: Hair's a mess, face is covered in muck, clothes considerably dirty- the girl hasn't been home in days.
Slight bruises on her left cheek, lower right side forehead, both wrists- maybe she's clumsy, maybe she's abused; probably the latter.
Skinny, hasn't eaten for days; on top of that she's bulimic given the state of her left hand and first two digits, not counting the thumb.
A small rucksack on her back suggests that she's run away from home given the previous information.
'No, it was my fault entirely. Sorry.' Sherlock responded.
The woman went to leave, but he caught her arm. 'Where are you going?'
'I- I...' she stuttered, not sure how to answer. His voice echoed in her head.
'You haven't slept well in three days. You're hungry.'
'H-how...?'
'The Science of Deduction.'
The girl nodded, not as if she understood what he was saying, but just as if she was acknowledging it.
Sherlock, seeing this, sighed and decided to tell her at a later time, as the rain was pelting down, soaking them both.
'Excuse me, but we're getting wet, would you mind climbing into the cab. I'll take you home to my flat, get you something to eat, make sure you don't throw it up again- it's an unhealthy obsession. You can sleep there and then I'll show you the door in the morning.'
The female stood dumbstruck. She didn't know if she could trust him, but if she was abducted, it would be better than sleeping under tunnels, beside rivers... She nodded meekly, clambering into the taxi cab quietly.
They sat quietly. Sherlock staring out of the window again, his left hand looped through his plastic shopping bag, the girl resting her forehead on the seat in front. Finally, the silence got too much for him, 'Name.' he stated rather than asked.
'S-sorry, what?' the girl asked quietly, lifting her head from the seat.
'Name. What's your name?'
'Amy. Amy Renolds,'
'Sherlock Holmes,'
'It's nice to meet you.'
Sherlock nodded in response.
They sat in silence for a few more moments.
'So who I he?' he asked finally, gesturing to the bruises. Amy looked at him, confused, her deep blue-green eyes shining dully- as if they had the potential to shine like the ocean, but, after possibly years of abuse, were dulled down to mere echoes of their former. 'The person who caused them,' he pointed at the bruises again.
'He- He is- was my boyfriend. I was too stupid, kept doing the wrong things. They've actually healed up pretty well now. They've had a break from- from...' she'd had it. Broke down in tears. She didn't even care that it was in front of someone she didn't know.
Sherlock reached over and put his hand on Amy's shoulder, his own effort at comforting.
She mistook this and leaned into his touch, resting her head on his shoulder. Sherlock sat awkwardly and uncomfortably as Amy continued to sob on his shoulder. She had just stopped when they arrived at 221b Baker Street.
Sherlock opened the door for them and they both stepped inside, dripping all over the floor.
Mrs Hudson, the kind landlady fussed and hurried them up the stairs to Sherlock's flat.
'John's up there,' she said, 'Sarah's with him,'
'Oh, God.' Sherlock cursed.
Mrs Hudson handed Amy a towel, and she dried her hair slowly. It was already becoming less damp, settling into unruly curls that sat at askew angles.
The door opened just as Sherlock reached for the handle. A tall brown haired girl stood uttering goodbye to a man of average height before brushing past the two people at the threshold.
'Hey, Sherlock,' the man greeted.
'John,' Sherlock greeted back.
Amy stood in the hall as her host walked through the entrance of his home. She stood, looking at the floor of the inside of the flat.
Sherlock watched her curiously. 'Aren't you coming in?'
'Crux nusquam tecto tuo limine,' Amy uttered quietly.
'That sounded like Latin. Translate,' Sherlock stated.
'Never let the homeless cross your threshold. My father used to say that. Said my mother was a homeless squatter. She refused to leave his home. That's how they met.' Realising she'd said too much Amy looked away, embarrassed.
They all stood awkwardly until John insisted she move into the warmth of their flat.
'Come in, come in. You can have a shower first, you look like you could use the heat. Wait here while I get you some towels,'
'John, she'll need something to sleep in,'
'I'll get you some pyjamas.'
Amy nodded, thankful, in response. John returned shortly after with some old clothes, including baggy tracksuit bottoms, a loose hanging t-shirt, a pair of boxers, and a navy blue thing that looked like a blanket. He showed her to the bathroom and turned the shower on for her, quickly leaving immediately. She locked the door behind him, shedding her clothes and stepping into the warm haven of the shower.
Sherlock was in the living room, typing away on his laptop when John stopped dead in front of him. Without looking up from the screen, Sherlock asked 'What?'
'You brought home a complete stranger. Why?'
'She had nowhere else to go. She'd have died within a few more days without food and proper sleep,'
'You seem to survive well enough without it,' John retorted.
'But I do eat. Only when my body needs to, and in case you haven't noticed, I've been sleeping a lot since we've hit this dry spell of work,' Sherlock muttered.
'I swear. Sometimes you're so nocturnal and strange it feels like I'm sharing a flat with a vampire.' John said under his breath, and walked off.
The water stopped, and ten minutes after Amy submerged from the bathroom. She bumped into John on the way to the living room.
'I hope you don't mind, but I used the green shower gel and the shampoo in the blue and black bottle. I didn't really have time to pack the necessities such as soap and whatnot,' she murmured to him.
'Not at all. Just, don't tell Sherlock you used his things, even though he'll probably find out anyway.' John replied, smiling carefully.
Amy walked in, stepping around the books and pages on the floor. She looked at the fireplace mantel. There sat books, pages with scribbles of sentences, a candle or two, and even a skull. 'Alas poor Yorick.' she whispered.
Sitting down on a chair opposite the sofa Sherlock was currently occupying, she proceeded to watch him. Her gaze was somewhat off putting for him. He looked up at her, noticing her wearing his navy blue dressing gown and furrowing his brows in a frown.
'That's mine,' he stated.
'Oh, sorry, I'll put it bac-'
'Keep it on. I was just telling you. My shampoo seems to make your hair less coarse,' he observed, his deep voice reverberating through the room, sending shivers down Amy's spine.
'Um, thank you?'
Sherlock nodded and returned to his work. Amy curled up in a ball and started to drift into sleep when his voice woke her up again.
'You can sleep in my room,'
'But, where will you sleep?'
'Where I normally sleep. On this sofa. That door there,' he told her, pointing to the door of his bedroom.
'Th-thank you.' Amy stuttered uncertainly in gratitude.
She slept well that night.
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