Chapter 1

I cursed Netflix for the fifth time watching it as the little buffer bar at the bottom of the screen stagnated after loading approximately one fourth of the way through. I sometimes fantasized about renaming my Wii "little bitch" due to all the continuing frustrations the wifi was keen on perpetuating. If I could just finish my programme, then I would move on to better pursuits of my time, like filling out college applications or job applications or paying bills. You know, stuff normal people are supposed to do, not obsess over fictional characters in a fictional universe going about there fictional lives. But honestly it seemed hell of a lot more interesting then living in a shifty apartment. And who can deny the desire to indulge in such a way? But enough of my musings the little bar has graced me by disappearing from the screen, and at present I must resume watching.

I wrapped my red robe tighter around myself and sank deeper into my couch, watching as Sherlock raised a pill to his lips with a challenging look in his eye, and even though I knew what would happen next my heart still beat erratically, almost as if I was there in person watching and the event were happening right before my very eyes. I chewed on my nails absentmindedly, scraping the chipped polish off my fingertips to reveal a the nail beneath them. The show just kept me in suspense, holding up spectacularly well. There are some shows you only need to see once, or should only see once, because after that first time you know everything that's going to happen and the second time round just won't be as entertaining. Sherlock on the other hand, was a different story. Sherlock was less like a TV series and more like a movie that just happened to have really great, awesome, and entertaining sequels. It didn't matter if you watched them ten times or not because they still intrigued you as you discovered new ways to love the characters or understand the subtle nuances of certain scenes. At least I thought so hence my current state of procrastination.

"That a boy John," I said to myself as he shot the serial killer. "You're such a good friend. If I had a friend like you," I said, brandishing a spoon at the TV, "maybe life would feel a little less chaotic sometimes." I dug into a bin of ice cream, coveting the sweet taste as the substance collided with my taste buds. This was another comfort I indulged in often. I smirked as I saw John's face make that ridiculous expression of surprise, trying and failing not to giggle as he realized Mycroft's true nature. I loved the exchanges between Mycroft an Sherlock. They were the epitome of sibling rivalry.

I leaned my head against the armrest of my sofa as the credits rolled by, listening to the familiar cadence of the theme music as I did so. I glanced over at my desk, a not large but neither small stack of papers laying in wait for me. My face grimaced, and I glanced back at my coffee table where the remote sat, just begging to be pointed at the screen and used to watch yet another episode of Sherlock. I felt quite in the mood for a marathon.

"Make it so Number 1!" I shouted at the television, mashing the buttons on my remote unceremoniously. It responded by buffering once again. Slowly. Too slowly. I laid on the couch in protest, knowing the second I moved that it would fundraising and I would have to rush back in and paused it before something important happened. I stared my Wii down, glaring at the white game system quite unabashedly. Then I realized I needed the bathroom and sighed, resigning to the cruel truth of the situation: I would have to get up.

Standing up, I made my way to the bathroom groggily, groaning at the state of my hair in the mirror. It was like a huge brown bird's nest of unkemptness that made me grab a hairbrush sulkily and untangle all the knots, wincing at the occasional pain. If only life were more exciting then this. I wished I could just jump into the world of Sherlock Holmes and be lost in the logic and danger of it all. Everything here was just undeniably boring. I wanted the thrill, the adventure, the excitement. "I want to know what it's like being in the world of Sherlock Holmes," I murmured to myself, getting off the toilet and washing my hands. I heard familiar voices floating in from the other room and quickly dried off my hands, realizing the buffer must have finished. My feet stumbled over themselves as I turned about and opened the door, eager to return to my programme. And I did, just not in the way that I would have expected and or wanted.

I heard the first few words of conversation, not even registering the change of surroundings, until I walked in on them, my faithful yet ever constants companions that should only exist on the screen.

"Because I had row, in the shop, with the chip and pin machine." This was the start of the second episode, the one I had just queued up on my Netflix account.

"Y... You had a row with a machine?" This wasn't happening. This couldn't be real. There was no way I was suddenly in my favorite BBC television show! I mean, look at that sentence. It sounds crazy right?

"Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse. Have you got cash?" John, or should I say Martin Freeman, was absolutely perfect down to the detail.

"Take my card." Sherlock, or should I say Benedict Cumberbatch, gestured his head to the right slightly.

My eyebrows raised themselves high on my forehead as I tried to process the impossibility that had just presented itself before my eyes. There Benedict Cumberbatch was sitting looking all regal while reading a book (that's the part of him I loved/hated the most, his innate ability to look majestic no matter what he did), and there stood Martin Freeman, all dependable and trustworthy just like he should be. And there I was, hallucinating like I had poured acid hot fudge over my ice cream before I ate it. And it was then that they actually noticed me, Martin doing a double take and Benedict closing the novel and getting to his feet, scrutinizing my every move.

"Sherlock who is this?" John asked his flatmate.

"I haven't the faintest idea. Yet." He took a step closer, and for a moment I felt intimidated. He was a lot taller in person.

"You know, I'm just going to head back to the bathroom and never tell anyone how crazy I am. Cool? Cool." I turned heel and ran back into the bathroom, which turned out to no longer be a bathroom but a closet as I entered it and shut the door behind me quickly. I needed to wake up. I was obviously dreaming on the sofa after passing out from some sort of sugar frenzy. Everything would be fine, and in a few seconds I would wake up and be back at home in my small and crappy apartment living my dull and slow life. Just a few more seconds...

"Sorry to interrupt whatever business you have with our umbrellas, but your presence is required elsewhere." A firm arm grabbed me and pulled me out of the closet. My eyes had closed themselves when I hid in the closet and remained a such while I was dragged to a chair. I didn't resist, trying best not to scare myself. It was only a dream after all. No reason getting all worked up over it, right?

Someone snapped their fingers right in front of my face. "Come on, open up." It was Benedict, his deep voice penetration my calm and making me jump a little. "No use trying to hide in their, now open your eyes."

"Sherlock, be a little more gentle." I heard Martin's voice and briefly praised him for coming to my defense. He just sounded so damn loyal and wise. It was in such contrast to his fellow actor whose words were so jarring and harsh you almost wanted to cry at his cruelty.

"A strange girl breaks into our flat and you want me to be gentle?" I felt hands touch my face and I tried to jerk away,but they were strong. Fingers pried my eyelids open slowly. "Who are you working for?" I tried not to look at him but he shook my head. "Did Mycroft send you? Are you here to spy on me? Was it Moriarty?" I didn't answer
and began to cry instead. "Tell me!"

"Sherlock, that's enough." John walked over and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "If she is spying on us, chances are slim that she'd walk into our flat wearing sleep clothes." I felt his hands release my head and I shuddered momentarily. "Now, my name is John Watson. What's your name?"

"Helen," I said wiping away my tears. "Do you have a tissue?" My nose had become runny from my crying,and I ha begun sniffling terribly.

"Sure, Sherlock fetch me one, will you?" His friend scowled and retrieved the requested item. John handed it to me and I immediately blew hard, releasing all the pent up mucus that had stored itself in my nostrils. "Better?" He asked.

"Much better, thanks," I replied, smiling for the first time since I had arrived. Sherlock rolled his eyes and plucked the tissue out of my hand.

"I'll need to test your DNA from this sample. Thank you so much for providing me with the key to your undoing." He placed it in a plastic bag and sealed it tight, placing it above the mantle for safe keeping. "Now," he said, returning to loom over me intently. "Why did you break into our flat?"

"What he means to ask is, how did you end up here?" John looked at me encouragingly, so I cleared my throat to answer.

"I was laying on my couch at home when I got up to go to the bathroom," I began. "And when I left the bathroom, I ended up in your hallway." I sat there stupidly, not knowing what to say next.

"Where's you're ice cream?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"Beg pardon?" I responded.

"Ice cream. That is what it's called isn't it? There's a stain on your right sleeve, fresh, and it also suggests you're right handed." He moved closer. "Your hair has been recently brushed but judging from the lack of makeup or other signs of morning preparation, I guess that it was simply the sight of your own bed head that prompted your recent grooming. The traces of nail polish suggest that you used to put forth more effort into maintaining appearances, but whatever that motivator was has vanished. Either you've recently lost your job or you've had a rather nasty breakup. My money's on the latter; no need to primp for date night anymore. This is also compounded by the fact that you are not wearing a bra, suggesting a certain amount of looseness on your part. You like coffee, but only with cream and sugar. In short, you're a pushover. More then likely he initiated the breakup and was likely cheating on you at the time. Recently you've spent a good deal of time laying down in that robe. One side the fabric is slightly compressed down while the other half is covered with small gray fibers, most likely from a wool blanket. But that still doesn't answer my question. Why are you in our apartment?" His eyes bored into mine, and it seemed there was not a trace of mercy in them.

He was different then the Sherlock I thought I knew. The Sherlock Holmes I knew wasn't scary. He was smart yes. Intelligence was second nature to him. He was definitely motivated, a man of science through and through. His determination was unyielding. But this man who towered before me was not the man I recognized him to be. This wasn't my dream Sherlock, oh no. He was cold, and worst of all, manipulative. So I answered back the way my dream Sherlock would want me too.

"Well if you were wondering, yes I've been lying down on the couch a lot lately and eating load of ice cream while watching inordinate amounts of television. You got that part right, but what you didn't get right is that I've been depressed lately because my boyfriend just died in a car accident. So yeah, I haven't been motivated to put effort in myself because right now I'm too busy grieving you sick bastard. And if you want to know why I'm in your flat, maybe it's because you haven't fucking let me leave yet!" I didn't realize until just then, but I had gotten to my feet and was now standing toe to toe with him, staring right back into the depths of his unflinching gaze.

Yes this is an OC story where the OC magically falls into the universe of Sherlock. No, it won't be some fanfic where Sherlock sees her mysteriousness and goes I luuurve you let's have sex. Because I've seen that happen before. That is not going to happen in this story. At least not like that. If you want the truth, I was inspired to do this story after watching the BBC miniseries Lost in Austen, which is basically what I'll be doing but in TV form. So there. Doing a fanfic of a BBC show inspired from another BBC show inspired from a book.

If you liked this and want to see more, drop me a review. If you do drop me a review and/or save this story to your alerts and/or favorites, that will make me even happier and more likely to write the next chapter. If you feel like I'm taking to long to update this story, then feel free to friend me on facebook and bug me about it there. The link is in my profile.

And BTW, I am a huge supporter of Johnlock, just not in this story. Got it? Good. Byeeeeee!