221B Baker street.
Just as her aunt had directed, Julia Ruth Fuller had climbed into a cab at the London Heathrow and driven to the nearest station, where she had walked from there on upon exhausted feet. Jet lag had been a pain in the arse as soon as she had stepped foot off her plane, but no matter. Determined to find the infamous little apartment, she followed the map she had purchased from the giftshop, nose deep inside it's pages, her auburn hair a flurry as it flew in stray strands from her messy braid. She passed by different boutiques, taking her time and pausing to eye up the latest fashion within the window. If she weren't such a bashful tourist and actually had the money, perhaps she would duck in and treat herself, but seeing as the plane tickets had sucked her savings dry... Julia wasn't in the best financial situation, and thus wasn't in a place to go spending willy-nilly.
The young woman paused for a moment, eyeing up her shambled appearance: she was a plain girl with a decently slim frame, her neck long and elegant and her eyes a shade of pacific blue. Her long trench coat was a shade of pale greyish khaki and dressed formally in a mauve blazer, a soft off-white blouse and a pair of grey slim-fit cut-offs. Not really winning any beauty pageants, but it would work for now. These were her best clothes, too. After her mother had refused to come with her, she had been stuck visiting her aunt with no way of flying back to her home in Glasgow. She was unemployed back home and had been searching for a job at the time when her aunt Martha mentioned in her letter that she hadn't been feeling to well lately. She had always been close with her aunt, unlike her mother and father.
They had wanted nothing to do with her after her little drug scandal back when she had only been a wee little thing. Julia adored her, and seeing that her mother wouldn't even come see her in her time of need, it had infuriated her. She had ignored all of her protesting, the night she had announced her little trip ending in Julia storming from the house. The young woman hadn't set foot upon the property since and had packed her things that night, leaving early. Julia had even gone to great lengths in order to block her mother's number from her phone for the time being, which she was eternally grateful to Max - her best friend since diapers - for allowing her to borrow her old Blackberry until she had returned. It was nice to be able to forget about things and just enjoy her time here.
As Julia took a moment to collect herself, trying to ignore how the lump in her throat grew, she hovered upon the street corner and pushed her glasses up further onto the bridge of her nose. She then continued to study the map with great scrutiny in her turquoise pools, until she was abruptly jarred to a stop while crossing the street by a taxi cab. She wheeled around as it bumped her behind, slamming her hand against the window and making eye contact with the driver. They both gave each other accusatory glares and then went on their way, although the rosette continued to fume for a few more blocks. Finally, she found the adjoining avenue and turned the corner, stepping straight onto the sidewalk that ran along Baker street. Leafing through the many papers within her hands, she glanced up at the apartment buildings.
Julia admired the terraces and smiled softly, wondering if her aunt had been kind enough to the neighborhood to bless her own with her various flowers and creeping ivies. Her pace slowed as she carefully examined the doors, trying to find the one in question. Martha had mentioned it would be near a sandwich shop with a red sign reading Speedy's. Her legs were exhausted by time she had made it. Stepping up to the dark-painted door, she noticed that the knocker was crooked and frowned. Julia straightened it out carefully before reaching for the door, hoping it would be left unlocked just as Martha had said it would be. She sighed heavily as she found that it was closed up tight. Perhaps they were out for the afternoon... no matter! She reached into her purse, rifling around before finally coming upon the extra key that her aunt had had made for herself, but had never gotten around to using.
It had been sent to her by Sherlock Holmes, or whoever that was. The two had exchanged letters back forth after her aunt had become too weak to write. Her heart warmed at the thought of someone being so lovely as to assist an elderly woman when it came to these types of favors, even if it was something as tedious as writing back to her own niece. He must have gone out of his way in order to do so, seeing as he explained that he was such a busy man. A very busy man. Mister Holmes had been sure to express that- he had done so rather grossly in fact. Oddly enough though, she wondered how a man so engrossed in his work could take the time out of his day to answer simple letters regarding casual discussion, rather than the subject of her own aunt's health. In a way... his mail had been a little ray of sunshine during her recent days.
What with her own family disputes, her losing her job, as well as the loss of her own apartment; it had all piled up, and yet Sherlock's letters had never ceased to brighten up even her dreariest evenings. The door to 221B open up after a momentary struggle with the lock, and the first thing that hit her was the damp and musty smell of the stairway. It wasn't unpleasant in any way, no- it in fact smelt homey. It was something she could get used to. Julia scuttled in and shut the door behind her, turning and looking up the stairway with her crimson lashes fluttering in the dim light. Ascending the staircase, she came to the first landing and followed the sharp bend upward, the old timber-wood creaking and cracking and complaining aloud. Julia could tell that they were old and it would be impossible to go out and come home during the evening without making a racket.
The young woman eventually came to the final stop, reaching the flat without much more trouble. The floorboards shifted beneath her weight, however, as she edged herself to the entrance into the living room and leaned inward. "Hello?" she called, but nobody answered. "Aunt Martha? I'm here..." Her attempts to find someone awake and present were squandered and she sighed softly, sauntering inside. Milky grey light shown in through two large windows, the drapes tied back in order to allow as much of it in as possible. Her attention was drawn to the obnoxious neon yellow spray paint along the wall, a violin set neatly upon the large table parallel to the couch below. Her eyes found themselves following through to a small desk with scattered papers, and finally, a dainty music stand amidst the chaos of the room.
There were a few pieces of sheets of notes covered in scrawled ink. Curious, she plodded over, setting down her bags within the nearest armchair, placing her keys within the pocket of her coat. They physically caused the item of clothing to grow heavier, it seemed, and thus she removed her coat from her shoulders, immediately growing more comfortable. Julia then examined the sheet music and smiled softly to herself. Sherlock was a fan of music, and as she allowed her marine set to scan her surroundings, she took note of a fascination with books and literature. She took a deep gulp of the apartment's unique and pleasant aroma, and smiled softly to herself.
That's when her eyes fell upon the skull upon the bookshelf. She froze from where she stood in the window pane and averted her eyes, swallowing uneasily. She could feel her stomach flip. It had to be fake. Brushing a strand or two of hair from her eyes, Julia returned her attention to the morbid looking item and chewed upon her bottom lip, tearing pieces of dead skin from its surface. What on earth would this man want to do with a skull? Was it some sort of decorative item? Initially Julia wanted to read the music and try and make sense of the song, but her curiosity soon got the better of her. The rosette made her way over to the shelving unit and picked the skull up with rather distrustful hands, as if the marrow would dance to life like in a horror movie.
"This is London," she thought aloud, reminding herself of any possibility, no matter how absurd. "Nothing is ever dull here." The skull was cool to the touch and smelled almost musty to her, as if it had been sitting around for quite some time. It had not been gathering dust though, so as it would seem. Julia set it back up on the shelf and stepped quietly over to the window to hover once more, looking out over the people passing through the street and the taxi just pulling away from dropping somebody off. The sound of the door opening downstairs was obvious to her ears, as well as the gentle approach of two masculine voices. One was softer and more higher in pitch, the other deep and faint beneath the floorboards. The stairs creaked and she swallowed gently, preparing to meet her aunt's renters.
Perhaps it would have made more sense, she wondered as she glanced out the window, if she had taken her things up to her aunt's place for the night instead of intruding on their private home. The first to step through the door was a short man with greying hair and the faint beginnings of crows feet upon either sides of his eyes. He had a grim sort of look on his face at first, a bit confused by her appearance, his mouth opening to speak. "Mister Holmes?" Julia inquired, smiling gently. "Pardon my intrusion, I was just stopping by to see if my aunt was up and around. You mentioned in your letters that she..."
The next gentleman to enter was taller in comparison, probably about six-foot in height, maybe a bit more. His head adorned a thick cap of dark chocolate-brown curls, his skin pale yet youthful in comparison to his companion and his eyes were a biting, clear shade of arctic. She felt as if she had been dipped in ice-water the moment he looked at her, and admittedly they took her breath away. "... that she refused to rest." After finally finishing her sentence, she swallowed gently. Julia couldn't break her eye contact with the man in question.
"John Watson, actually... hello," the older man corrected, clearing his throat, shooting Sherlock a glance. This gave the rosette a chance to look away from that whip-sharp gaze. A pleasant smile laced Watson's lips as he stepped forward, picking up her bags in order to move them elsewhere. "... it's quite alright. We, uh, weren't expecting visitors, that's all."
"Not at all," affirmed Sherlock, one of his dark brows twitching upwards in a bitter sort of motion. A pang of anxiety rushed through her and she felt her ears burn in shame, looking at the carpet. His shoes were polished and scuffless. Julia could feel his fixed stare chewing into her, scrutinizing her. Perhaps she had been a bit too quick to romanticize this man.
"Can we offer you some tea, erm-" the more positive man suggested, but then faltered.
Oh yes, how rude of her! She hadn't even introduced herself. "Julia. Julia Fuller, thank you," she finished for him, nodding and offering a flash of her pearly whites. "I'd love a cup, if it wouldn't trouble you."
"Nonsense!" Watson scoffed. "Your aunt is usually the one offering us tea, especially whenever we have guests... but with her finally getting the rest she needs, I suppose it's only right if we're the hospitable ones."
Julia simpered as the older man chuckled and tucked some hair behind her ear, now ignoring the glowering man near the doorway. "Why don't you have a seat? You must be exhausted," John continued as he disappeared off into the next room, which she assumed was the kitchen. She had to admit, he was quite right to offer her rest. Not wanting to start off on the wrong foot, the young woman strolled over to the nearest place to sit, taking note that Sherlock himself had moved finally from his gargoyle-like stillness.
However, before she could take a seat, she was stopped by his rumbling voice. "That is my seat," he pointed out bluntly. Swallowing dryly, she nodded and made for the next, only to clear her throat and move away. Perhaps it would be best to sit upon the couch then, hm? Julia came to rest there, holding back a groan of fatigue.
Water hissed, followed by the sound of a gas stove clicking and then lighting. John Watson then returned to the room, settling down in the armchair across from Sherlock. Mister Holmes, in the meantime, was leaning forward with his hands pressed together in a near prayer-like stance, his elbows propped up upon his knees and his index fingers pressed to his lips. He was staring at the ground for a moment, and as the light cast across his face, his head turned and he caught her ogling at him. Julia's breath hitched and her eyes widened slightly. Damn. "You have questions, I presume?" he inquired dryly. John shifted uncomfortably. Here we go. "Judging by that dumb-founded expression on your face, I am not living up to your expectations, am I?"
"No!" Julia protested, perhaps a bit too loudly. Both men were staring at her now. "No, I mean... that is to say that I was expecting you to be about my aunt's age. You wrote so wisely." Way to go, Julia.
Sherlock's brows lowered. "You're nervous. Naturally so. You've been tense and uptight all your life, most likely due to severely strict guidance from your parents. You've gone to private schools; you never enjoyed the uniforms, yet you wear such formal clothing, even while on a plane," he explained suddenly, chattering on and on. Her lips parted. Just moments ago she had been met with silence, not even a simple 'hello' similarly to the one John had managed to muster, and now he was basically telling her bits and pieces from her life story. "You don't necessarily need glasses, you just wear them to look smarter, giving you that academic look you'll never really live up to. You're single and unemployed judging by the fact that you've traveled out to London during a weekday, and yet somehow you've managed to make it out here without any financial trouble." He paused and his lips curled up ever so faintly in such a sickeningly wicked grin. "Saved funds from mummy and daddy?"
Julia opened her mouth, then shut it as he continued. "You obviously care much about your appearance and understand at least some aspects of women's fashion. You've taken piano lessons given your long fingers, and... you sing, too." Once he had finally finished, she turned her head to Watson, who flattened his lips and gave her a look that explained to her that this was a normal thing for him. Even despite such a blunt and honest description, and not to mention a huge intrusion on her privacy, Mister Holmes had read her like an open book.
"Completely correct," she murmured softly, nodding her head. She was flabbergasted to say the least. "What do you call that? Your technique, I mean."
"Deducing," John Watson enunciated. "He does it to pretty much everyone, and trust me, it can get on your nerves!"
"Not at all," Julia admitted keenly. "I find it fascinating."
Sherlock's head tilted slightly from the corner of her vision and she noticed how his eyes pinched slightly, a ghost of a smile feathering across his features. Was that approval he had just seen? Or was he mocking her somehow for making such a statement? Julia's tongue passed over her lips. John allowed his head to roll back and let out a dry chuckle. "It will get old, fast. Don't encourage him."
A high-pitched whistle rose up into the air, signalling that the water had boiled and was ready for tea. Fuller hesitated, wondering if she should go and help. "Do you need a hand, John?" she asked, coming to stand once more. Crossing over the carpet, she finally found hardwood and headed for the entrance to the scullery, when suddenly a hand caught the cuff of her blazer.
Her head snapped around so quick that she didn't have much time to think. Sherlock stared up at her with inquisitive eyes. "Mister Holmes?"
"You are not to stay here. You're too much of a distraction with your stupid mind," Sherlock insisted. "We have work to do. Mrs. Hudson needs you, and that's it, so do us a favor and leave us be."
Her hands were trembling by time he was finished, and as he looked her in the eye, it was obvious that he noticed this. Sherlock released her, realizing what he had really said, and let her leave to help John in the kitchen. She couldn't deny how her heart had sank when he had dismissed her so easily like a puppy dog without a place. Julia felt a bit put off now. He had been so friendly and sweet in the their letters. She couldn't understand what had brought this on.
Perhaps she had made a mistake in coming to 221B.