Sherlock heard the door creak open quietly, followed by the clinking of china. The aroma of Earl Grey filled the room.

"Just leave the tray on the table, Mrs Hudson", he growled, low and throaty.

"Miss Hudson", an unfamiliar voice corrected.

She'd seen him in the papers of course. The consulting detective - tall, brooding and mysterious. Handsome even - despite that ridiculous deerstalker hat he was so often photographed wearing. What was the deal with that? It made him look ridiculous.

He did not work alone. John Watson, ex - army doctor, was his right hand man. And more, if you believed everything in the press.

Rosie never believed anything anymore, especially when it came to men.

Now, here she was. She looked around the room; a living room, although something smelt like it was anything but. (Gran had explained that he often kept odd things in the fridge - eyeballs, rotten animal carcasses. Macabre curiosity.) There were stacks of dusty books on the shelves, a microscope sitting atop a pile of papers on the dining table. And by the window, reclining those long limbs, dressed all in black, him. He lay on the chaise, eyes closed, fingertips pressed together. Clearly deep in thought.

The infamous 'mind palace', she thought.

Sherlock sat bolt upright and stared.

"You're not Mrs Hudson."

"Miss Hudson," she repeated slowly, not smiling as she poured the tea into cups, adding milk and sugar, "My grandmother asked me to bring this up. I'm Rosie. Rosie Hudson."

Sherlock stretched out his long legs, standing up and walking over to her. He began almost instantly to read her... "A recent end to a relationship..." he murmured as he reached her.

"Pardon?"

"End of a relationship. That's why you're here of course. Nowhere else to go... why?... oh.. He slept with your sister and your mother has taken her side. Difficult."

"Gran warned me you'd do this."

"Do what?" What else? She was pretty, not obviously so, but with pale porcelain skin, sea - green eyes, auburn hair tied into a ponytail. Tall. She wore a fifties style dress, like Audrey Hepburn; black with wild roses. A belt nipped in her waist. He shook his head, batting away these frivolous thoughts about her physical appearance.

What else?

He knew about her personal circumstances already of course, Mrs Hudson was hardly a mistress of secrecy. She'd poured tea and her heart out to Sherlock and John frequently; the latest tale of woe being her poor youngest granddaughter; whose no - good boyfriend had dumped her unceremoniously in favour of an older, vixen - like female. Rosie 's sister in fact.

Poor Rosie.

"You're reading me." She frowned at him. "So, what do you think you know about me, Mr Holmes?"She sounded - what? Annoyed? Embarrassed? He couldn't tell. Emotions had never been his strong point.

Sherlock studied her, trying to put his feelings and the stirring low in his groin aside and concentrate his mind...

Rosie felt uncomfortable. His gaze was so intense, so all consuming. She felt sure he could see right into her soul, and into her mind. Surely he could deduce that she was imagining him naked? Running her hands across his slim but defined chest, his taut stomach, tracing her finger down his pelvic bone. Hearing that deep, velvety voice groan with pleasure...

"... Fear of the dark."

"What?" Rosie shook her head, cheeks flushing red. She realised she hadn't been listening. Good lord, thought Rosie. I've only just met him. And she knew ... This was a 100% heterosexual man. His masculinity eminated from him in waves, making her feel strangely weak at the knees.

She was blushing. Sherlock wondered what he could have possibly said to embarrass her. Had he subconsciously let what was in his head come out of his mouth? No, he was more careful than that. They had only just met. He could not tell her that he wanted to take her in his arms, pull her towards him and kiss her, urgently, deeply, and then...