A House Full of Holmes
Prologue- A Holmes Unheard Of
The first thing John saw was the window, then the figure on the roof.
Until that moment, he'd had no idea that the large windows Sherlock always situated himself in, set right out front of 221B, even opened. But there it was, the window to his right, opened as far as it would turn, letting the late September air slip in and out silently.
Then there was the roof.
The coat was what set him off, a long, thick black number, probably with plenty of pockets. The owner was sitting casually on the edge of the roof, one foot dangling off and the other pulled to their chest. A blue scarf had found its way out from behind the lapels of the coat, flapping defiantly over the owners shoulder. Wild, curly black hair just brushed over the eyes of this mysterious figure, bouncing joyously in the breeze.
The feeling in John's gut, however, was far less than joyous.
"Sherlock," he breathed, the word slipping out involuntarily. Fear clutched his chest in an icy hand, and he was running before he could think, before he could process what was happening. Sherlock, on the roof. It was too familiar, too much like before. Before he'd found the man sitting on his couch, complaining about being bored.
"That's… wow. Right, fine. I have completely lost it," he'd conceded, putting away the groceries, "Yeah, okay, great. I am delusional. Lovely."
"Don't be silly, John," Sherlock had sighed, rolling onto his back, "Who do you think killed all of Moriary's men if I was dead?"
Sherlock had, of course, explained, in time. He'd had to die to save John, then stay hidden until the last of Moriarty's web was torn away. It wasn't until Molly had shown up, confirmed to him that Sherlock was really, really there that he had started to believe.
He'd also started screaming.
He was screaming now, taking the stairs into the flat two at a time, leaving his Tesco bags at the base of the steps. No. Sherlock wasn't going to jump. It was impossible, outlandish. What did he have to jump for? His name was in the process of being cleared, he was back from the dead, back on his cases in 221B with John and the cat he'd bought when he thought his friend was dead and-
Kicking the door to the flat open wasn't probably the best idea, but, somehow, Sherlock's air for dramatics had rubbed off on him in the years he'd known him, and he found himself rearing back for the blow. The resulting crack of doorknob-and-wall resounded down the stare well, probably scaring Mrs. Hudson half to death. Good. She had good reason to be afraid. Sherlock was on the roof, leaning over the edge, probably just ready to jump, and there was nothing John could do but scream and run and try to-
"John! What in God's name are you yelling about?"
John froze, his eyes wide. A tall thin frame stood in the doorway to the kitchen, a cookie sheet covered in what appeared to be John's socks in his hands. He wore an incredulous expression, his face pulled into his neck, indignant.
"What are you… but you're… where's your coat?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, setting the tray down on the coffee table as he walked to the window, not bothering to explain as he approached. John's hands itched as his flatmate leaned out of the window, peering at the roof above.
"I said you could borrow a shirt and a pair of trousers. You should know, to start, that my coat and scarf are inherently off limits," he called, then paused, and continued with gritted teeth, "As are John's pants."
John stared. If Sherlock wasn't on the roof, who was? Why was he borrowing Sherlock's clothes? Why was he here?
How did Sherlock know he was wearing John's pants?
Sherlock left the window, annoyance apparent on his face. Then, he turned to John, and his face deepened, annoyance turned to a solid mix of concern and fascination.
"You thought it was me," he stated, not a question, but an observation. John searched for words, for the questions he needed to ask, and found it impossible, nothing but relief filling his mind.
No one was jumping today.
"Who is that, then? On the roof?" he asked, leaning back against the door frame. Usually, Sherlock's antics were relatively easy to accept, if not understand, but this was… just weird.
Sherlock was about to answer when a figure dropped into the window frame, swinging into room with an air of casual boredom.
"In my defense, I did think they where yours," the figure conceded in a warm tone similar to Sherlock's, but higher, almost… feminine.
His flatmate's coat was flung over the figure's arm, revealing a black shirt that didn't quite fit them and a pair of trousers hanging just a little too low on their waist, a strip of red fabric appearing along the edge.
John blushed the same color, realizing that this was a girl, a young one, probably sixteen, wearing his pants. The red ones that he wore on dates, when he knew he was getting laid. The ones that no one ever saw but those women. The ones that it was impossible for anyone else to have seen unless they'd been snooping through his drawers.
Probably snooping through his drawers looking for cigarettes.
"John," Sherlock said curtly, "This is Rebecca. She's moving in with us."
"Ah, John," Rebecca sneered, "Sorry to scare you, just an experiment. Apparently you do still hold a fear for Sherlock's mental health. Fascinating."
Experiment. Sherlock's jaw was locked, and John realized he wasn't the only one who thought this was a bit too far over the line of a-bit-not-good, bordering on you-are-insane-leave-me-alone.
"Are you… I mean, you aren't…" John stuttered, putting the pieces together, "You do not have a minion. Oh, lord, no, there is not another Sherlock type in this house. Absolutely not."
From the self-satisfied smirk on Rebecca's face and the uncomfortable grimace on Sherlock's face, John knew he was wrong. Oh, God.
"No," he said, seeing what was going on here, "Absolutely not. She is not… This is not happening. We don't have a spare room and she stole my pants."
"Neither of us sleep often, we can take the bed in shifts. That's what we did when I stayed with Sherlock the first time. Or, better, yet, you two could just share a room," Rebecca said, busying herself with a notebook in her hand, "Honestly, you two all but sleep together."
"What are you… what do you think… who do you think you are?" he gasped, "And, by the way, still not gay!"
"Come off it, John, it's just us, you don't need to pretend," Rebecca scoffed, "By the way, you forgot the bread, no worry, I'll go back to the market and get it…"
John stared between the two of them, having no idea what was happening. First, she pretended to be a suicidal Sherlock, then she'd insisted she was moving in to their flat, insinuating that he and Sherlock were a couple, and now she was leaving without an explanation?
"Oh, and John," she said, leaning back into the flat from behind the door, waiting for John to turn back to her before she continued, "My name's Rebecca Holmes."
