"John!"
"What Sherlock?" John asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the newspaper while raising his voice per usual when speaking to him.
"I need them . . . now!" He yelled, searching the room by throwing papers around and moving furniture.
John sighed, picking up his tea from the coffee table and taking a sip. "We've been over this already." He spoke with a stern voice. "I'm not your enabler."
"And we have been over this, John, how my mind isn't as simplistic as yours. It's like an unstoppable train, running at the precise speed of a hundred and fifty miles per hour. If I don't get a fag soon I'll-"
"Or you'll what?"
"I'll resort to taking it out on the wall Mrs. Hudson," he said, imitating a prissy girl. "Is so keen on keeping in one piece."
"You're lucky you're in one piece," he mumbled.
"What was that?" Sherlock asked.
"Nothing!"
"Not you!" Sherlock said, shooing him like a child, "The door."
John put the newspaper down, listening. The doorbell rang.
"A client?"
"No," Sherlock said. "A client rings but one time with a hesitant finger. This is something far more interesting."
The doorbell came again, and this time with persistence.
"A new tenant," he verified.
"Oh, that must be the American girl," Mrs. Hudson seemed to sing from downstairs. "Come to fill the room!"
"American girl," John repeated with surprise. "What the bloody hell is an American doing in Baker Street?"
"You're right. The university is much too far to walk from here. A college student can't afford cab rides and a flat, not even on scholarship. Probably an exchange student, but even then the probability is slim. So either they're here for a transported job or they've come here to kill me."
"That's not funny," John said, shaking his head. "Do you honestly think a girl all the way from America has come here to kill you?"
"Calm down John, if someone really wanted to kill me they would have come up with a better plan than an American living in the same flat with two Englishmen."
John looked away from him to the doorway, listening intently as Mrs. Hudson unlocked padlock and greeted whoever was at the front door. Sherlock, with his hands pressed together at the tip of his nose, listened in as well.
"Come on in dear, we've been expecting you."
"We?" the girl questioned.
John's head perked up when he heard the girl's husky voice. To him it sounded very pretty. Sherlock rolled his eyes at him as he turned to stare out the window.
"Here, I'll take your bags for you."
"No, I can get it," she objected.
"Nonsense! Poor dear, you must be tired from your trip."
"Yes, thank you," she murmured.
They continued to listen as the two ascended the stairs. Mrs. Hudson stopped when she reached the living room.
"Boys," she called.
Sherlock glanced over his shoulder while John's eyes were already there. Through focused eyes, Sherlock analyzed her. Eyes dark like a sewer rat, and minimally washed brown hair. White skin, slightly touched by the sun on her head and forearms arms. Worn jeans faded to a pale blue on the thighs. A long sleeved black shirt, new with noticeable deodorant stains on the sides with a black p-coat hanging on her shoulders. And a natural scowl on her brow that had to of appeared over time.
"This is Melita Brown. She's an American!"
Melita cracked a smile though the look on her face before she arrived had been soar and pestered. "Only by birth."
John stood, power walking over to where the two women stood. He reached out to shake her hand. Melita eyed it carefully a moment before she took it, a gesture he did not notice. But Sherlock, already calculating her body language, clothes and movements, saw it.
"John Watson," he said with a welcoming smile.
"He's a doctor!" Mrs. Hudson added excitingly.
Melita raised her eyebrows, seeming slightly impressed. "Very nice," she nodded in approval.
"Just John to friends."
She grinned, "I'm Mel to whoever cares."
All three chuckled except for Sherlock, who with an expressionless stare, glanced back at the window. His eyes staying fixed on the life moving outside the flat.
"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson called. "Don't be shy come say hello."
"No thank you."
"Sherlock," John almost growled.
"No, it's fine," Mel commented. "I should begin unpacking anyway."
"Yes, please do," Sherlock said, no emotion whatsoever in his voice.
Mel ignored him and hurried up the stairs.
"Really Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson protested. "You should learn to be nicer to your new neighbor."
"Yes, Sherlock. Nicer."
"You were willing to share one bed with Dr. Watson when he first came here."
John scrunched his eyebrows together, "No, we weren't." But Mrs. Hudson didn't hear him.
Sherlock ignored the both of them and continued to think, allowing his mind, for a fraction of a second, to think of the woman.
After Mrs. Hudson assisted Mel with bringing her luggage up to the empty flat, Mel used the small silver key to open the old creaky door and looked about the room. The wallpaper with the strange flowery pattern had been slowly ripped away over time. The floors, bare from the carpeting having been pulled out and scuffed. The fireplace, used but still in good working condition. This room had been abused and, perhaps, someone could have passed or was injured between these walls. But though it has its flaws, Mel was in no position to pass on a room she had so much in common with.
"Ooh," Mrs. Hudson breathed as she set her bag down. "It's quite a journey to walk up those stairs when you have your whole life in one bag."
"Yeah," Mel said, her smile fading like bad memory had erased it from her face. She shook her head vigorously, before turning back to Mrs. Hudson. "Thank you for your help and letting me have this room."
"Oh it's no problem dear. The room's been empty for a long time, never could find anyone to fill it. Anything else I can get for you? Keep in mind I'm not your housekeeper."
Mel thought for a moment, "Do you know where I can find a good carpenter?"
It was nearly sunset when Mel emerged from her new den. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson still resided in the main room of the flat: John at his computer, blogging, and Sherlock playing the violin next to the far window. When John heard Mel's footsteps echoing against the walls of the squeaky stairs, he looked up from his screen to greet her.
"Mel was it?"
She stopped short at the last step, walking in the doorway. She nodded, "John right?"
He smiled, "Off to explore London?"
"Actually I'm going to scrap the walls tomorrow and I'm going out to buy some paint. So if you hear any noise, I apologize in advance."
"That's quite alright. God knows he makes enough noise," he said gesturing to Sherlock standing behind him. The violin made a screeching sound as he brushed the bow against the strings before he stopped playing altogether.
"I don't play to make noise John, I play to think. And you-" he said, pointing the bow at Mel. "Just because you apologized in advance doesn't mean I'll excuse you."
"Do you have a problem with me?"
"I have a problem with anyone who disrupts my work in the present and or future, especially a Midwestern American girl."
"How do you know I'm from the Midwest?"
"You're an adolescent about to turn into the age of adulthood but by the look in your eyes and the way you hold yourself, you've had to grow up fast and have since known the meaning of independence. And by the manner you shook John's hand; you don't like to be touched without your permission. You're not a college student, but you are well educated by the stress your forehead holds. Accent isn't as thick as a typical New Yorker, Jersey girl or Californian, but by the way you end your sentences so I'd say Central America. Did I miss anything?"
Mel's eyes stayed fixed on his blank face, not amused by his descriptions. "Do you always judge people by the way you judge a book?"
"I don't judge, I just observe."
"Well then," she muttered. "Allow me to observe." Her face relaxed then, eyes becoming expressionless like a robot focusing as it analyzed.
"I know you're a younger sibling to a powerful man, maybe a politician but more likely a blackmailer. He's good at what he does, but like a typical younger offspring, you want to be better. But you're flashy, cocky, always striving to get the last word in. Like a broken pen in the pocket of a white shirt when you need to just let it soak in." She eyed him, looking from his bare feet and then back to his blue eyes. "Can't say too much about your wardrobe because there's not much to say. You dress the way you want to be perceived and treated: mysterious, dark and unreadable. And to answer your unborn question Mr. Holmes, yes, I use my senses too."
Without another word, Mel turned to walk down the squeaky steps, leaving Sherlock feeling surprise and looking stricken.
"Oh, I think I'm going to like her," John whispered as Sherlock shot him a glare.
