Early on one chilly spring morning, as traffic rushed around, distant sirens wailed and people click-clacked by, the door of a loan house in the street was an object of fixation. Brightly gleaming sat the numbers 221B, and the street was Baker Street. Surrounded by the sounds of a busy London full of 7.5 million people living their lives, was a man. He had light brownish blonde hair and a very grave face, pale and drawn. His haunted dark brown eyes stared intently at that number, debating whether or not he dared to knock. It was the first time he has felt the courage to return since the death of a very good friend. He had no idea that across the road a woman was watching him motion towards the door before pulling back again and repeating this several times. She was about average in the height and weight department, and her pale green eyes never left his back.
"Come on John. Just go in. Just open the bloody door. You're a soldier. Doors shouldn't scare you." John Watson muttered to himself.
A passer-by caught him talking to himself and looked at him with a disapproving glare. What self-respecting grown man would be crazily muttering to himself in front of a house. Especially a grown man who hadn't shaved for a while, and was wearing an old t-shirt and even older jeans that were frayed at the ends. Perhaps he was a stalker or a pest, or some other unsavoury character. He clearly didn't care much for appearances. John noticed the stranger's expression and turned on him angrily.
"Can I help you?"
The passer-by swiftly departed with a scoff and the woman across the street watched him go. John finally caught sight of her, and realised with fury that she was staring at him too. She didn't make a move to hide the fact that she had been watching him, but her calm demeanour gave absolutely nothing away. She was not ashamed, or worried, or scared at his reaction. She just stood there, not speaking.
"Nothing better to do than stare at other people's misfortunes? What? You've never had a bad day? Never been dragged through the wringer and stamped on, never lost your FUCKING BEST FRIEND?" His voice cracked at his last outcry.
The woman seemed to take this into consideration, and his display of emotion triggered some kind of reaction that had been bubbling under the surface. She checked each side of the road twice and walked over to join him. On closer inspection, she was only perhaps one or two inches shorter than John himself, and the fact she wore a long charcoal grey coat and a white woollen scarf tied in a familiar fashion drew him into himself and he started to think about things. Crazy adventures starting with running after a cab, being airlifted to Buckingham Palace, strapped to a bomb in a swimming pool…
"Need a hand?" The woman's voice snapped him, gratefully, out of his reverie."
John regarded her with caution, momentarily confused, "With what?"
Once again this peculiar woman neglected to answer. Instead she stepped passed John and knocked on the door, as the bell was still broken. She promptly pushed John towards it as the familiar friendly face of Mrs Hudson opened the door.
"Oh! John! Lovely to finally see you, come in, come in."
John offered her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, "Hello Mrs Hudson."
Mrs Hudson stepped forward and returned the hug enthusiastically. It was clear to anyone who happened to be passing, or the stranger that had knocked on the door, that she was genuinely happy to see John, and over his shoulder she noticed the newcomer.
"Oh, hello." She let go of John and turned to the woman, "Who's your friend dear?"
The woman offered a hand to Mrs Hudson, shaking it warmly and without giving John any kind of chance to speak. "Melissa Daye. It's a pleasure."
"Hello. How kind of you to come by and help John. Would you like a cup of tea? See you through all this sad business."
Before Melissa or John manage to respond, or even say they were complete strangers to each other, Mrs Hudson left the door open for them to let themselves in and went through to the kitchen to get started. John and Melissa stood awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs, regarding each other with mutual curiosity.
"Sorry, who are you? Why are you here?" queried the doctor,
"I just told your landlady. My name's Melissa, and I'm here because you looked like you needed help."
Her casual answer managed to rile the army man once more. She was so calm, so matter of fact, and he had been going through hell ever since…that day. He was lost, and scared, and hurt. But he was mostly angry. Angry that the world had turned on his best friend, angry that he was left with all the mess, angry that his best friend had died, and angry that he was alone yet again.
"Help? You think I needed help? Have you picked up a paper or watched the news lately? Or is that exactly your game? Just another vulture reporter?"
Melissa was as ever completely unphased by John's outburst. She shook her head and with an expression that could only have been scorn directed at the masses, answered him.
"Oh, god no. What a load of bollocks. I know a fraud when I see one. Sherlock Holmes was as genuine as the Earth moving around the sun."
That was clearly not the response John was expecting. He suddenly felt acutely guilty and ashamed at his lack of manners and for his attack. He moved to regain his temper and composure, trying very hard to correct what must have been a very bad first impression.
"And how can you be so sure?" he pressed,
"Because I'm not an idiot?"
She said it the exact same tone that his old friend would have done when faced with stupidity, and the thought made him smile slightly. Even so, he was still very protective of himself and his best friend and wasn't willing to take any chances.
"Forgive me if I don't believe your credentials without proof."
Melissa sighed and withdrew a business card from her coat pocket, handing it over. It read:
Dr Melissa Daye
(Psy.D. Ph.D.)
Profiler.
.uk
"Oh," was John's response.
"Don't worry. I wasn't planning to shrink your brain. I just genuinely saw you were upset."
"Why would you care?"
Surprisingly, a small, wry smile crossed the woman's lips. It was not a reaction that had yet been observed and John was completely unsure how to take it. She motioned to the business card again, telling him to turn it over. It was, apparently, double-sided, and the other read:
Dr Melissa Daye
(Psy.D. Ph.D)
Profiler
.ukAnd, in small but very clear writing at the bottom:
"I'm an expert, and I believe in Sherlock Holmes."
Just as John beamed and was battling with himself not to fling his arms about the newcomer, Mrs Hudson returned with two mugs of tea, handing the two younger parties one each. She then lead the pair of them upstairs to the apartment where John and Sherlock used to live. Both Mrs Hudson and Melissa stopped part way, looking at each other as they allowed John to walk in on his own at first. Mrs Hudson turned to address Melissa as the younger woman blew on her tea and sipped it.
"I'm glad you're here. It's good for John to have friends around right now."
"It is, Mrs Hudson. But I'm just one of many, he's the only one that doesn't realise that yet," Melissa sighed.
Mrs Hudson was warming to this girl, she was much more normal than their usual visitors, and it was always pleasant to have female company around, it made a nice change. "I'm surprised I haven't met you before. How do you know the boys?"
"I've known...I mean, I knew...Sherlock, a long time ago. He doesn't remember me though. I doubt you'll be surprised if I say we lost touch.
"Not in the slightest." Mrs Hudson smiled slightly, "Anyway, here." She took a piece of paper from her pocket and passes it over to the new girl, "It's what I've sorted so far, I've tried to keep some kind of categories. I better be off, let you two get on."
"Thanks. It was nice meeting you Mrs Hudson."
"And you dear."
John stood in the middle of the living room that was full of ghosts and memories, and utter devastation. He placed his cup of tea in its customary spot, and a little cloud of dust rose up around it. Clearly Mrs Hudson didn't like to come in here much herself. As he slowly walked around he paused at the armchair where Sherlock used to always sit, noticing the discarded violin in his place. He picked it up and ran a hand along the strings, before packing it neatly into its case and leaving it by Sherlock's chair. He was perfectly silent but his vision was blurring and he sniffed away tears. Creeping in quietly, Melissa walked forward and rested her hand on his arm. Touched by the sudden kindness, John laced his fingers through hers, holding her hand for comfort.
"I used to hate that bloody instrument. Now I'd give anything to hear it again." He sniffed again and wiped his eyes, "Sorry. Must be awkward seeing a grown man cry."
"It used to be, but now I just feel sorry for them, or anyone that cries, for that matter."
John allowed himself a short laugh, "So you're a grief counsellor now too then?"
Melissa gave him a sad, friendly smile, "It's not my specialty, but with my training everything overlaps."
"Oh yes, you're a profiler," he remembered, "I'm surprised we haven't met before."
"We have," Melissa's smile broadened with mild amusement, "But I wouldn't expect you to remember. My job generally began where yours ended. You find them, the police catch them, I analyse them."
"Thank you…" John blurted, and then quickly covered up his tracks, "For…analysing criminals."
Melissa smirked, "You're welcome." She let go of his hand and picked up the violin, "I'll take care of this for now, ok? Save you a lot of…."
She trailed off, deciding not to try and analyse how John should be feeling, and he was grateful for that. He also seemed to be relieved that someone at least was here that cared. She really hoped that he would remember that feeling.
As Melissa finally got home with the violin tucked under her arm, she walked up the five flights of stairs to her own little flat. When she had wrestled with the keys and pushed open the door, it was completely dark. The only light was from the street outside as she walked the few steps into her living room. She sighed, dropping her bag down.
"I thought you might want this,"
She turned to face the white leather sofa. On it sat a tall, curly-haired man staring at the blank television screen, sulking in a dressing gown. He turned in surprise as if he hadn't realised she was there, and took the violin without a word.
"You're welcome," she rolled her eyes, and stared out of the window at the lights glittering in the city, "I hope he forgives me."