The House on Baker Street
A Sherlock fic
Sherlock and John are not the only flatmates to live on Baker Street…
OC WARNING
A/N: If this sounds similar to another fic, 'Angie and Amy', it's because it is. This is an adaptation of an RP with the same person who played Amy in that fic, and she assumed the same character here. This is also my first fic EVER, so forgive any rubbishness in the first few chapters because I need to get some practice. Criticism is very welcome, although please keep it constructive!
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock, although it would be pretty awesome if I did.
Chapter 1
21B Baker Street
The first flurry of snow was falling outside; it fell, and touched the dusty pavement only to melt into it, as if it had never been there.
A few flakes here and there settled on Rachel's hat and scarf. Occasionally, they would catch whatever light penetrated the thick coat of grey around the sky and glimmer. She pulled her coat closer to her and quickened her gait ever further, her walk almost transforming into a run as her feet hit the ground increasingly harder. The evening grew ever colder around her.
She did not have to walk for long before reaching the flat, opening its stately green door and switching on the light in the hall.
"Amy! AMY!" she called, in a voice surprisingly loud for one so small; she waited a good minute or so before receiving a response – a blonde head, whose knotted mane of blonde hair was half-covered and kept in check by a huge pair of headphones, peering out from the doorway. Rachel guessed she'd been asleep.
"Why is everything so comfy around here?" she asked, in a voice so loud and drawling it sounded almost like a yawn. She pulled her headphones off; they fell, lop-sided, around her neck.
"And 'Welcome Home' to you too." Rachel's sarcasm was punctuated by an amiable chuckle. She had never been able to pull off acerbic wit. "I bought milk on the way. Would you like some tea?"
"No thanks." Amy gestured flippantly and quietly shrank back into the bedroom. From upstairs, she could hear the little noises Rachel made while pottering about in the kitchen; her friend, while quiet amongst others, had a habit of talking continually to herself. Often, when she wasn't around, she'd return to find Rachel having a full conversation with nobody in particular.
221B Baker Street
"Sherlock! Where's the jam?"
John looked into the open fridge, which he had just noticed was stained with a sticky brown substance. Only a faint muttering was heard in the next room.
"Sherlock!"
"It's in the fridge, like I said it was. I went to the shops on Friday morning, remember?"
Sweeping into the kitchen, the detective looked as much like a child as a six-foot-tall man with razor-sharp cheekbones could – his dark hair fell over his forehead and his neck was flushed. It was almost noon, the day being as bright as a typical London day could, and he was still not dressed, his blue dressing gown fanning out with every exaggerated movement. Behind him, he left a trail of biscuit crumbs, and John could see the mountain of stacked coffee cups slowly forming a leaning tower to rival Pisa on the end table.
John sighed, exasperated. "Well, it isn't." He looked in the fridge again, and began searching through its contents. "In fact… all there is in here is a few more bags of thumbs, some hair – my hair – and… what the hell are these?"
He was cut off by Sherlock slamming the door shut. "Look, maybe I didn't go to the shops on Friday – but come on, what did you expect me to do? Shopping is boring anyway…"
"Sherlock, I told you to go to the corner shop to pick up some more milk, jam, eggs and bread the other day while I was out. Is it really that difficult?"
Sherlock pouted and sat heavily down on a chair. "It's not difficult, just mind-numbingly idiotic."
There was no reasoning with him now he was in one of his petulant moods, as John well knew from his experience. Instead, the doctor simply got up and walked quietly across the kitchen, being careful not to pay any attention to him.
However, one thought occurred to him as he reached the doorway to the living room.
"I saw you go out the door on Friday morning. If you didn't go to the shops… where did you go?"
"I waited outside the door for a few minutes-"
"Don't give me that, because I saw you come in again half an hour later."
John thought he saw Sherlock go slightly paler for a split second before his flatmate scowled and strode into the living room. There was obviously no point trying to get an answer from him now.