A BBC Sherlock. (I do not own the BBC Sherlock series, just the OC, Robyn Archer) Happy reading!
(And no, I did not spell Robyn's name wrong, her name is suppost to have a Y in it.)
"Okay, nothing to worry about," I mutter to myself, "Just knock on the door. That's it, no worries. The worst he can do is say no."
I raise my cold knuckles, ready to knock on the door. My hand freezes, my insides twisting into a tight knot, tied with worry. Even though my body is an unmoving statue, my heart is booming rapidly in my chest. Every second that passes by, the irregular heart beats thunders loudly in the eerie day's silence. My chest tightens, no air entering or escaping my lungs. Nervousness and anxiety tying me up, not allowing me to move. The worse he can say is no.
And I'm afraid of that.
"Maybe I should wait- NO!" Suddenly, my body jolts in energy. My dark, brown combat boots moving, making me walk in tight circles. "No, I can't do that. I don't have time to doddle on this!" I stop, craning my neck to the door.
The address, 221B pokes brightly in brass and gold, hanging proudly against the ugly green wood.
I sigh, twisting the hem of my black hoodie in my hands.
"I have to do this." I take a deep breath.
Chilly, moist air fill my lungs, easing little of the nervousness. "Now or never, Robyn."
I lift my wrist and rat-ta-tat-tat on the door. I step back, holding my breath as if I dove underwater. Which, what it seems like right now.
I wait...wait...wait. My brow furrows. Isn't anyone home? I knock again, RAT-TA-TAT-TAT. My ears stray, carefully listening this time.
"Coming!" Someone cheers. Footsteps tap-tap-tap behind the door, a bit muffled.
The door swings open with a loud creak, revealing a women. Even though her soft wrinkles and brown, grey-streak hair determine her age of being around sixty, she has a particular youth in her eyes. A warm smile etching her lips, revealing a kind, warm person. She is the kind of person to have plenty of friends. No. Not a lot of friends, few, but she is happy with them. Her classic black dress with white polka dots is ironed nicely, no wrinkles, but has a few smudges. A white power of sorts, on her sides in a straight line, while the front is unharmed.
I sniff, a sugary sweet smell invading my nostrals. "Smells good. Baking sweets?"
She blinks, seemingly a little surprised. "Yes, how did you know?"
"Well," I say, a blush tinting my cheeks, "Your dress was recently cleaned, probably this morning. As a tidy woman, you like to keep things clean. You have smudges of flour on your dress. Yet, by the lining of it, you were wearing an apron. Which suggested you were baking, right before I knocked. Also, the smell in the air indicates that your making something sweet. Your treat is near done baking or it's cooling off." I feel my blush growing warmer on my cheeks. I look down the ripped hole, on the knee, of my faded jeans. "Just a simple case of observations."
She surprised look washes into a wide smile. "My dear girl, that's what Sherlock just deduced just now!"
My ears perk up. "Sherlock? He's here?"
"Yes, he is." She peers over her shoulder. Then she leans forward, her voice dropping to a whisper, "If you are here for a case, you came at the right moment."
"Why?" I whisper in an equally low voice.
"He's bored."
One of my eyebrows arches up, the other sinks. "Huh?" I ask, a bit confused.
"Yes," she whispers. Suddenly, she straightens up, a smile popping on her lips once more. "Now how can I help you?" she chippers loudly, as if the odd comments before never existed.
"Uh," I say dumbly, "I'm here to ask for Sherlock's help, Miss..."
"Call me ," she cheers. Immediately she turns around, trotting in with dainty steps.
I step inside, close behind. Ms. Hudson shuts the front door and then gracefully glides up the stairs. I follow her up the stairs, quick on the flat of my toes to keep up her pace.
BANG!The sound echos through the flat, the shot ringing through my ears.
Ms. Hudson jumps, clutching her chest. "Sherlock!" she cries, seemingly mad.
I dive between and the blandly, grey wall and dash the stairs two at a time. I burst through the door, my head whipping around.
BANG! BANG!
My eyes land on the source of the disturbance. He stood tall in his bathrobe and PJ's, holding a gun. Steam slithering off of it.
"Stop it! Now!" I demand, my voice loud and harshly clear.
The man turns his head, dark curls mopping his head. Pale skin, almost white, lays smoothly on his face. Eyes, the color of shaved ice, glare at me with an annoyed look. He fully turns, his arm lowering to his side, gun still in hand. He stares at me, his eyes scanning me, up, down, head, toe, stomach, everything. Every single detail he seems to absorb like a sponge.
And he's shirtless, I note, feeling the roots of my hair suddenly go red. Oh, wait. My hair is red.
"Sherlock!" tweets, fluttering into the room. Quite peeved. "Not in the flat! Please! You'll disturb the neighbors!"
She jumps, squawking and scolding the man, Sherlock, like a child whose has been caught in the cookie jar.
"What do you have to say to yourself, Sherlock?" She huffs, putting her arms in akimbo.
Sherlock sniffs, quirking an eyebrow. " , is there something burning?" he speaks in his baritone voice, coated in the common British accent.
"My sugar cookies!" She cries.
Ms. Hudson, flies down the stair in a frenzy, momentarily forgetting her scolding.
I look at the stairs and then crane my neck at Sherlock. Raising my own eyebrow.
He peers right back at me. "What?"
"If anything, , you'll be the death of her ," I deadpan. Which seems to not so far fetched if the gun shots are any hint.
He scoffs, "No she won't. Ms. Hudson is too clever for that."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. This guy has an ego.
Sherlock turns around, putting the gun on a table stuck between two long windows.
I glance at the room quickly. To the right of this small, yet spacious flat, is a long couch on one end. Hanging over it is a bulliton board with a bunch of clip outs from newspapers, magazines, and a map that has be fatally wounded by a bunch of pins. Red, blue and black strings zig-zagging on the pins like an unorganized maze. On the right side of the magnificent room are two leather armchairs and a chocolate colored coffee table that has been smacked between the two. An unlit fire-hearth stands proudly, rustic brick clothing it's design. Shelved on top of the hearth, it's accessorized by a few books, glass paper weights, and a skull.
Sherlock picks up his violin bow in both hands. Shutting one eye, he looks at it narrowly on the long end. Obviously making sure it's straight.
"Don't waste my time whatever it is," says Sherlock in a dry tone. "Unless you're looking looking for a flat and flatmate."
I snort. "No- Yes- Uh!" I gritt my teeth, my eye twitching. "Yes, I need a flat to move in, but I'm not here for that."
"Don't waste my time. I have things to do." He picks his violin up, stroking the notes in a velvet tune.
I take a deep breath, smelling the fresh, gun smoke. "I need you to take a case."
Sherlock pauses, turns around and inquires, "A case?" His icey eyes sparking in curiosity.
I smirk, having his full attention now. "Yeah, Shirley. A case."
"Don't call me Shirley!" Sherlock snaps.
"Okay...Shirley." I smile wickedly.
Sherlock scowls, unamused.
"Anyways," I drop my smile, "If you have stuff to do, don't let me waste your precious minutes twiddling your thumbs, playing the violin. I'll come back next week when you have time." I turn on my heel, trudging back to the front door.
"Stop!" he shouts.
I pause, one foot in mid-air. My neck cranking each notch, I eye him over my shoulder.
He glares at me, he speaks to me lowly and quietly. "Tell me everything."
