This is completely ridiculous and I am not ashamed.

I am not nearly cool enough to own Sherlock or the BBC.

Enjoy.

You stand on the front stairs and jab your finger into the doorbell for the third time, holding it down for a count of seven seconds just for good measure. You wait with your arms crossed over your chest, partly out of the deep irritation still boiling in you from the argument you've just had with your flatmate, and partly because of the chill wind and grey clouds that promise nasty weather.

After a fruitless minute of staring at a shut door, you swear to yourself and yank your phone out of your pocket to type violently with both thumbs.

I forgot my keys. Open the door. JW

After about fifteen second, you receive a response:

Peculiar request from the man who just slammed it on his way out. SH

You feel your shoulders tighten with anger and let out a noisy breath through your nose.

Sherlock, you'd better bloody let me in right now. JW

I mean it. JW

SHERLOCK. JW

The upstairs window opens, and just as you think that maybe he's throwing the keys down to you, the strains of some bloody violin minuet by some bloody dead bloke from God knows what century fill the damp air.

You kick the door and hurt your toe and yell up, "FINE, YOU WANKER!" before heading off just as a light misty rain begins to fall.

The wanker keeps playing.

"Guinness," you mutter to the bartender as you sit heavily down on a stool, just high enough so that your feet swing a humiliating inch or so off the ground. Fuck stools. No, fuck tall people. Tall people with far more than their fair share of cheekbone and obnoxiousness. Bugger them all.

You run your hands up over your face with a loud groan.

"Been kicked out, mate?" says a sympathetic voice. You look up to see a rather pudgy 50-something year old sitting next to you, giving you a wry look of understanding through his thick glasses. You frown and open your mouth to ask how he knows, and he waves a hand. "Oh, all the lads from round here come to this pub when they've been given the boot. I'm Keith and these are Ronny and Ajay-just met 'em tonight, but we've all got the same story. Care to join in the group therapy?" From behind him, an Indian man with a thick moustache and a young guy with a ginger beard each give you a friendly wave.

The bartender sets down a tall glass of dark stout in front of you. You look at Keith for a moment longer before reaching for your beer and tilting it back to down a large gulp. "Bloody absolutely," you say, voice a little hoarse, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand.

"She's just so judgemental," says Ajay in his strong accent, taking a sip of his beer and getting foam in his moustache. "I try to spend time with the kids, but I have an entire store to run! The carpets will not sell themselves."

"Of course they won't!" Keith exclaims. Ronny shakes his head back and forth, swaying drunkenly in his seat, while you take a sip of your third beer.

"Ridik-lous," you agree, slurring the word and setting your drink down heavily.

"Now that my boy's in uni, Margie's still on my arse to phone him up every damned night," Keith sighs. "I tell her, 'Leave the bugger alone, sweetheart, he needs time to get stoned and laid without your meddling!' But does she listen?" He looks around at all of you, as if he genuinely doesn't know and needs you to supply the answer.

"No," Ronny guesses, as you lift your drink to your lips once again.

"No!" he exclaims, throwing up his hands, before taking a resigned drink of ale. He turns to you, wiping at his upper lip with his thumb. "What about you, eh, mate?" he asks. "What's her name, then?"

You choke on Guinness and have a coughing fit, and Keith reaches out to give you a few thumps on the back as you gulp down another sip to settle your throat, then set the glass down on the bar.

You cough once more. "Shirley," you reply.

The three men are turned to you with interested eyes. "What's she like, then?" Keith prompts.

"Well, er," you say. "She's... smart. But... too smart, you know? Bosses me around all the time, interferes in my plans, thinks she knows best-"

"I know just the type," Ronny cuts in. "Oxford girl, eh? All brainy and businesslike?"

Keith shakes his head. "Got her nose to the grindstone all the time, never time for you, always work, I bet."

"Does she have a good body?" Ajay inquires, before you can tell them how right they are.

"Bit skinny," you say after a moment.

They all mull this over with another gulp of beer.

"You know what you gotta do with those cold ones, mate, is romance 'em," says Keith knowingly, leaning in as he puts down his glass. "Melt all the ice right off with some good old fashioned wooing."

"Yeah, yeah," Ronny says, nodding emphatically. "Get her chocolates, take her out stargazing, all that stuff. Just show her she can be..." he pauses, then gives you a sincere, sappy look. "Vulnerable with you."

"Aye," Keith agrees. "You know how I first got Margie to look my way back when we were kids in the country? Sang outside her window. Neil Diamond. Brought my guitar and everything." He takes a sip, and starts giggling halfway through. "Probably sounded bloody awful."

The other three laugh while you take a long and thoughtful sip and realize you've drained your glass.

"Where it begaaaan,

I can't begin to knowin'

But then I know it's growin' strong..."

Your arms are spread wide, and you stand below the window of the flat in the rain, with your head tilted back. The window doesn't stir, so you shut your eyes and sing louder, wondering if you can really sound as atrocious as it seems or if it's the Guinness.

"Was in the spriiiiing

And spring became the summer

Who'd have believed you'd come along..."

You open your eyes a crack. A light has gone on in the flat, as well as in several others, and you grin and belt, neglecting to control the slur in your voice.

"Haaaaaanns,

touchin' haaaaaanns

Reachin' out,

touchin' me,

touchin' yooooou!"

The window slides open with a bang and a dark curly head ducks out. "John, what the hell are you doing?" says a loud peeved baritone.

"This is for you, Shirley!" you yell back, grinning like a maniac, and shut your eyes for the chorus.

"Sweeeeeet Caroline...

Good times nev'r seemed so good!

IIII've been inclined

To believe they never would

But now I..."

You pause and open your eyes again to gauge his reaction. He's still leaning out, and hasn't moved, staring down at you. If your eyes weren't swimming with drunkenness, you would have said the look on his face was pure disbelief.

You shrug and continue.

"...look at the night

And it don't seem so lonely

We fill it up with only two..."

A window slides open behind you across the street. "Oi, let the drunken bugger in, lady, huh?" yells a Scottish voice.

"And when I hurt,

Hurtin' runs off my shoulders

How can I hurt when holding you?"

"I'm handling it, thank you," Sherlock calls back, still not moving and staring back at you.

"Waaaaaaaarm,

touchin' waaaaaaaaaarm

Reachin' ouuuut,

touchin' me,

touchin' yoooou!

Sweeeeeet Caroline..."

"Oh, bloody hell, fine," Sherlock calls, ducking back in. The window shuts and you close your mouth, letting your arms flop back down to your sides, grinning with a triumph and making your way up the front steps.

When the door swings open, he stands in your way, and his face is so serious and so flushed that you can't help but break up into giggles.

"Never call me Shirley again," he instructs, as you clutch at your sides and laugh.

After a few moments, you catch your breath and straighten up. "R-Right," you say, trying to force the grin off your face. "Understood."

"And for the record, I find Neil Diamond incredibly off-putting."

"So can I come in, or should I serenade you more?"

There's a long pause, and then he's off up the stairs, leaving the door open for you. "You're not charming when you're drunk," he says over his shoulder, and maybe it's the Guinness again, but he doesn't sound quite convinced.