Such A Mess

"Oh, God, what a mess!" John burst into the flat, followed closely by a young woman. At first Sherlock though he was talking about the state of the flat, as he often did, but looking up from his book, realized John was talking about himself. The doctor was covered head to toe with dirty water. He shook his blonde hair, sending droplets out in every direction. The girl held her hands up to shield her face.

"For God's sake, John!" she said, but she was laughing, too.

"Lost a fight with a cab," John said to Sherlock, peeling off his soaked jacket and dropping it on his chair as he moved into the room. "Tried to be chivalrous and protect the lady - "

"And you did," she smiled at the doctor. "Though opening your coat to shield me was probably not the wisest course of action. We'll never make it to the theatre on time. She turned to Sherlock, "No great loss, though. Tickets were a gift from my mum, some flashy musical thing. Not my cup of tea. Nicer to spend the evening in the pub." She turned her smile on Sherlock. "Oh, I'm Eleanor, by the way."

"Ah," was all the response she got, as the detective turned back to his book.

But he was watching her, out of the corner of his eye. Brown hair, green eyes, understated makeup - a touch of pencil and lipstick. A decent brown wool coat and red scarf. Sensible shoes for walking - just a bit of a heel, not like some of the women John brought home with their four-inch monstrosities, towering over him like Valkyries. This one was small, shorter even than John.

"I'm just going to have a quick wash and change." John moved toward the stairs. "Just make yourself comfortable - I'll be back down in a bit."

"All right, no rush," she said to his back as he charged up the stairs.

Then the room was silent. Sherlock kept one eye on her and the other on his book. Silence was difficult for most people.

Eleanor, though, didn't seem to mind. Utterly self-possessed, she stood quietly in the middle of the room, letting her eyes wander over things: the skull on the mantel, the harpoon in the corner (cleaned), Sherlock's coat and scarf tossed across the couch, the empty teacups and papers scattered across every available surface, the books on the shelves. He could see her looking - he could, in fact, see her observing, but not judging, which was interesting.

"I'm not going to start cleaning," she said.

"Excuse me?" He was startled enough by the oddness of the remark to look directly at her.

"I'm not going to start cleaning," she said again. "Picking up John's things and folding them into a pile on his chair. Gathering teacups and biscuit plates to put in the kitchen sink. Starting the washing up. Not going to do any of that. So don't worry."

"Why would I worry about that?" Sherlock was curious. He was not often curious.

She looked into his eyes, and he could see the smile in them. "Because women do that to mark territory. I assume women do that a lot in this flat, to mark John as their territory when they're here, especially with you. I watched your eyes, glancing at me and the scattered clothes, me and the teacups, me and the kitchen. You were wondering when I was going to begin. I wasn't. I'm not. Nor am I going to park myself in what is clearly John's chair. If you don't mind, I'll sit right here," she gestured to the wooden chair pulled a bit away from the table. "There's a file on it, and I'd just set it on the table, if that's all right with you?" She laid her hand on the papers.

"Certainly," Sherlock said slowly. "I appreciate your consideration."

"I thought you might," she said, carefully moving the sliding pile from the chair to the table and perching on the edge of the seat. "My flat is a bit like this - no skulls or harpoons - but papers everywhere, all the time. It looks a wreck, but I know where everything is and it's frustrating when people take it into their heads to straighten things up."

Sherlock nodded. "Indeed." He closed his book. "And what is it that you do that requires all the papers?"

"I'm a student. A quite old one - " she said hastily. "I'm actually almost John's age, but people always think I'm younger - I suppose because I'm small. Which is stupid, if you think about it. Small really has nothing to do with age when you're over 15, but there it is." She shrugged. "I see you like bees." Her eyes were on the bookshelves again. "My father raised bees when I was a girl. Fascinating, the hive mind, isn't it? All ruled by one simple brain whose only concern is survival and procreation. Back when I was younger and more cynical, I saw it as a model for most human societies. I'm a bit less cynical, now. And more conscious of that kind of reductive thinking."

"It is fascinating," Sherlock said. "Quite." The two looked at each other for a moment, each taking the measure of the one across the room. Sherlock had to admit that his woman was a bit different than the others. He thought, at the beginning of the conversation, that she might be pandering to him, trying to get in his favor somehow. A number of John's girlfriends had attempted that, bringing him gifts of biscuits (none as good as Mrs. Hudson's) or asking him to join them down at the pub or trying to fix him up with their friends. None of that had anything to do with him, it always only had to do with John, the women demonstrating how lovely they could be to his difficult flatmate, how patient and tolerant they were with Sherlock's foibles and oddities. But after one or two dates interrupted for cases, they would show their true colors quick enough - possessive, demanding, with no understanding of the importance of the work, or of John to Sherlock's work. They never lasted long after that.

John came tromping down the stairs in his dressing gown, carrying an armload of clean clothes. "All right, almost there. Just need to get the street muck out of my - " He paused, noting Sherlock's closed book and the fact that his date and his flatmate seemed to be having a conversation - and Sherlock wasn't yelling and John's date wasn't crying. "Everything okay, here?"

"Yes, fine, John." Eleanor smiled from her chair. "Take your time to get pretty."

John hesitated another moment. "All right then…"

"For God's sake, John, get into the shower, get dressed and get this girl out of my flat!" Sherlock snapped.

Reassured that the world was still normal, John stepped into the bath and shut the door.

"Such a mother, sometimes." Eleanor shook her head fondly.