"Do you need some help with that, perhaps?"
Iran turned from struggling with her keys to find a kind-eyed man looking inquisitively at her. He couldn't be blamed; she was rather quizzically dressed this morning.
"Thank you, awfully. I seem to have gotten my key stuck in the lock." She stepped back to allow him a look.
John Watson was shocked for a minute, his eyes widening at the dishevelled beauty radiating from the woman donning combat boots and a red beret. It took a moment to regain conversational skills.
"Oh yes, they locks are a bit of a bother sometimes. Just let me –" He placed his grocery bag on the floor, and took to rattling the keys. In about a minute, after a fair amount of strategically directed shoving, he wrenched the door open. "There you are. Doors are fine from the inside. Outside too, usually. You just have to be prepared for a bad day once in a while."
"If so, might I, henceforth approach the chivalrous stranger whose vegetables are escaping?" She asked, stifling a giggle.
"Sorry, what?"
She nodded to his bags, whose contents were now rolling on the slightly sloped floor, towards the stairs. "Bloody hell!" He cursed, and after some scrambling, managed to retrieve the lot.
"Sorry about that." He panted lightly. "Long way from the supermarket, you see."
"I'm sure." Iran smiled.
"Are you the new tenant Mrs. Hudson has been railing on about, then?" John asked, shuffling among his bag to make sure nothing was lost, painfully aware of the enchanting light in her eyes.
"I suppose so. My name is Iran." She extended a slender hand that John took hesitatingly.
"Iran..uh..John, John Watson. Pleasure."
"Likewise. Well, I'd better get to settling in." She turned towards the bags tossed outside her door. "I foresee a Herculean task." She sighed.
"Well, before you get to all the heavy lifting, how about a cup of tea? I'm sure my roommate and I could help you with the luggage." John found himself saying while he tried to remember the last time Sherlock moved a plate
"Oh, I wouldn't want to impose..." She began.
"No imposition, I promise you. Do come along."
Her smile widened. "You really are a darling, John."
He turned quickly to avoid her seeing of the blush. He was most conscious of the heat on his cheeks.
"Right, then. Shall we? But I must warn you, my roommate is, how do I put this…different. His heart is pristine but his manners leave much to be wanting. Do try not to punch him in the face."
"Oh, a man of idiosyncracy. Now you have my curiosity, John Watson."
They began to climb the stairs to 221B.
"Where have you been? I've been craving Earl Grey for an hour now, and Mrs. Hudson is off to some flower-picking thing, blast her!" Sherlock's voice pounced upon the two within a second of their entrance.
"Mrs. Hudson is having lunch with her sister. Do you never listen?" He set the bag into the kitchen. "But, pipe down, Sherlock, there's a good boy. We have a guest for tea."
"Guest? What infernal trials have you brought to rain down upon us this time, John?" He stomped into the living room with the temper of a horny elephant…and stopped.
Iran leaned against the kitchen entrance, waves of unbrushed ebony hair gliding to her knees. She gazed at the tall, tempestuous man with questioning eyes. The late morning sunlight bounced off her skin, framing her in a soft, honeyed glaze. She was dressed most clumsily, but the skewed fashion choices barely registered in his scrutiny.
"I'm dreadfully sorry. I didn't know this was a bad time." She half-whispered, her sight sweeping over the man in layers of black. Sherlock had forgotten his scarf, and her eyes rested upon the patch of exposed throat.
He felt a sudden chill run through his bony frame. She looked at his neck with unblinking, unabashed focus, and he could sense some kind of inexplicable longing in her stare. She looked almost…hungry.
"Don't pay heed to him, Iran. And please, have a seat" John broke her gaze as he returned with paraphernalia for tea making. "And Sherlock, say a proper hello to our new neighbour, Iran whose surname I don't recall catching." He handed her a cup.
"Adelia. Thank you, John." She walked to the couch, inhaling the unmistakeable of well-bred tea. "I've always loved a drop of bergamot oil. Vermont Liberty, isn't it?"
"Why, yes." John looked at her, impressed. "Tea enthusiast?"
"Only as a hobby." She sipped. "Lovely."
"Tea, Sherlock?" John turned to his friend who had taken his usual seat and was staring rudely at their guest. "Would you stop gawking, please?"
"Quiet, John. I'm trying to identify the perfume." He inhaled noisily. " Touch of jojoba, just a smidgeon of…"
The moment she looked at him, Sherlock felt his voice stop. There was the most ineffable of reprimands in her eyes. It was gentle, her interruption of his thoughts, like the touch of a finger stilling his lips. He could almost hear the cold air whisper 'shhh' in his ear. It was as if she touched him without touching, as if her eyes bade his cells and nerves to receive sensations without stimuli.
"Sherlock?" John called, confused. He had never, in all the years of their friendship heard Sherlock stop in the midst of a sentence. Did she somehow…cut him off? They certainly had been looking at each other for a while.
"Well, I must be going now." She placed her cup and saucer on the table. "Tons to be done."
"Oh right, let's give her a hand, Sherlock?" John stood up.
"What now?" Sherlock snapped. He wasn't feeling too good.
"Let's help Iran move in, yes?" John intoned, biting on each word. Sherlock was uncharacteristically slow this morning.
"You'll have to excuse me. I find myself stranded amidst more pressing concerns." He rose.
"What concerns? You've been up since four complaining about boredom. You made me go snooping for scones at six."
"Yes, and you found possibly the most dreadful sludge available this side of London. I'll bet you anything that what they served Oliver Twist at the workhouse was breakfast at the Ritz compared to those sewage clotted rolls you lugged in."
John watched her eyes widen an inch before resetting. 'Got to give her credit'. He thought, 'She hasn't stomped on his balls yet with those formidable sized boots.'
"Even if I didn't have three hundred and forty two shades of green on the underside of leaves to catalogue, I wouldn't subject myself to the tawdriness of sweating under the burden of what I can only assume is wildly unmatched tops, hats and boots." Sherlock found his voice. "I'd like to think my mind affords me better opportunities."
"Sherlock…"John was amazed at the vitriol in his voice.
"Good morning, Miss Adelia. You have only yourself to blame for heeding John's words."
Sherlock turned, took a single step towards his bedroom when his body lost control. He fell forward, but instead of the floor ascending to meet him, he tumbled into absolute darkness. A black fist crashed into his face, completing darkness of sight with darkness of mind.