Disclaimer: I only own Marlene.


"You've got all your things, dear?"

Marlene scrunched her shoulder up to her jaw, clasping the red plastic handset awkwardly to her ear without the aid of her hands, busy folding clothing and packing the garments into a large cardboard box.

"Yes, just finishing up putting the last of my clothes in the boxes. I do hope there's adequate closet space." She replied, laughing lightly to indicate a jest, brushing back a small chunk of hair, putting a lid on the box and smiling into the receiver. Smiling because the move might make it all okay now, and if she smiled, she'd believe it. "I'll be there with the moving trucks around one in the afternoon, if that's alright with you, Mrs. Hudson."

"Perfectly fine!" The landlady chirped with delight on the other end of the line, then a residual "ding" echoed in Marlene's ear before she could say anything else. Marlene gulped, and looked out the picture window for the last time, at the nice street, the nice neighborhood; turned around, took a last, long look at the nice flat that was now too expensive for a budding author, and picked up the box, forcing each footstep as she exited.

A change of pace will be good, Marlene. She told herself, hoping she'd believe it, dropping the last box into the rent-a-truck. New people, new places, new experiences. A…a….rest…from what's been happening lately.

The cost of living had just been so high, she reflected, too high for her, and the move was absolutely necessary. Her doctor was chiding her for not eating enough, both because of the anxiety and the lack of funds, for her nervous behavior…

Enough. She waved a dismissive hand at her own thoughts as she turned the ignition key and the engine immediately roared to life; she jumped. Calm down. Moving will ease all the tension, you'll stop worrying about the money, the panic attacks will get less frequent, they might even stop…

She shook her head again as she drove off. Panic attacks had plagued her since she was twelve, at twenty-seven, they had come back, after a stressful book deal (she'd put off most of the writing until the last two weeks) and an idiot of a boyfriend (who decided to call her every waking moment to see if the book was "making progress") and the medication that obviously did nothing.

Stop it, girl. This is a new beginning. A new chapter. She thought, cutting off her rambling mind, looking out to the London skyline, a foreign feeling of hope clinging at her heartstrings. And I'm leaving the panic attacks here. I'm done with them.

"Ah, there you are!" Mrs. Hudson waved at the woman who wearily opened up the rent-a-truck's beat-up, off-white door. Marlene surveyed her carefully, finally deciding, that it was, in fact, the woman who'd phoned her. She was an older woman, eyes a bit sunken with age, sandy, graying hair in a short cut, wearing a blue cardigan over a matching floral shirt tucked into dove grey pants with black loafers. A grandmother. Marlene hauled herself down from the high-set driver's seat and hurried across the sidewalk to the grandmotherly woman.

"Mrs. Hudson, it's a pleasure to finally meet you in person." Marlene merely heard herself say these things, feeling terrible that the introduction was so dull, allowing a warm smile onto her usually bland face.

"Here are the keys, dear, you're 221C. Welcome! Tell me when you get settled, I'll make some tea and introduce you to the other tenants." Mrs. Hudson said, in an ever-bright tone, sauntering into a nearby establishment labeled "Speedy's Café."

Marlene pulled up the garage-like door of the rent-a-truck, then rested, looking at the open door of the flats, revealing a steep staircase. Bloody hell. How was she going to get a settee, an arm chair, a dining set, and a bedroom set up to 221 C without killing herself?

Best to start with the boxes then. She noted, taking a cardboard monstrosity full of dishes and beginning to lug it up the stairs. Eighteen steps. Not so bad, then.

By 3:30 all the boxes were up the stairs, the furniture seemed to leer out of the back of the truck at her. She groaned, started to tug at the settee.

"Oh dear!"

Mrs. Hudson. Marlene smiled, sure that her face was beet-red from exertion, unhanded the setee.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson. I can't seem to get my sofa upstairs." She said, still smiling though her arms were screaming with exhaustion, then went back to the settee, wiggling it around at different angles in an attempt to safely remove it.

"Let me get the boys to help you," The landlady said, then promptly bounded up the worn staircase. "John! Sherlock! Someone needs your assistance!"

"Really, Mrs. Hudson, I can just call some movers-"

"Nonsense." The older woman replied. Then, tipping her head toward Marlene confidentially. "Too expensive, if you ask me, especially when there's able bodied men about the house." And again, louder: "Sherlock! John! Your new neighbor is here!"

"How dull."

A resonating masculine voice responded this time, followed by eighteen quick yet careful footsteps, then another eighteen steps, closer together and heavier-sounding.

Marlene wiped her hands on her jeans, then looked up at the men, Sherlock and John apparently.

John could see his flatmate zero in on the little details of the newcomer as they approached. It was almost creepy, how Sherlock got so intent on them. As far as John could see, the lady was tall, blond, not unattractive. She looked at the two of them with a smile. Back to Sherlock, who was taking the few seconds of observation and deduction. Probably noticing the type of shoes she wore, her body mass index. He rolled his eyes involuntarily.

Sherlock, on the other hand, stared for a few brief seconds, drinking in the details.

Light blond hair-nearly platinum, though she enhances it with highlights. Light gray eyes, pale skin tone-of some Nordic descent, most likely, sharp little features. Wearing faded clothes, not expensive in the first place, but old, perhaps financial trouble? Little to no jewelry, little to no makeup, hair cut short and angularly-low maintenance. Obviously does not work where she is seen often-a writer. No pets. Slim-not fit, probably sees the doctor for a nervous condition, judging by her posture-upright yet tentative.

"John Watson," The shorter, towheaded man said, extending an arm. Marlene felt her bland features perk up once more, accepted the handshake. "And Sherlock Holmes, my colleague and flatmate."


Thoughts so far? Tell me if I should do romance or friendship!