First Sherlock story, set just before the Blind Banker, I've already written up about 20 000 words, so I'll definitely be uploading more if this is well received. Also I changed a few things here and there to fit my OC
Disclaimer: I own nothing but Claire Walker
I cursed under my breath as I realized how late I was running. Mrs. Hanson or whatever was expecting me half an hour ago, I wasn't supposed to screw this up, I really needed this flat.
Finally 221 Baker Street came into view, I pulled my oversized beige trench coat closer to me as the wind sliced through and chilled me to the bone.
I reached out for the metal door knocker, my hands hidden in my sleeves to conserve warmth. I had barely rapped it once when the door opened, causing me a bit of a start.
An older woman greeted me with a staggering amount of manners so rarely found in this day and age, "You must be Miss Walker, come on in dear, I'm Mrs. Hudson, we spoke on the phone."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, and I'm really sorry I'm so late," I shook her hand with enthusiasm as she waved off my apology.
"Nonsense dear, I'm still surprised you even want to see the basement flat in person, after seeing those pictures on the real estate website," she leaned in, "You can leave now and I won't be offended."
I chuckled, "Of course not, I'm sure it's lovely, I mean what I've seen so far certainly is, so why should the downstairs be much different?"
It could have been worse, the wallpaper was a faded and a bit puckered in some spots, the floor could use a nice scrub and maybe a coat of varnish, other than that, it suited me very well.
"I don't know what you were on about, Mrs. Hudson, it's not nearly so bad as you implied," I said as I signed the necessary paperwork at her kitchen table.
"I'm so glad you like it," she signed her parts before looking back up at me, "So when do you plan on moving in?"
"Well I'll be needing to buy some furniture and get it delivered, I hope that won't be a problem, but I was hoping I would start sleeping here as soon as possible, tonight even."
"Absolutely!" she cooed, "It'll be so nice having another woman in the house, and such a pretty one too."
She rose from the table and walked to the stove, "Fancy a spot of tea?" she gestured to the teapot.
I chewed the corner of my lip considering her offer, "Yeah sure, why not."
"Only this once dear, I'm not your housekeeper," she said not unkindly as she bustled about preparing food and drink.
"So the website mentioned there's another renter in the building?" I asked as I fiddled with the edge of the polyester table cloth.
"Yes, they live upstairs, lovely young fellows," I cast her a curious look, "They're not that sort, although Mrs. Turner next door has got married ones." She turned back to the sandwiches she was making, "Anyways, Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes are very nice, sometimes a bit rowdy but they mean well, and I do owe Sherlock after what happened in Florida..." she trailed off.
"What do they do? For a living I mean."
"John is a doctor, he was in the army, but he got shot so now he's back, I'm not sure he's gotten another job since, though."
I could tell Mrs. Hudson enjoyed talking about others, so I pressed further, extorting her gossiping nature to learn more about my neighbours. "What about the other one, what does he do? They can't both be unemployed and afford a place in London."
"Sherlock, well he's a bit different, he's a detective of sorts, works with the police now and then, smart as a whip that one, I've seen him at work, it's very interesting," Mrs. Hudson returned to her seat across from me as she waited for the kettle to boil.
"How about you Miss Walker? What do you do?"
I smiled, "Please, call me Claire, I, uh, well I'm a writer, not a journalist or anything, I write novels, if you could call them that."
"How neat," Mrs. Hudson was cut off but the sharp screech of the kettle coming to a boil.
"Oh I just had a wonderful idea," she said joyfully as she got the tea brewing in the pot, "Why don't we go upstairs for lunch? I'm sure the boys will want some food anyways, they can be such bothers sometimes," she shook her head light-heartedly.
"They might be working, or busy, I wouldn't want to intrude."
"Nonsense, the sooner you get to know them the better, grab that tea tray from above the refrigerator, would you?"
"Boooooys?" Mrs. Hudson called as she knocked, "You wait here," she said before opening the door without waiting for a reply
I stood in the hall, not wanting to partake in such an awkward meeting, "I'm not your housekeeper," "Oh, she is quite lovely," "Please put away the gun, you'll scare her off, you maniac." Other than Mrs. Hudson's orders, I could only make out a few unintelligible male grunts from behind the door.
I was beginning to think they'd forgotten about me when Mrs. Hudson peaked her well-groomed head out the door and waved for me to enter.
"Hullo," I said as I took in the scene before me, a man a few years older than myself sat in an armchair near the unlit fireplace. He had sandy blonde hair with a bit of grey in it, he looked tired, but not just the tired you get from missing an hour or two of sleep, he looked a kind of tired that uncommonly graces such a young face.
The other man was pacing in the kitchen, he wore plain but sophisticated clothes, this made me feel underdressed in my ratty old jeans and flannel shirt. His hair was a dark mop of curls that fell over his pale forehead, his cheekbones stuck out in a dignified manner. He kept turning away as he paced so I was unable to get a good look at his eyes, he seemed to be mumbling to himself.
"Hello there, John Watson, nice to meet you," the man sitting down got up wearily and shook my hand with a firm formal fist.
"Claire Walker," I said as I juggled the tea tray in order to shake his hand.
"Oh, you can just set that in the kitchen, make yourself at home, have seat, eat a sandwich," John smiled.
I walked over to the kitchen, I could faintly hear Mrs. Hudson filling Dr. Watson in on me in a hushed voice.
"Hi," I said meekly to the tall man in the kitchen.
"John, it seems we've run out of milk again," the man said without looking at me.
Once I realized he was talking to me I wasted no time in correcting him, "I'm not John, he's talking to Mrs. Hudson."
"Oh, yes that's right you're the girl Mrs. Hudson was blathering on about," he said, matter-of-factly.
"That's me," I said, as I looked at his face straight on, trying to get a good idea of what he was like. His eyes were a very pale blue, cold, calculating, I could tell that he was observing me too, not just my eyes, but my sleeves, my hair, everything.
"You're a writer," he stated, as I'm sure Mrs. Hudson had told him.
"Yeah," I replied, "You're a detective," I decided to utilize Mrs. Hudson gossip.
He gave me a curious look then held out his hand, "Sherlock Holmes."
"Claire Walker, I said as I grasped his long, slender fingers in mine, my hand felt cold, even after such brief contact, I tucked my hand up into my sleeve before grabbing a sandwich and returning from whence I came.
"You've met Sherlock then?" Mrs. Hudson asked.
"Yeah, he's..." I trailed off, "He seems interesting."
John chuckled, "So Claire, can I call you that? What do you do?"
I smiled to show I didn't mind his use of my first name, "I thought Mrs. Hudson told you both when I was in the hall, Mr. Holmes seemed to know well enough."
John and Mrs. Hudson shared a fleeting glance, the meaning of which, I couldn't quite glean.
"Yeah he does that, it's, uh, well, how can I explain this?" John mused, "He figures things out, like when I met him, he noticed my tan so he knew I'd been abroad, it was only on my hands and face, so he knew it was on business. The way I held myself and my haircut, caused him to conclude that I had served with the armed forces."
"That seems a bit hokey," I said skeptical, about his so called detection skills.
"The ink smears on both your hands suggest you work with ink, no one just writing a memo could possibly have spilt so much. You don't have the rough callused hands of a print worker, you're not tidy enough to work in a photocopy shop, nor would you be able to afford your own flat if you did. Who would write by hand when they presumably had access to a computer? Someone who enjoys it, finds it poetic, not a journalist, they have to type anyways, so if not a journalist, a novelist. Your hands are well used, thin but strong, both of them, you must be ambidextrous, you switch hands when one gets tired. The thing that really drove it home was the was you observed me; not in an analytical, logical way, in a descriptive and imaginative way, like you were trying to write my story."
I could tell Watson and Hudson had seen this party trick many times and knew his in and outs because they didn't seem all that surprised. I was curious to know just how much he knew or could guess about me, "Wow, what else do you know?"
He walked over near the couch with his slender fingers clasped behind his back, "Your living on your own, in a fairly pricey flat, but you're a writer, writing only pays well if you're either very good or very fast. Judging by the fact that you're settling for a basement flat, not in the best condition, I'd say very fast, you write penny dreadfuls, I've never seen you're name on any that I can recall; you use a pseudonym. You're ashamed, you wish you could write real stuff."
He paused and looked at me then smiled slightly as if he just realized something, "You couldn't write so many bad novels so quickly without a computer, not a single publisher would accept a hand written manuscript, you've never published anything you've hand written. You do use a computer for that writing but to keep your preferred work separate, you hand write anything you think might one day be worth using your real name on."
"Well this was fun," I said abruptly standing up, trying not to seem to put off, "I'm gonna go reevaluate my life choices."
I left to the protests of Mrs. Hudson, and John lecturing an apathetic Sherlock, I quickly trotted down the stairs and whipped my jacket and bag off Mrs. Hudson's kitchen chair.
"Does it come in blue?"
"This is an 'everything must go' sale, love," the crusty old salesman replied trying to remain professional.
"How 'bout red?" I squinted up at him.
He rolled his eyes, "'Everything must go' means it all needs to go, this is the only one we've got left, you should have come sooner if you wanted a choice."
"The vomit orange and snot green, just aren't really doing it for me," I said, purposely being difficult.
"Look are you gonna buy the futon or not?"
"I'll take it," I went for my wallet and payed begrudgingly.
"If you just lift the end a bit, it'll fit round the side!" I shouted over the brightly coloured futon.
"Don't tell me what to do you mangy street whelp," The moving man said gruffly.
"Oi, don't call her that, she's paying you good money to do a job, so you do it her way or piss off," Said a firm voice from the hall behind the mover.
John had come down the stairs on his way out and clearly heard me be insulted by the one of the two men manhandling my new sofa bed. The men just scowled before following my previously voiced directions and finally making it into the tiny front hall.
"Thanks, Dr. Watson," I said as he came down the stairs to stand next to me.
"Call me John, and it's the least I can do after you endured Sherlock's psychoanalysis," he looked slightly ashamed, even though it wasn't his fault, obviously he felt responsible for Sherlock's actions, like a parent would a child's.
"It's okay, really, I'm not in the least bit completely disturbed by it," I joked, even though he didn't laugh. "Hey I'm sure I'm not the first person he's scared off," I lowered my voice, "I doubt I'll be the last either."
"Too right you are, anyways I best be off, good luck with the move, and really don't pay attention to what he said."
Unsure whether he meant the insults of the movers or his flatmate's startlingly accurate analysis of my life.
Please Review, I won't upload more unless I know people enjoyed it (that's a lie I probably will anyways)
