A/N: Ok, so I wanted to get this one out before next Sunday as I know where I want to go with it, meaning it will be set somewhere between the end of A Scandal in Bohemia and next week's The Reichenbach Fall. I'm not the type that usually likes making up my own characters, but this idea simply would not leave my head, so go easy on me! Unbeta-ed because... well, I've not had chance to find a beta yet, that's why! Any feedback is good feedback, feel free to tell me it's a terrible idea (I'd probably even agree with you!), but don't feel like you have to review, just being here reading this is good enough for me. This a/n turned out a bit longer than expected...
Disclaimer: Sherlock, Watson and anyone else you recognise belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss, et al. The "visitor" belongs to my imagination. The title is the name of a song by Laura Marling.
Tap at my Window
If anyone were to ask him, Sherlock Holmes could tell you that the anonymous black Mercedes with the tinted windows pulled up outside 221 Baker St exactly 3 minutes and 47 seconds before its passenger exited and the car drove off. In that time he had both deduced and dismissed five possible theories as to the identity of their unknown visitor. They went as follows:
Mycroft. Although a Mercedes wasn't his usual style (Mycroft being more the BMW type), and Mycroft loathed dawdlers, as he had so often told his younger brother, so he would have little reason to do so himself.
A new client. No, a client who was nervous enough to wait 3 minutes and 47 seconds before leaving his car would have asked it to wait, not allowed it to drive off and leave him stranded.
A lost driver, stopped to consult a map. This theory was disproven when the passenger did, in fact, get out of the car.
Irene Adler, just checking in. Even Sherlock's own mind saw the ridiculousness of that scenario.
Moriarty. Another "game" of his, meant to mess with their heads. Again, not really his style. Jim Moriarty would have walked by in plain sight, throwing the window a jaunty wave as he went, not stopped outside in a tinted car.
As the unknown passenger made their way first to the door and then, after Mrs Hudson opened the door to them, up the staircase to 221b, Sherlock was able to make several more deductions:
Female. Height between 5ft and 5'3" (unable to make a more accurate estimate without further data). Brunette. Men's overcoat, clearly not the woman's own choice of clothing judging by how uncomfortable she looked wearing it. Nervous, pause and sigh before ringing the doorbell suggested she was not here of her own accord. Slight limp to on the left leg, also a problem with the right wrist as she wasn't using the handrail, despite obvious difficulty.
"Sherlock, this woman says she's here to see you, but she says she's not a client," said the ever-useful Mrs Hudson.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, I was just about to send John to answer the door," the detective replied dismissively.
"Yes, well, I'm not your housekeeper." said the petite elderly lady before turning to go back to her own flat, just as John said, "I'm sorry, just about to what?"
It cannot be sure which of these two comments made the detective snort, somewhat derisively, but he didn't bother to turn away from his perch at the window in order to address his mysterious 'guest'.
"So, who are you then, if not a client? Why do you wish to see me?"A huff of frustration, disturbingly familiar, came from the woman.
"A message," came her curt reply. She gave a brief nod of acknowledgement to John as she walked further into the room, but came to rest several feet from Sherlock and seemed to focus all her attention on a spot in the middle of his turned back.
Sherlock froze for 2.8 seconds before quite literally shaking himself and spinning around with such force it would have given a prima ballerina whiplash. His jaw dropped. John later remarked that he'd never seen his flatmate look any more like a stunned goldfish. When it became apparent that the detective was not, in fact, going to respond, John decided to take matters into his own hands.
"Err, sorry," he started haltingly, "but Sherlock asked you two questions, and I can't help noticing that you only answered the second." The woman glanced briefly back at the doctor before resuming her staring contest with his flatmate.
"The answer to the two questions is one and the same, Dr Watson." She cocked her head slightly to the side, raised her eyebrows and levelled the detective with a challenging stare. "Besides, Sherlock knows exactly who I am, don't you, brother dear?"
