Chapter 1:
"I won," I mumble, a smile spreading on my face. "I won! In your face, Sherlock!" I cheer as I jump up out of my seat, striking a victorious pose. Sherlock glares incredulously at the checkerboard in front of him with ice-blue eyes narrowed into slits.
His heart-shaped lips are uttering words I cannot hear but I assume he's trying to figure out how he lost a game of checkers to a nineteen year old girl. He lets out a frustrated scoff and rolls his eyes in realization. "Stupid," he mutters and I grin smugly.
I ruffle his hair and he stands up quickly. "I am not a dog, Sophie," Sherlock chastises.
"Whatever you say," I singsong just as I hear John come into the living room with a rustle I assume to be grocery bags. Thank God, food. Last time I looked in the fridge and saw something edible was, well – never.
I've been here at 221B Baker Street for about four months now. I had no interest in going to college, which my world renowned physician parents didn't quite approve of. So, I escaped from Princeton, New Jersey to come here; London. I apartment hopped with people I met at bars and made a bit of a living off washing dishes at a cafe, Speedy's Cafe, for my first two months here. After a little incident that involved with me breaking multiple dishes and flooding the kitchen, I was fired from my job and I couldn't pay people to stay at their flat anymore.
Due to my hunger and lack of shelter, I crept into a flat right next to Speedy's Cafe and went straight to the refrigerator. I let out quite a loud shriek when I saw a human head sitting in the fridge, which prompted a tall man in a purple button down shirt tucked into black slacks and curly dark brown hair to jump out from behind a chair next to the fireplace, pointing a black poker at me, causing me to scream yet again.
The curly haired man rolled his eyes. "Stop screaming. You're going to give the neighbors a heart attack and I don't feel like dealing with Lestrade right now," he drones on in a monotone voice, obviously quite bored. Lestrade?
I quivered where I stood, looking down at my feet nervously as the man circled around me. "I'm assuming you're homeless," he stated and I gave him a curious look. He placed the poker under my chin and lifted up my head to face him. "You're also sleep deprived and hungry. You're from America and you don't want to go back." I gawked at him. "Problem?"
"Are you always such a smart ass?" I demanded and he shrugged.
"Usually," he said casually and I could feel anger boiling down in the pit of my stomach. "But am I wrong?" He smirked and I narrowed my eyes.
"No. No, you're not wrong. You're just quite presumptuous," I growled and he gave me a look I couldn't quite decipher.
"Well, someone who waltzes into a flat without any plan of action is a bit presumptuous as well, don't you think?" He asked. I was left speechless before a shorter man with sandy-blonde hair, plaid button down shirt, black jacket, and jeans saved us from the silence. He gave me a curious look and nudged the curly-haired man.
"Er, Sherlock," the blonde-haired man mumbled and before Sherlock could get out another obnoxious word I chimed him.
"Sophie Howell," I stated quite plainly, examining my dirtied fingernails before taking a glance at Sherlock. I stepped forward to look Sherlock right in the eyes. "Single, early thirties, unemployed or perhaps self-employed, probably quite dependent on others, and no, the man standing next to you is not your boyfriend but he is your flatmate. Am I wrong?" I challenged.
Sherlock looked me up and down, "How?"
"The first and last go together. Your friend here smells faintly of perfume, has traces of pink lipstick still left on his lips, and one of his shirt buttons is undone; and he is definitely not having an affair because you would have noticed he'd been with someone else right away, wouldn't you? You can't possibly be forty because that's too old and you can't be twenty because you have crow's feet by your eyes. Unemployed was simple; you wouldn't be sitting behind a chair waiting for something interesting to happen if you had work to do because you're too much of a perfectionist. And dependable, well, your friend did bring home groceries," I finished and then tapped his shoulder as I brushed past him to sit in one of the two arm chairs in front of the fireplace. I crossed my arms and smiled smugly at Sherlock, who was then given a look by his friend I later learned was named John.
It wasn't long after that that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes took me in as their new flatmate.
John sets down the groceries in on the kitchen counter and gives Sherlock an amused look. "What're you all uppity about?"
"I am not uppity, John. I'm merely contemplating why we let this female into our flat," Sherlock growls. I shoot him a look and John smiles contently.
"Because she keeps you in your place." John then turns to me as he's putting new tea packets into the cupboard, "Sophie, do you have any plans for tonight?"
"Mhm," I pick my black leather jacket and look at John, "I'm going on a date."
John crosses his arms and raises his eyebrow, "A date?"
"Uh, yes."
"With whom?"
"A guy."
"Right then. Take the trash out on your way, yeah?" John says, waving.
I wave back over my shoulder as I grab the trashcan, "Bye then." I hear Sherlock flip the checkerboard as checkers tumble to the ground.
"Bloody peasant," Sherlock says. I chuckle softly and shut the door, leaving John's yells muffled behind the closed door. I hum as I walk down the creaky steps, trashcan in hand. It's so like Sherlock to throw a fit; he's quite childish. I take the back entrance and lift up the trashcan to toss the waste into the dumpster when a familiar figure catches my eye lying face down in the dumpster. I set down the trashcan and flip the figure over. I stare, wide eyed at the man's forehead, which has been shot point blank. It's my date.