(I do not own the characters in Sherlock, they belong to ACD, Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. To any lovely readers, this is my first story and any reviews or criticisms are very appreciated!)

1. A Skull and a Scarlet Coat

"Perhaps the world's second-worst crime is boredom; the first is being a bore." ~ Cecil Beaton

There were many things to hate about London. The air was stuffy and polluted, and the streets were constantly crowded with an endless torrent of people rushing from one place to the next. There were also many things to love about London. For some, it may be the busy sound of the cars and pedestrians that breathe life into the city. Others may be fond of the way the buildings rise up to meet the sky, cutting into the grey clouds forever hanging above them. To all who lived there, London was synonymous with rain and chill and noise. But for two men sharing a simple flat on Baker street, the great city of London was something much more. It was a war zone, where a battle was being waged that very few people ever saw. And they loved every second of it.

"Where in bloody hell are you going now?!" exclaimed Sherlock Holmes to his less than enthusiastic flatmate.

"Out to get milk, and if all goes well, avoid you!" John sharply retorted, shrugging on his coat. He had little patience for the world's only sleuthing baby today.

"What good is having a partner in criminal investigation if they're never there when investigating!" Sherlock heaved a sigh and flopped ungracefully onto the couch, his dressing gown draping over the edge. "You're becoming quite an unreliable waste of my time doctor, keep it up and I'll simply replace you."

"Replace me?" John raised an eyebrow at his burden.

"Do you really think not? Admittedly, you are far more useful than those I've previously had the displeasure to work with, but as I've said, you haven't been around lately and I need an assistant." he continued, raising his chin stubbornly.

"For God's sake Sherlock, I'm married now! Why don't you take your skull! I'm sure it'll fill in nicely. " Bitterness and irritation filled John's voice as he turned and stomped out, the door slamming behind him.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. Without the amusing distraction of his friend's irrational temper, he had nothing to occupy his time between cases. He'd just finished one this morning and it wasn't the least bit challenging. It had been blindingly obvious that the late Ms. Kennedy had been killed by her spoiled chihuahua ChiChi's medication. All the signs pointed to the envious next door neighbor, the rip in the top of the sugar bag being the most prominent clue. The consulting detective never left his house for any case less than a 7, and that could barely be considered a 4.

His fingers twitched anxiously against his leg, and he began to get the feeling in his chest that he always got when his brain was idle. He felt stifled and on edge, jumpy even. With a groan he leaped to his feet and walked across the coffee table to the mantle, picking up his skull. It had been a good companion for years, that much was true, but Sherlock knew that it couldn't begin to compare to John Watson. Sure, he could talk at the skull. But there would be no talking back or witty banter or questions or compliments on his astounding and unparalleled brilliance.

Unlocking the drawer that John kept a spare gun in, Sherlock pointed it at a garish yellow smiley painted on the wall, and pulled the trigger. The gunshot rang through the flat as he shot again and again.

"Bored! So. Boring!" he yelled, smiling brightly as a door banged open on the floor below and footsteps were heard on the stairs.

"Sherlock! Put that filthy thing away and quit abusing my wall! I'm taking more out of your rent for this young man!" a sweet looking old lady appeared in the doorway, scolding him.

"Oh, do be quiet Mrs. Hudson. The world is being extraordinarily dull and I can hardly stand it!" his hands ruffled through his hair as he jumped into his chair.

"Then go out and find yourself a case! A good long case will be waiting for you somewhere, to put your mind at ease. Go on! Out!" she exclaimed, picking up a tray and tea cups that had been tossed to the ground. "I'll clean this awful mess, but just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper!"

"Find my own case..yes! Find a case! Goodness knows it's a city full of idiots, there is bound to be something interesting. Why wait for the criminal classes to find me?" he mumbled to himself and ran to his room, changing into a suit and his trademark Belstaff coat. "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be out and don't wait up. It's unlikely I'll be back for supper." he called over his shoulder, ignoring any reply as he climbed into a taxi.

The drive itself was long and dull, watching out the window to find anything that peaked his interest. The criminal world was being dreadfully quiet. He directed the driver to drop him off, deciding to walk instead. He traveled all of London in his mind, envisioning a map directing him to all the places that one would find the most diverse influx of people. Eventually he descended the stairs to the tube station, glancing around at the crowd.

Deductions whirred through his brain and in front of his eyes. Middle-aged insurance investigator, late to work, had an extreme peanut allergy. Young Italian girl with an aversion to mustard, just starting University but behind in studies because of drug addict boyfriend. Older lady in her early 50's, visiting her son who is about to become a father. Her husband left her for a younger woman. To his right he noticed a flighty school teacher run into the arms of a shorter man, who, judging by the ring mark on his finger, was a serial adulterer with a preference for horror movies and long-haired cats.

So many stories and lives running through his head easily everywhere he looked. His mind flitted from one to the other rapidly, none of them catching his interest. What boring lives normal people lead, how could they stand it? His head swiveled between people, but stopped dead when he noticed the back corner of the station.

Sitting on a bench was a young woman, 25 or 26. She wore ripped blue jeans, a black t-shirt with white lettering, and a scarlet jacket. Her auburn hair was slightly wavy and tucked under the collar of her coat, but he imagined it went nearly to her waist. What he did see of it fell in wisps around a fair, round face. Her eyes were downcast, hooded by her hair as she sat with one leg crossed over the other. Her right hand was held to her mouth, chewing on the thumbnail as she was engrossed in a novel.

'Bookish, likely intelligent' he thought to himself. 'Introverted, possibly shy, so she wouldn't be bothered if others talked over her, including me. Curious personality, adventurous even, if the rips in her jeans and her worn boots were anything to show.' A backpack sat next to her, a suitcase and a canvas bag at her feet. 'Looking for a place to stay, cheap. Usually lives alone.'

Sherlock Holmes was definitely not looking for another flatmate, God knows John caused him enough grief. But in all the passersby, the ordinary people doing ordinary things, this girl in scarlet stood out. Alone, bored, curious but unrushed. Unused potential. Who better to offer her exactly what she needs? She'd be a much better option than his skull. Sherlock grinned to himself and popped his coat collar.

He'd found his new case.