Sherlock Holmes

"What is in London?" The man next to her finally mustered the courage to move from the small talk phase to more personal information. Sawyer watched his mouth open on multiple occasions on their long flight from the United States to London, but he never held a conversation longer than 5 seconds. That was until now.

The man peered at her from the next seat. His red hair was neatly trimmed and plastered down to his face. Hi blue eyes were bright and full of excitement.

She only puffed her cheeks out in response. "Nothing," she answered flatly. She did at least tell him the truth. The trip was spontaneous and well-deserved she thought. If it had not been for her father's recent death she would have never been able to move out here. She always wanted to travel the world, it was rather a predictable dream of any person. Her father would not support her dream, deeming it as irrational and irresponsible, and instead shipped her off to Princeton University. He was determined to rid of the dream. After one year of attending the college, she dropped out. The walls and rules were far too constricting. She removed herself from her family and spent the rest of her time hopping from one job to another. Her father begged her to come home but she refused. It wasn't until she received word that her father was dying that she found herself walking the halls of the beach house. After he died and was covered with dirt, 6 feet under, she packed up and sold the house. It was all hers now. She owned the house, his cars, his insurance money, and his stocks. She sold it all and bought a plane ticket to London. It was ironic in the end that her father was indeed paying for her dream.

The man titled his head, obviously confused about her answer. She turned back to look out the window. It was after several minutes that the man spoke up again, telling her about his time in America.

"The cars!" He exclaimed. "The people," he would bring up and Sawyer nodded her head pretending she cared. The seat belt sign came on along with an announcement that they would be arriving shortly. Sawyer felt a tinge of fear rise in her stomach. Maybe it wasn't a good choice to move so far away. How would she get a job with no college degree? She subconsciously gripped the ring dangling from her neck.

Oh, yes, the money.

She was not sure how long she could last without work. She would need a distraction or maybe some friends. She laughed to herself, friends were out of the question. She never ventured out of her home, only when it was of considerable importance.

The man next to her looked bewildered but Sawyer just shrugged it off. She began to feel anxious once the airport came into view through the crowds. She wasn't sure if she would even like her new flat. Her flat was secured online. The woman insisted it was and excellent place to live and it was located in the best part of London. The price was rather high, but Sawyer did not care. It looked spacious from the pictures but the owner seemed fervent that Sawyer would have to dispose of the boxes from the previous attendant. The only reason Sawyer agreed to rent it was that it came furnished. While the furniture looked old and torn, but it meant she would not have to go out and shop.

After a bumpy land, she was finally here. She looked out the window expecting to see a drastic change but alas nothing was different. She rolled her eyes and stood from her seat following the crowd leaving the plane. She zipped up her jacket as the air outside made a shiver run down her spine. People lined up the sidewalk waiting for cars or hopping into a taxi. She lugged her single suitcase down the line and secured a ride.

"Baker street, please."

Sawyer managed to doze off during the ride. The taxi came to a halt with a light screeching of worn-out brake pads. Sawyer paid the man with haste and departed. The building did not look to be in the greatest part of London. It looked old and worn. The door had thick, black lettering on it labeling it, "221B". Sawyer took a deep breath and pulled her bag into the home.

"Hello?" She called out, the sounded of her bag echoed through the small space. An elderly woman rushed out of her home and Sawyer gave her a smile. She appeared to be one of those adorable older woman, who held her head up high. She had deep smile lines and bright eyes that appeared to be full of life and stories.

"Sawyer I presume?" The woman rushed over to Sawyer to get a closer look. Sawyer tried to take a step back but the woman was already clutching onto her. "How was your flight? Oh you will love it here," and the woman began to tell her all about her life in London. She took Sawyer by the hand and led her up the stairs.

"Ms Hudson," Sawyer interpreted and the woman stopped.

"It is Mrs," the woman corrected. "I may have had my husband killed but I still consider myself married!" She exclaimed and continued to pull Sawyer along.

Sawyer reminded herself to question the woman later about her husband.

"Well," Mrs Hudson opened the door and Sawyer stepped through. The pictures must have been from the prime of its life because the place was far worse. Boxed were stacked along the wall next to the door, its contents overflowing the top. Books were placed in random piles along with pages taped up on the wall next to a yellow sprayed-painted smile. She walked over to the wall and saw holes.

"Are those bullet holes?" She stuck her fingers inside the holes.

"Oh Sherlock," the woman seemed in despair at him name.

Sawyer gave her an 'ah' before examining the rest of the flat. The kitchen was far more grotesque than the rest of the apartment. She opened up the cupboards to find chipped dishes and a bottle of deep purple liquid labeled with 'Sherlock do not touch'. She opened the fridge only to have the foulest odor pour out of it. She gaged and over her mouth with her jacket. It reminded her of the time a rat died in the vents and filled the house full of its decaying odor. She slowly opened the fridge again to see a decapitated head with its fleshing sliding off with the presence of oxygen. She slammed the fridge shut and looked around for Mrs. Hudson to explain. Sawyer came to the conclusion that the whole fridge would have to go.

"Sherlock insisted it was for one of his experiments," Mrs. Hudson appeared in the kitchen and looked at the closed fridge. She looked sad as tears threatened to pour over. Sawyer decided to not push her on who this Sherlock was.

She discovered the bedroom was the worst room in the flat. It was dark with curtains covering all the possible source of lights. There was bottles filled with pills and smoked away cigarettes lying in a pile on top of the dresser. She opened the closet to find a whole set of trench coats. The colors ranged from black to black with a small design. Sawyer did not know where to begin with this place.

"Well?" Mrs. Hudson poked her head inside the room. "Do you like it?" Sawyer tried to give her the best smile she could manage. It was not the worst place she had lived in but it was nothing compared to the home she sold. Yet, it had an appeal about it. It would take some work but it defiantly was big enough.

"Yes, perfect," she ran her finger on the dust covered dresser. She looked over at a mirror and saw her reflection. She tried to give herself an encouraging smile but failed. Her light brown hair was pulled up into a messy bun and her makeup was smudged from her long travel. She wiped away the excess makeup under her eyes. Her eyes were red and purple was starting to appear under them from the lack of sleep. Her usually bright green eyes appeared dull and lifeless. She faked a smile as she followed Mrs. Hudson out of the room.

Her boxes arrived shortly. They were filled with all the items she found had sentimental worth. She spent her next few weeks trying replace Sherlock's stuff with hers. She went through Sherlock's items taking what she liked and moved the rest of the boxes down the steps to the lower flat's room. It took more work than Sawyer was prepared for. Mrs. Hudson kept her company by making her tea and telling her stories about Sherlock and his boyfriend Watson. Sawyer learned they were some form of detectives and it was from Sherlock's help that Mrs. Hudson escaped the being a wife to a drug dealer. At the end of her day, she was exhausted from her cleaning and went to sleep in the room full of trench coats.

After a month she was finished. The books have been removed and her father's now filled the shelves. The boxes and papers were neatly removed and stack in the lower bedroom and all of the clothes from the dresser were replaced with her own. Sawyer had managed to find a dump to take the fridge after debate about why the door was chained closed and a new fridge stocked full of food was in its place. The only personal item of this Sherlock was a few of his books and the closet of trench coats.

Sawyer sat down that evening in a red worn out chair. A blanket was draped over her shoulders and a book in her lap. She flipped through the pages as she sipped on her tea. She lifted the cup to her mouth only to spill it on herself at the sound of Mrs. Hudson screaming. It was not the first time she heard Mrs. Hudson scream or shout. Sawyer sighed and stood from the chair. The tea formed a large puddle on the front of her shirt, she would now have to change. She walked down the hall to the bedroom, quickly throwing off her shirt and putting on a clean one.

She buttoned up the shirt as she was walking down the hall she stopped when a deep voice rose from the main room. "Who are you?" She looked up and jumped back when she saw a slender, tall man with blueish, green eyes narrowing down at her. His black, curly hair and bloody face wanted to make her scream but nothing came up. The man looked her up and down, his pupils dilating.

"You are young and by your voice American. By the small caduceus and medical books I saw in on the way you are appear to be a doctor but you are too young so maybe a nurse. Oh God I hope not since I already have a doctor. You have a ring around your neck, at first I thought it was your husband's but you do not have a tan line on your finger. Maybe the marriage was short? However, the ring is worn and the dented, it looks about 30 years old. Maybe an uncle or father? By the hot cup of tea now freshly spilt on John's seat and you walking out of the room buttoning up a shirt I presume you heard Mrs. Hudson. She can be rather loud," the man smirked.

"Sherlock," she stared at the man dumbfounded. So Mrs. Hudson wasn't lying about the man.

"How did I do?" Sherlock looked down at her like a student awaiting a grade.

"It is my father," Sawyer noted and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "The symbol. My father was a doctor it was a piece of him after he died. The books are his too."

Sherlock smiled at himself for getting it all right. "Well if you excuse me," he said as he tried to get past her to the room but Sawyer raised a hand to stop him.

"Where are you going?" She placed a hand firmly on his chest. Sherlock looked down at her hand then back up at her.

"My room?"

Sawyer shook her head. "It is my room now."

Sherlock's eyes grew wide. "Mrs. Hudson!"