How was I to know that if I had moved into the basement flat of 221 Baker Street, I would go on the most splendid adventures of my life, find my old friend and die all within the same month?

I had just moved back to London this past week, and was lucky enough to find a cheap flat not too far from the inner city. The land lady, a sweet old woman named Mrs. Hudson, had welcomed me when moving day came around and told me that I may meet the other people of 221 in a short while, but they were currently at work. I nodded my thanks and told her that I would be delighted to any time. I was curious about the two that lived above me. Mrs. Hudson had informed me that they worked with the police force, and that I would occasionally, quite possibly hear gunshots. With a smile, I told her that it wouldn't be a problem, and signed the lease agreements.

The Flat was small, and the ceiling was low, but for my 5' 7" height, it was perfect. My futon fit into the corner of my room nicely, and I used the rest of the space for my multitude of books, music and gaming systems. The kitchen, dining room and living room were all rather open to each other, and I loved it. My small couch fit wonderfully and getting the table in there wasn't a hassle. The hardest part was setting up speaks so that I could hear my music all threw the flat. Smiling, I flopped down on to couch. Unpacking had taken a few hours, and I was in no mood to cook. Sliding on some flats and hoodie, I locked the door to my flat and made my way outside. Just as I opened the door, however, I was face to face with two gentlemen. The first was tall. Taller than most men and lean, with cheekbones that were out of this world, his hair was a curl mess that fell perfectly around his face. His glacier blue eyes quickly found my own brown red eyes. He cocked an eyebrow as I stood to the side for the two of them to pass. The second man was shorter, with dark blonde hair and a round face. His eyes were warm, yet battle worn and he stood straight as an arrow. He was the one to smile at me.

"Oh hello, sorry, you must be our new flat mate." He said politely, sticking out a hand to shake mine, which I politely met. "I'm John, John Watson," He gestured to the man beside him "and this is Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock's POV

The door opened before us, and in front of me stood our new flat mate. She was of average height, for an American woman. Her build was strong, with small shoulders and narrow hips and a small waist, but that's where the small's stopped. Her legs were strong, strong from the years of soccer and rugby during her University years. That was evident from the muscle tone in her body, as well as the jaw fracture that set it to the left just slightly that occurred during a match in her third year. Her skin was lighter, but freckles were dotted up her arms, and very lightly across her cheeks. Most likely both parents form Irish decent. Physically matching those commonly called Black Irish; dark hair, dark eyes with skin that wasn't as pale as the traditional peoples.

Her clothes were simple, but flattering. So small budget, but she still cares about her appearance. Her hair was cropped very short, with longer tendrils on the top that were spiking up at ends. Punk hairstyle, yet styled down. Playing a conservative in order to not offend the new neighbors? Roundish face with a small jaw and chin, set off with black full rimmed square glasses. Her eyes weren't terrible, but she most likely suffered from headaches without them. The dark circles under her eyes tell stories of late night's spent staring at the computer she worked at. Her wrists are small, but a brace was wrapped around the left one, most likely early stages of carpal tunnel.

As John stretched out his hand and introduced the two of us, she grasped it firmly and shook it once; strong grip, with no fear of authority. She returned John's smile.

"My names Pan, it's nice to meet you." Her accent was northwestern American, but it was hinted with that of a Londoners. Possibly spent a long time abroad? When her eyes turned back to mine, it was as though they were searching for something. She nodded finally, and left, closing the door behind her.

"What the hell was that?!" I asked aloud, quickly turning and going up the stairs. John followed me closely.

"That was our rather attractive new flat mate, and I'd be really grateful if you didn't offend her." John said, pulling off his jumper and setting it nicely on the kitchen table. I ignored him, I wasn't talking about her physical being, I meant her searching. Why was she looking at him as if she were trying to remember something? Sitting down in my chair, I concentrated on her face and her voice. Why did it feel like I should remember her?

To those who were reading Angel in the Snow! I'm sorry I took it down, but I just wan't satisfied with the writing structure and story line at the moment! Don't worry, Asha should be back later in the summer, but for now, Enjoy the adventures of Sherlock and Pan; my newest fic and one that will be updated regularly.

To those reading my older stories, im sorry that i havent updated them, but i have sadly lost my muse for both of them :(