A/N

Hey there!

Okay, so this is my first Sherlock Fanfiction, so don't judge me if it's awful. Well, actually, you can judge a little but you know.

Anyway, I'll shut up now.

On with the story!

Chapter 1

I close the door and turn the key until it clicks, before letting out a sigh. I've just moved into 222B, and I'm already regretting the decision. Yes, I have just moved in next door to the socially inept, sociopath detective, Sherlock Holmes. I am sort of wishing I hadn't though, he seems intent on making as much noise as possible, as often as possible. Literally.

I drop my keys in the decorative blue glass bowl, and shrug off my jacket. Once that's hung up, I make my way into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Just as I'm about to place the kettle on the stove however, there's a knock on the door. I sigh and put the kettle down on the marble worktop, before making my way back over to the door. I unlock it, but rest my hand on my decorative tribal knife (A gift from my great grandfather) and keep the chain on the door just in case. This place does have a bit of a reputation.

I have no need to worry though, because as I peer through the gap in the door, I see John standing there patiently. This, however, is only the case for about two seconds (1.8 to be precise), as his face is quickly replaced by that of his flatmate. I sigh as Sherlock peers in expectantly, and no sooner than I've taken the chain off, he barges in and starts looking over my belongings sceptically. Even in my heels, he stands a few inches taller than me. John follows him shortly, an apologetic look on his face.

"I'm sorry about this," He tells me, "It should only take a moment."

"Something for a case I presume," I half-ask, my eyes still on Sherlock as he lifts my glass wolf ornament from the coffee table. He inspects it closely, from its tail to its piercing ice blue eyes.

John smiles reassuringly and half shrugs as his flatmate continues his search.

"Tea?" I offer, more to John than Sherlock.

"Er, no thank you…"

"Heather. Heather Walters."

"Ah, Heather." John repeats, "Thank you for the offer, but I think we may be done."

He looks to Sherlock, who blatantly ignores him and continues to inspect the various objects around him.

"Well, if you're quite finished dismantling my living room, I'd rather like to have some time to myself."

This time he does look up. He places the vase of lilies back where they were prior to him picking them up and starts looking me up and down. Any other person would be slightly uncomfortable under his piercing gaze, but I stood there and waited for him to finish.

"Well?" I ask, my eyebrow raised, "Are you quite done checking me out yet?"

When he doesn't reply, I place my hands on my hips and stare back at him.

"Take a photograph, it'll last longer," I say with as much sass as I can muster. He looks up at my face and glares.

"Go on then," I tell him, "Assess me."

He grins wickedly before he decides to speak.

"Well, your attire suggests you work for some sort of newspaper, no wait, a novelist? Yes, definitely a novelist. You nails are done all except your right thumb and index finger, suggesting constant use, typing perhaps, meaning you're very dedicated to your work, or it could be stress, also work related. Your posture is like that of someone important, someone respectable, perhaps you are, or maybe you act this way around others. To impress. Your face isn't as easy to read. You blink a little too often, you're worried maybe. Scared of being found out? Ooh you are good at this. The bottom of your dress is slightly crumpled; perhaps it's been scrunched up because of stress, anxiety probably. Another work related thing I'm guessing, well, not guessing actually, I never guess. I just know. Did I miss anything out?" He finishes rather smugly, a small smirk playing on his lips.

But my grin is wider.

"Ooh, and here I was thinking you'd actually be able to suss me out. Firstly, I'm a poet, but yes I do write novels too, also, I am not dedicated to my work; my thumb and forefinger have short nails because of my use of contacts, hence the blinking. I thought that would be the easiest thing for you to spot? As for the dress, I've been carrying a bag all day which has been rubbing against its hem, which is why it's slightly crumpled. My posture is only the way it is because if you hadn't already noticed, I'm wearing heels, which causes me to stand up straighter, slightly more aloof you may say. As for you, the cunning detective, they say you're a psychopath, but I'm thinking more along the lines of a sociopath? You've bags under your eyes, suggesting, obviously lack of sleep, meaning either you have trouble sleeping (which I doubt), you are devoted to your work or, no, Sherlock Holmes! You fiend! You enjoy your job, you use it as a thrill, rather than getting high, am I right? Ooh, now we're getting somewhere," He turns round almost uninterested, and begins examining the wolf once again, "Oh, is that a gun I see? Pocking out of your back pocket? I'm guessing it's for precautions? Just in case things turn sour at work," He puts the ornament down before turning back around, "Oh it is fun to watch those cogs in your brain turn, trying to figure me out. It won't work Sherlock. You can try as hard as you like, but you won't get anywhere, I promise you. Now, did I miss anything out?"

He looks irked. I smile at his confused state and wait from his answer.

"My face," He murmurs, "What about my face?"

"Well, apart from the fact you are clearly shocked, the stubble, meaning you haven't shaved in a while, and the small amount of panic evident in those green eyes of yours, you seem pretty… bored, well, that's what you want the others to think isn't it?"

"No," He says, his voice barely a whisper, "Read it, like you did before."

I raise an eyebrow, "Well, it's pretty hard to see round all this shock, but," I let out a small barely audible gasp as his face shifts ever so slightly. I smile and my face softens in just the slightest way. I slowly make my way over to him.

"Admiration."

Only he can hear my voice. His lips tug up into the slightest of smiles and I wink at him.

"Well, it seems I've stunned the great Sherlock Holmes," I say, moving back to where I was originally standing, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got business to attend to."

"Of course," John says, glaring at Sherlock who merely chuckles, "We should be going ourselves."

Just as Sherlock is walking out of the door, I realize something.

"This wasn't an inspection at all, was it?" He stops and smiles, but doesn't face me, "This was a test, to see what I would do, what I'm like. Wasn't it?"

He chuckles and finally turns to look at me.

"You sneak!" I tell him, "You little sneak!"

He turns and leaves, chuckling as he goes. I sigh and close the door before locking it. I lean against the peeling wood and let out another sigh. Once I've finally got a grip on what just happened, I make my way into the kitchen to continue where I left off, making tea. Once the kettle has boiled and a steaming mug is in my hands, I sit down and continue to work on my latest book. My nails clink on the mug as I set it down and start to type instead. I hear a series of bangs next door followed by a string of swear words from John. I sigh and try to drown out all sounds as I work. But then a particularly loud bang snaps me back into reality and I decide to go and see what's going on. Besides, it's only fair after my last encounter with the two of them. So I shut my laptop and make my way out of my apartment.

As I turn to make my way next door, my heart stops.

I freeze on the spot as a figure dressed completely in black, who was previously trying to get into Sherlock's apartment, turns and sees me. I realize then that I have around twenty seconds to work out how to stop him, or at least get past him.

I see he's holding a knife, a rather blunt knife, a butcher's knife? Yes, that's it, with a wooden handle, great for grip. There's also a small gun in his left pocket, the barrel protruding slightly, so I have no means of stopping him, only getting past him and warning those next door. I notice he's holding the knife up, not in warning, but in preparation for attack. I wish I'd brought my grandfather's knife with me, but I can't go back and get it now, if I turn, he'll stab me straight in the back, into my ribs, a fatal blow with survival out of the question. So I play out possible scenarios in my head. If I try to run past him, he'll stab me straight in the chest, killing me. If I try to attack him, he'll kill me as well. I've no weapon after all. I could try and stall, but from the way he's walking at me, knife raised, makes it seem impossible.

Ten seconds.

I quickly play through a couple more scenarios. Kick him? No. Distract him? No.

Five seconds.

He's so close now, so I do the only thing that comes to mind.

I kick straight upwards, knocking his knife out of his hand. It clatters to the floor and he swiftly bends to pick it up. But by this point, I'm already through 222B's front door and into the living room. There seems to be no-one around and I hear the run of water from the bathroom.

Shower.

That's probably what the noise was, meaning it's John there, not his sociopath flatmate.

"Sherlock!" I scream, just as the mystery person appears in the doorway. I feel a table brush the back of my thighs and jump backwards over it.

Just then, Sherlock appears, looking rather annoyed, but when he sees the person in black, he swiftly pulls his gun from his pocket and points it at them. I finally see it's a man, and he reaches for his own gun, but I stop him. I leap forward and kick him straight in the face, before upper cutting his chin. He seems dazed at first, but then he throws a punch of his own, which of course I had anticipated, and dodge out of the way. What I didn't see though, was his foot, which briefly came into contact with my ankle, before I am falling over.

My head connects with the coffee table with an almighty CRACK! and my vision starts to go black. Something warm slips over my face, but I manage to stay conscious. I watch as Sherlock darts over to the attacker and throws a punch to his head, knocking him out. He crumples to the floor, unconscious. Then, Sherlock makes his way over to where I lie, cowering against the coffee table. My eyes are wide with fear and the adrenalin coursing through my veins.

"It's okay Heather, it's over now."

I've never felt so vulnerable before, and yet, I've gone through worse than this. I'm shaking, quivering in fright.

"Calm down Heather."

His voice is oddly soothing and I find myself relaxing a little. I realize his hand is resting on my shoulder, in an attempt to reassure me. I take a deep breath and breathe out a sigh. I feel calmer now, and I stand (with the help of Sherlock). He supports me as I stay standing, and he only lets me go when he's sure I can hold my own weight.

"You're hurt," It's more of a statement as he looks to my head, "Come."

"I'm fine, honestly," I say, even though I know I'm not. Sherlock of course notices this and he leads me into the kitchen and sits me down. He then proceeds to pull medical supplies out of a cupboard and lays them out in front of me. He then uses an antiseptic wipe to clean the blood off my head, but luckily the wound is already starting to scab over.

It feels odd having him stand over me, alien almost, yet so natural at the same time. Once he's sure I'm okay, and all the blood is cleaned up, he lets me stand once more.

Still the sounds of the shower ring out from the bathroom and Sherlock stops still in thought.

"What are you going to do now?" I ask him, and he grins devilishly.

"That's the fun part."

I groan.

"Not a psychopath my arse!" I mutter. Sherlock however ignores me, so I sigh and excuse myself from the apartment, stepping over the body as I go.

Once I'm back in my apartment, I breathe out a sigh of relief. I pour my now cold cup of tea down the sink and then make my way into my bedroom before flopping down on my bed and letting the darkness consume me.

A/N

Hi again!

So that was the first chapter, so don't forget to tell me what you think, like what could be added/removed/done and anything else like that.

Until next time!

Sphinxy