I walked down the streets of London, not particularly lost, but not exactly knowing where I was. So…yeah I'm lost. But I'm not outwardly admitting it. Sherlock was gonna lecture my ears off again today. Or whenever I manage to get back to 221B Baker St. I moved here maybe a year ago? Anyway, after a year I've still failed to memorize all the streets like Sherlock had, and he loved to point that out every time we went out somewhere.

I turned another corner, hoping for a busy street or something of the sort, but all I got was a nearly empty and dark cobblestone street. More like an alley than a street, really. I huffed in annoyance and flipped my blonde hair over my shoulder, its long locks hitting my shoulder blades lightly. Then I started down the dark street. I wasn't sure what exactly I was looking for at this time of night. Did taxis even run around at nearly 2:00AM?

As I walked I couldn't help but feel unease. Like I was being watched or something. But when I looked around, no one was there. After another five minutes of this feeling, it began to bug me. All I wanted was to go home to my friends. John would surly lecture me about how dangerous it was for me to be out so late, especially as a woman, even if I was in a war like he was. Except I was from a special force of twelve. Each of us twelve are different nationalities. I'm Russian, but I was raised in Texas, USA. My accent was still partially with me though. The twelve of us 'elites' basically ran around behind the scenes, taking out higher ups. We also stole documents, weapons, and supplies from the other sides. We sabotaged weapons and machinery as well. Made me feel like an assassin. Oh wait, I guess I kinda was one. Man do I miss that work! Always on edge, fighting to survive. Never turning your back on the fight in front of you. Excitement. When I got home, all I did was mope around, bored out of my skull. My magnum got dusty unless I polished her. She missed being fired. I know it. Then I got a call from a friend of mine. It was Lestrade, from London. Greg told me there was some interesting things in the city of London I'd like to get off my butt and see.

So I flew over to London, leaving basically everything I owned in Texas, not planning to return to that boring area again. All I brought was my army backpack, full of my war memories, my twin magnums, and my Milanese Sword used by a Spaniard captain at one point in history, and it's saved my ass on too many occasions to trash. I got a lot of scared gawks when I walked down the streets of London with it strapped lazily to my back. Most had them on their side, but It was uncomfortable that way. My backpack was carried like a side bag, so the sharpened blade wouldn't cut it. Surprisingly, Scotland Yard was not that hard to find. Getting in was interesting. An irritating woman stopped me abruptly and tried to take my stuff.

"Give me the blade." She had spat, right after calling for Greg and a man I didn't know named Anderson.

"Why?" I asked simply, no intension of handing over my treasures to this bitchy woman. I didn't even know her, yet I could already tell she was not EVER going to be fun around.

"You cannot enter this building while equipped with a weapon." She said sternly.

"Says who?"

"Me." She puffed herself like a penguin to appear more superior. I think it just made her more ridiculous.

"And since when are you running Scotland Yard?"

"Since when is it your business?"

"Since you're not Greg and I know Greg runs this place. You are not my problem, now where's Greg?" I sighed. She was dull, predictable, most likely an egotistic human being. Not to mention she wore men's cologne.

"Either give me the weapon and the bag, or I'm putting your sassy ass under arrest."

"No you're not." I said, leaning against a stone pillar and looking past her.

"Really? How much you wanna bet?" She laughed.

"I don't bet, Donovan, I win." She gave me a look, confused on how I knew her name. I shrugged, giving her a smirk, then waved to Greg. "Hi Greg!" Lestrade waved back as he came up to miss bitch and I, being tailed by three men. A snotty looking man, a short blonde, and a tall lanky, yet obviously muscled male with the same expression as me. Examining. Observing. Huh, and here I thought I was the only one with some sort of intelligence.

"Problem, Anya?" Greg asked as soon as he got to us. The tall man's eyes seemed to scan me intensely.

"Not a one." I cooed, making it obvious that I was ignoring Donovan, who was not very pleased, much to my amusement.

"Really?" The tall man said, looking at my tense form and then to Donovan's ugly mug.

"She," I said gesturing to said slut, "Is not my problem right now." The man smirked in amusement, much like my own, and held out his hand to me.

"Sherlock Holmes." I took it happily, giddy that I now know someone that hates something similar to me. Stupid people. And annoying people.

"Anya Alkaev. A pleasure Mr. Holmes." My Russian accent dripped at my names pronunciation.

"Sherlock, please Miss Alkaev." He said warmly, I couldn't tell if it was genuine or not.

"Alright then. Call me Anya, please."

"With pleasure." He told me, giving my hand one more firm shake before releasing it. The smaller blonde stepped forward, and I laughed.

"Doctor John Watson!" I exclaimed, giving him a friendly hug. He gave me a questioning look. "Oh, you put my bone back in my leg after I nearly lost it. I got flung from a helicopter. Special Twelve Captain Alkaev." John thought for another minute or so before he gasped.

"Anya! Right! You saved the medical squadron!" He gave me a firm hug. "How have you been?!"

"Bored. After wars been nothing but dull." He chuckled at this. "What?"

"You sound like Sherlock when he gets 'bored'." Greg said with a laugh. "Miss the battlefield?"

"Immensely. Though technically I was never on the 'battlefield' except on a couple occasions. I did things in other areas that a mere solider could not handle." I proudly stated. As I said this, I noticed the other man staring at me. Not in an appropriate way either. It made me feel weird, and sick. Noticing me watching him, Sherlock rolled his eyes, and Greg pointed to him.

"That's Anderson, and you've met Donovan." He sighed out, knowing that if I had anything in common with Sherlock Holmes, I would end up hating these two. Well, one down.

"Tell me, Sherlock." I said, gaining the curly haired man's attention. "Does his face have that nauseating effect on everyone, or is it just me?" Sherlock looked to Anderson's now agape face, then back to me.

"I'd say everyone indeed, but I do believe that effect would just be harming the both of us." I laughed.

"Indeed." Donovan and Anderson groaned.

"Oh God there's two of them!" Donovan moaned, walking past us and inside the building.

"Are her and Anderson, together?" I asked Greg, noticing something.

"Not since someone last asked, which was yesterday. Why?"

"Just curios considering their wearing the same cologne, Donovan is wearing the exact same cologne and deodorant as Anderson. Down to the brand, type, and expiration date." I told them. Anderson turned beet red and slunk away. Greg chuckled though, and patted my shoulder.

"Nice to see you again too Anya." He told her.

"Anya if I may?" Sherlock interrupted, getting my attention. "Do you have a place to stay?"

"Not at the moment no. But I can tell by the way your examining me and asking such a question, you're going to offer me a place." I said, knowing I was right. Years in the Special Twelve have taught you to observe and become a non idiot. You weren't anywhere near perfect, but you weren't too bad.

"Oooohhhh!" Sherlock clapped his hands together and hopped up and down childishly, like a kid that was just offered his favorite dessert. "George I like his woman!" I gave him a confused look.

"You mean Greg?" He stared at me.

"Who's Greg?"

"Me!" Greg hissed at the Consulting Detective.

"Oh. Well anyway I like her. I'm taking her back with us. John we're leaving." Sherlock turned on his heel and strode down the steps, leaving a group of gaping humans. I was shocked. Not one hour and I had a place to stay, AND Sherlock Holmes said he liked me. He liked me because I was intelligent. He thought I was intelligent.

I moved into 221B Baker St. after that. At first, I slept on the couch, occasionally having to move to the chair when Sherlock needed the couch for thinking. He was rude at times, and loved to prove me wrong, but when he let his guard down once in a blue moon, he was pretty nice. John was funny, especially when he and Sherlock got into a banter. He was also really nice, and told Sherlock to shut his trap whenever he started insulting my intelligence.

Thinking about all that's happened made me happy and a little less tense as I walked down this dark alley street to the next. I still felt uneasy, but it was more bearable now. Maybe it was because I left my weapons at home on the couch. No doubt Sherlock has probably thrown those across the room and out of his spot. That thought made me grit my teeth.

"Hey honey where you going?" A voice called out, making me stop. I knew it.

"I'm sorry? Honey?" I said, turning on my heel to face the man. He was tall, skinny, yet well built, much like Sherlock. He had brown hair, seeable by the lit street light he was standing under. And a stupid smirk on his face.

"Yeah. No one calls you that? Pity, you're beautiful." He said, taking a step closer. You didn't even flinch. "You ain't scared?"

"Not a bit." I told him, my soldier's bravery kicked in, and my mind swirled with different ways to kill this man. Or at least, seriously injure.

"You're a brave one. I like a woman with a little sass." I rolled my eyes.

"And I like a man that doesn't make me sick just by looking at him.

"Playing hard to get are we?" He cooed, now circling me. I watched him intently.

"Playing never in your life, actually." I mumbled. The man roughly grabbed my arm, and I kicked him right in the wrong tables, making him double over, then I brought my leg up, meeting his chin with both my leg and knuckle. He spit up blood all over my face and shirt. I swung my elbow into his neck, then slammed my foot into his back, leaving him to writhe in pain on the concrete street.

Not waiting for him to get back up, which was unlikely anyway, I ran down the street and around some corner buildings. After about ten minutes of almost nonstop running around aimlessly, I finally ran into a street sign. Literally. 3:20AM was the time when I finally made it to Baker St. Not looking around more, I ran to the door, now fully out of breath, and bolted inside the unlocked door, not stopping till I slammed into the door that held the number 221B. I roughly closed the door behind me, making the two half asleep residents inside swivel their head towards me.

"Anya! Finally!" John started in his disapproval tone, until he saw the blood. "Oh God." He began checking me. "Are you alright? What happened? Where does it hurt?"

"John relax. It's not her blood." Sherlock mumbled from his place on the couch.

"Then whose is it?" John asked me sternly.

"A rapist. I guess." I shrugged. He looked me up and down worriedly. "I'm fine. Why are you still up guys?" I asked, sitting crisscross in the chair across from Sherlock.

"John insisted we wait till you got home, to make sure you made it back alive." Sherlock answered, not opening his eyes at all.

"John you baby me." I giggled, turning to rest my head on one arm of the couch, while my legs dangled over the other.

"Sure, sure. I'm going to bed. Clean yourself up Anya, please." John said as he left the room.

"Sure, sure." I muttered, not planning on moving for another eighteen hours or so. It was insanely quiet for a bit, minus the two of us breathing. Sherlock looked asleep, and I was going to pass out any second.

"So you got lost?" Sherlock's deep voice cut through the silence, his eyes now open and upon me, watching my every movement.

"Kinda." I admitted. Sherlock scoffed.

"Kinda? There's no such thing." He said. "You either did or didn't get lost."

"Fine! I got lost!" I groaned. "Happy?"

"Not particularly." Sherlock sighed. I gave him a look.

"I thought you always got giddy when you prove I'm an idiot, which I'm not."

"The man you mentioned," Sherlock spat, ignoring your remark, "Did he touch you?" His eyes moved over your frame, looking for any sign of physical harm. "He did." He jumped up from his couch, and strode to you. "Give me your arm, Anya." You hopped up quickly. He never says your name, unless he's in a serious mood. Now would be that mood. He gently moved his slender fingers up and down the skin of your arm, thanks to your short sleeved shirt. "Dark bruises on the upper arm. He grabbed you from behind roughly." He placed his fingers on the bruises. "Size of the fingers is very similar to my own." I was now officially blushing bright red. For at least two and a half months ago, I started feeling weird around Sherlock. Not sick, but fluttering in the stomach. I start heating up and blush. Then after a long while I realized, I was falling for the rude, intelligent prick of a man. And now he was so close to me. That was not helping the fact I wanted to keep this secret. Yeah, I wanted to keep a secret from the best detective in history. "Your face is red." Dammit.

"Is it?"

"Don't play stupid. You're not stupid." He looked over my face and made a small hmm noise. "I wonder." He took two long fingers, and placed them on my pulse, most likely reading my rapid heartbeat. Then he slowly descended his face closer to mine, causing my heart to flail in a panic. Of course, that meant Sherlock could feel my pulse going nuts, and he hummed again. Then he placed his forehead on mine, and he chuckled at my increasing and highly unsteady heartbeat. "You should get that checked. It's not healthy." He mumbled.

"Sherlock, are you ok?" I asked, rightfully concerned. "I mean, you're never this nice or affection-Mpht!"

As soon as I least expected it, Sherlock had lip locked us, giving me an actual kiss. He abruptly let go as soon as he noticed my heartbeat had literally stopped all together. As soon as my heartbeat came back though, he kissed me again, softer this time.

"Holy crap." I breathed as we broke for air. "You can kiss?"

"Naturally. I've practiced." He told me, which confused me harshly.

"With who, John?" Sherlock stared at me like a nut.

"No. I'm not a loony Anya."

"Ok so if you're not nuts, who did you practice with, because you're good?" I smiled. Sherlock pointed to the mantle, making you turn a shade of green.

"The fucking skull?!" I moaned out of nausea. Sherlock beamed at me, not seeing the problem, then gaped at me.

"We never did anything like that, swear!"

"You practiced kissing with the skull…" You slowly laid down on the sofa, Sherlock looking down at your green self. After thinking a moment, Sherlock climbed around the sofa and laid down in between the back of the sofa and my back. While trying not to throw up, I glanced at him as he put his arms around my waist. "What are you doing?"

"From what I've heard about people in relationships is that the male is supposed to comfort the female when she feels unwell or upset. I'm right…right?" He stated, making you stare.

"We're in a relationship?"

"Yes, we are as of now." He told you. He didn't ask, or demand. He simply stated it like a easy to know fact.

"Well then, yes Sherlock. You're right. Like just about everything else." You said, numbing off a bit, out of consciousness.

"….."

"….."

"…."

"Just about?"

"Go to sleep Sherlock."