Hey everyone! :D GL here, writing her first Sherlock fanfiction! (I think?)

I'd like everyone to know that this is rated M just for safety, there may be adult scenes and cussing.

I'm not sure yet on my point of view, it may change from Lacie's to 3rd person, or to Jim's. Just bare with me :)

I don't own anything, I just borrow the characters to act out my fantasies... :(

Please read and review!


I never saw my neighbors much. I heard them though, the sounds of people running up the stairs to apartment 221B, or down the stairs into the street. I heard bumps and thuds, likely from people or things falling. I heard the occasional scream, and after reassurance from Doctor Watson, I learned that the occasional scream was likely from him finding some sort of weird experiment in some place it shouldn't be. I heard gunshots a few times, and Mrs. Hudson told me it from the consulting detective that got a bit too bored. I also heard the violin. Trust me, I heard the violin. I heard it at 4 am, I heard it when I would wake up in the mornings, and I heard while I ate my meals. I didn't hear it all the time, but like a plague or a curse, the damned man seemed to always play it when I wanted peace, or was trying to sleep. I never told him to stop it, mostly because I thought he was a bit... odd, and I didn't want to have to speak with him.

I almost considered moving out, what with all the gunshots, violin playing, screams, bumps, and just general noise from upstairs, but I decided against it. This was the only place I could afford at the moment, and even then it was because Mrs. Hudson was kind and let me paint a mural on her wall instead of paying full rent. It took a few weeks, and when I had finished with the intricate scene that covered the whole wall, she was so happy and pleased that she gave me a reduced rent fee. I'm glad she did, I thought the mural was fantastic, and if I could have painted the magical forest scene on canvas exactly as I had painted it on the wall, I would have.

I'm an artist. Right now, I'm an undiscovered, struggling artist. I make my living by sketching portraits of people on the street in front of 221C Baker street, which is where I currently live. Every since I had moved to London a few months ago, I've spent most of the weekdays in front of the apartment trying to earn my keep. At night, I'd work on my paintings, or sketch some more. You could say I didn't have much of a life, but to me, my art was my life. Sure, other than Mrs. Hudson, I had no friends in London. I also didn't have a boyfriend, or any other person I would even consider dating. That never bothered me much, mostly because I'd rather work on a painting instead of going to the movies or out to dinner with someone.

My day began as it normally did. My alarm rang promptly at eight o'clock, the alarm sound being the theme song from my favorite canceled show, Firefly. I'm not saying I was a major fangirl of all things sci-fi, I just liked the show.

I groaned, still tired from last night. Mr. Consulting Detective had been playing Mozart all night, and I was unable to get more than a few hours sleep. I leaned up in my queen sized bed, the only luxury I had allowed myself since the move to London, and pushed away the pale blue and dark brown sheets. I shuffled my way into the bathroom, stripped, and started to shower. The shower woke me up a bit, and after brushing my teeth, I walked back into my bedroom to get dressed. Today felt like a maroon day, so I pulled on my dark red panties and bra, before throwing on a black tank-top and a pair of paint-stained faded jeans. I sat down at my vanity, a rickety old thing that I had gotten cheap at a rummage sale and had fixed (or attempted to) fix up.

I normally didn't wear make-up, so I just ran a brush through my short, messy blue hair. Yes, blue. Not a bright, obnoxious blue that teenagers and punks felt looked rebellious, but rather a dark, almost black blue. I don't know why I chose that color, I had just been restless on my 23rd birthday, and dyed it. I liked it, so since then, I had kept it. Once my hair was done, (nothing more difficult than running a brush through it, I had no one I wanted to impress), I walked to the kitchen to grab something to eat. As always, my fridge was almost empty and I vowed to get groceries later on tonight. For now, I mused, I would live on toast. While the toast was toasting, I threw on a maroon button up collared shirt, and rolled up the sleeves to my elbows, in an attempt to keep it clean in work to come.

I grabbed the toast, and began nibbling at it while I moved the stool I sat on to sketch outside, and then the small, light-weight, portable easel outside and set it up. I then carried out my pencil case, my drawing pad, and the sign I had artfully created after I had moved in. I set up the sign which read, "Portrait Sketches. £10 per person, groups of 3 or more base price of £30 and £15 per additional person"

I finished my toast as I set up my sketch pad, a professional type that I had bought just to sell sketches to people who requested them. I was ready to wait for business, and I had even brought a paperback version of my favorite novel, The Great Gatsby, to read if business was slow.


It was a busy day, and I was glad for it. A lot of tourists traveled down Baker street, and I had several large groups want to have group drawings done. It was nearing three in the afternoon when business began to slow down. I grabbed a meager sandwich I had made, just the basic peanut butter, and took quick break to eat. Afterwards, I began to read from where I had left off in my book, stopping occasionally to glance up at the surroundings, to see if there were any approaching customers. It was around 3:30 when I first noticed him. I ignored him at first, and went back to reading, but when I looked up again, he was still there. He stayed where he was, and at 4:10, I stopped reading to see what he was up to.

He looked like he wasn't really doing anything. He was just standing on the other side of the street, dressed in an immaculate suit that fit him like a glove, staring at the apartment. His hands were in his pockets, and he had a faint smile on his lips, as if he was waiting for something. He didn't pay much attention to me at first, and I couldn't blame him. He looked so important, and I was not. Why would he care to look at a girl trying to sell pictures on the sidewalk?

I examined him for a bit longer, my eyes were trained to spot and examine details, and I noted the sharp jawline that he possessed was covered in a fine layer of what appeared to be a carefully groomed 5 o'clock shadow, the somewhat thin yet full looking lips, and the meticulous dark brunette hair. A pair of dramatic arched eyebrows rested over what seemed to be the darkest and most intense pair of eyes I had ever seen. The combination of all these small things added into what I thought was both a very attractive, and very dangerous looking man.

People moved around him, and I felt compelled to draw him, to create evidence that he existed. He was ignored, and I could have almost believed that he was just a figment of my imagination. I had to do something! Before he left, I quickly grabbed my drawing pad and opened it up to a random blank page. With a pencil in my hands, I began sketching him quickly. I did a full body sketch, and when I glanced up at him for the third time, I noticed he was staring at me. I tried to ignore his piercing gaze the best I could, and continued to draw. I wanted to capture him perfectly, this incredible display of elegance and power that he just seemed to radiate. I looked back down at my drawing, and began to draw in the shading around him. It wasn't until I heard a cough that I glanced back up.

He was standing in front of me.