A/N: I'm on a writing binge and I've wanted to write this for some time. Hope you like it.
She moved in around the time he was using again. He did not snort cocaine. He did not inhale it. He swallowed it whole, drinking it down with water, like medicine. He never got sick. He had impeccable control. You couldn't tell. Except you could, sometimes.
Mrs. Hudson let him know there was a new tenant coming. He was not pleased. He wanted to buy the floor above just to prevent the intrusion. But he did not have the funds. His big brother was off-limits too.
He could accept it. Or he could drive the tenant away.
(*)
Betsy was the name written down in her birth certificate. It was the Peter Pan curse; born a woman, only to forever be a child. No one called her Elizabeth, or Beth. She had resigned herself to Betsy. Betsy wanted to write children's books, because she was meant to be a child forever. Currently, she had to settle for accountant. She was taking night classes for a better position.
She had saved up enough money to get a place of her own, without roommates. You shouldn't have roommates at 28. She was glad, but not excited. Baker Street sounded nice.
(*)
Mrs. Hudson told him the new girl was late. He had positioned himself outside his door, waiting. He tapped his foot impatiently. Eventually, he left. He did not like tardiness, although he was perenially late. Must have inherited that from Mycroft. Time passed slowly, pouring itself out like powder. He went to his stash. He made his special "tea". Then he fell asleep.
At 23:15, he heard movement on the floor above him. The tenant must be up there already. He would make a visit. Scare her off now, in the middle of the night. Like a boogey man.
(*)
Betsy was looking over the notes she'd taken in night class. She started drawing squiggly lines on the bottom. Night time was dreadful. No sleep. A knock at her door.
She was startled. Mrs. Hudson? Neighbour? Murderer on a spree? The knock persisted. The door did not have an eyehole. She braced herself, opened the door.
"Oh. Hi...may I help you?"
The tall man raised a finger. "Late twenties. 28 or 27. Social smoker, you used to have a dog, you came back from night class, you don't need it, but you think it's going to change things. You work with numbers and you probably have a crush on your boss."
(*)
He smiled genially. "I am right, of course. You don't have to say it." The woman stared at him sleepily. She looked miserable. She was confused, but not upset. Not yet. She rubbed her eyes.
"I'm sorry? Who are you?"
"Neighbour from downstairs. I am a drug addict and have been charged five times for assaulting officers."
She blinked at him like a ruffled owl.
"Oh...that's – that's terrible."
"Yes. It is. But I won't stop."
She looked a little scared now. Good.
"Have – have we met?"
"No. Of course not."
"Then how did you know those things about me?"
(*)
"You're embarrassingly easy to read. Don't feel bad. Most are."
Betsy was feeling naked. She hugged the bathrobe around her body. His eyes kept searching her for hidden layers. She wondered if she should call the police.
"Why are you telling me all of this?"
He smiled again. "So you'll leave."
"I'm sorry, what?"
Maybe she should just shout. He was very tall and lean, but not the muscular type. Maybe she could get away.
"I want you to move out. Until you do, I will keep telling you horrid things. I am doing you a service, rather. You wouldn't want to be my neighbour. No one would."
(*)
"What do you mean?"
She was being inordinately daft, he thought. Why did he have to repeat himself? Wasn't it clear what he wanted?
"I am a high-functioning sociopath. You are not in danger by any stretch of the imagination, but it would be much better for you if you left." He was trying to be civil about it.
"I'm – I'm not sure what you're on about, but I am paying rent just like you –"
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"You'll find another place, maybe one in your budget range. You ran away from roommates and I concur with the sentiment, but you won't survive long at Baker Street."
(*)
Betsy wanted to close the door. She did not feel safe. He was telling her to leave. Maybe she should. But something in the back of her head made her keep the door open.
"Are you a stalker?"
The man chuckled. It made her skin crawl.
"Why would I stalk an accountant? I am going with accountant, judging by your speech pattern."
Betsy looked down self-consciously. What else did he know?
"If you're not a stalker, how do you know these things?"
"I told you. But you don't listen. I read."
"Look, you need help. Professional help. And I'm not moving out." She had no idea where that courage had come from. Peter, probably.
(*)
"You are and you will." Sherlock was getting a little fed up with her simpering manner.
"I just got the place, I don't have anywhere else to go –"
Ah. So, she was willing to negotiate.
He shook his head. "I know you have parents. You get along. You can live with them for a while. I'll give you two days to go."
She seemed just as befuddled as before.
"What happens after two days?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Her curiosity was something new.
"You don't want to know."
He saw her visibly stiffen. One more line like that and she would close the door and cry.
(*)
Betsy gripped the doorknob for support. Would he hurt her? Was she ready for an attack? He was the man who lived downstairs. Mrs. Hudson had told her about him. But only that he liked to be left alone.
And now he was here, practically invading her privacy, reciting facts about her and threatening her existence.
"You don't scare me." A lie like any other. She was sure he knew.
"Yet," he replied coolly.
She swallowed.
"If you're so bent on it, why don't you move instead?"
"No."
"No?"
"I need this place more than you do."
(*)
"That's not fair."
Sherlock rested one hand against the frame of her door. She drew back slightly. Her eyes, the colour of dry leaves, flitted from his hand to his face.
"Fairness is not a condition of life."
"I'll complain to Mrs. Hudson –"
"Others have moved before you. Many others. I have chased them all away."
Her eyes widened. "You're crazy."
He derived a perverse sense of joy from her obtuseness. She, like everyone else, liked to throw casual insults. But she, unlike everyone else, was not condescending about it. She meant it.
"More incentive for you to leave."
(*)
"Did you tell the others you were crazy?" she inquired. Against her better judgement, she was curious. The man standing before her was so removed from everything she knew that talking to him felt like walking on water or touching fire.
"I did not have to. Now, going back to my previous statement. I give you two days. Three, at the most. Alert your parents."
"You can't tell me what to –"
But he interrupted her without concern. "Yes, I can."
She could feel her cheeks getting red, but she didn't care. "You know, you don't know everything. About me."
(*)
"Oh?"
This would be amusing. It happened all the time. Every single time. The people he met always wanted a chance to prove him wrong, to prove that they were special, that they were not like everyone else.
"You may know certain things, but you don't know how I feel, you don't know how I think."
Sherlock scoffed.
"You'll find that I do."
"Then – then you don't know where I go. When I'm in my head."
He raised an eyebrow. He had not expected...that.
"You don't know the place. You don't know the people. You don't know what I do there."
Sherlock heard a kettle singing. It was coming from her kitchen.
(*)
"That's my tea. I have to go. Kindly go away. Good night," she said mechanically. This time, she would close the door. She would.
She squeaked when his hand slammed against it.
"What place are you talking about?"
Betsy scowled.
"Let go of the door."
"What place?"
"My – my place. All right? My secret place. Not yours."
"Fantasies? Dreams?" he inquired in a precipitated voice.
"No. Those are different."
"A mind palace then?"
Betsy stared. "A what?"
But the man shook his head. "Nevermind."
"Please go."
He looked into her eyes and sneered. "You'll be gone soon enough."
(*)
He threw himself on the sofa and ran a hand through his hair. He could hear her up there, drinking her tea, watching the telly. Abominable. The confrontation had not been quite as successful as he had hoped. But there was time. He had all the time in the world, whereas she was running out of it.
My secret place.
He frowned. She had a form of escape. That made her a little unpredictable, but only as unpredictable as a child could be.
Childlike. That's what she was.
And how did you reason with children? You had to be firm. You had to show no weakness. He wouldn't.