She googled him that night. Combed through news articles, pretended not to stare at the pictures (what a horrid hat), and wondered. Wondered why someone so brilliant made a living as an amateur, if you could call it that, detective. He could be solving the mysteries of the universe instead of homicides. It seemed such a small occupation for such a great man. She had to know why. She just had to. It was eating her up. All she could think about was that face, and those legs, and that unhappy air about him.
She had to see him again. Which left her three options. A—go to their flat and ask John out for a cuppa. That one felt dishonest because she was interested in Sherlock, not John. Although it was sort of arrogant of her to assume that John would even say yes, except that Sherlock had said that thing about romantic entanglements… but maybe he had just been flapping his gums.
B—hire Sherlock to solve some mystery for her. She'd have to invent a mystery. Fooling Sherlock wouldn't be easy. In fact, it would be impossible.
And C—commit a crime Scotland Yard would need Sherlock's help solving. This plan had the benefit of not going straight to Sherlock. That might seem desperate.
Needless to say, she decided on option A, though she had some fun fantasies about option C. The case of the missing stapler. She'd run in, distraught, unable to find her favorite stapler. His black cape would billow as he turned to stare at her.
"Your stapler? Interesting. John, we'll take the case!"
"Wait, really?" Of course John would be stumped. He wouldn't recognize the magnetic attraction between them, an attraction Sherlock himself wouldn't be aware of. Not until later, after he had finally tracked the stapler to her apartment, where she had "accidentally" left it in her dishwasher. He'd turn to her slowly.
"You're the culprit," he'd say in that low rumble. She wouldn't deny it. She'd smirk and say, "Took you long enough." He'd be taken aback, blown away that she could have duped him, for even a short time. He'd be so surprised that, next thing he knew, he'd be kissing her against her counters.
That's where the fantasy falls apart, because she can't decide if he's an inexperienced kisser (he didn't really seem into dealing with other people, and she couldn't imagine him having a girlfriend), or an amazing kisser (he doesn't look like he's bad at anything, and if he can know her college major just by looking at her, he must be good at telling what a girl likes). Neither one seems quite right, and the fantasy dissolves.
A nice old lady answered the door to 221B Baker St, and Abbey was immediately uncomfortable. She expected her to ask Abbey if she had washed behind her ears and when she was going to settle down with a nice man. Or to immediately suspect that Abbey planned to manipulate her way into Sherlock's life by taking advantage of John's possible feelings for her. Or possibly just John's kindness. Or possibly fail at the entire thing and oh God why was she here she should leave this instant.
Of course, Mrs. Hudson was neither her own grandmother nor a psychic and, after a moment's chatting, Abbey quite liked her.
"Are you a client of Sherlock's?" she asked.
"Oh no, I was actually popping by to see John," she said, ear tips turning pink.
"Bit young for John aren't you?" Mrs. Hudson said in her knowing voice.
"No, I just met him the other day and wanted to, um…"
"Well, darling, don't worry. John insists they're not, you know. John has lots of girlfriends. I mean, not lots, but he's had girlfriends. Not boyfriends or anything like that." Mrs. Hudson seemed to be under the impression that she was correcting a false impression of Abbey's, when in fact she was only confusing her. It had never occurred to her to wonder if the two of them were, erm, intimate, together. She supposed she ought to have. They had been out to coffee together, they worked together, they lived together.
But Sherlock seemed so…well, not straight. He seemed rather like he wouldn't waste time on something so trivial as sex and certainly not on something so sentimental as relationships. But if he were into other people at all, she had a hard time visualizing him with the affable Mr. Watson. Oh, no, it was Dr. Watson, wasn't it? She had glanced at his blog, demonstrating remarkable restraint if you asked her. She had decided it would be exceedingly stalkerish to comb through every website even remotely mentioning Sherlock just days before fake asking out John to be near Sherlock. Too hard to pretend she hadn't memorized every detail of every case. Plus, better to avoid adding fuel to the fire of her newfound obsession for as long as possible.
So, she remained relatively in the dark about most of their cases. Totally not a stalker.
"John's upstairs, dear. I'll just go ahead and let him know you're here. Come along," she said, gesturing to follow her up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was already calling ahead, "Boys! You have a visitor!" Abbey was fairly sure she was having a heart attack. What on Earth made her think that this was a good idea?
The door at the top of the stairs was already open and Mrs. Hudson knocked on the frame and called in again. "Yoohoo!"
"For God's sakes, Mrs. Hudson, just tell Miss Abbey to come in and be quiet!" Mrs. Hudson gasped out something along the lines of, "Really, Sherlock, your manners…" and walked back down the stairs. Abbey swallowed and walked in. Sherlock Holmes was standing in the far corner with a violin at his side and a pencil in his hand.
"Composing?" she asked, surprised she had spoken first.
"Editing."
"Editing what?"
"Tchaikovsky," he said. She laughed, and he turned his head to pin her with a stare, as if how dare she laugh at me, He Who Is Never to be Taken Lightly?
"Sorry. You're not kidding. Wow. You must be good if you think you can improve on Tchaikovsky. I'm no classical music expert, but even I know he was pretty good."
"Famous and good are not the same," he said, as if that was some revelation.
"Yeah, but still famous after centuries is a pretty good credential for the CV. I'm betting he's pretty good. Good is, however, subjective." Silence. One beat. Two.
"Yes." Phew, sweep me off my feet, Mr. Holmes. Not quite the conversationalist when he wasn't laying someone's life bare.
"John isn't here." Also very welcoming, Mr. Holmes was.
"Oh, right," she said, blushing. She hadn't moved from her spot a meter inside the doorway. "I'll just be going then. Serves me right for just popping by, only I didn't have his mobile number, and I just thought—"
"Thought you'd try your hand at amateur seduction with Dr. John Watson to gain access to 221B Baker St in order to satisfy your curiosity about the, how did you phrase it—the resurrected phony-who-wasn't-a-phony-maybe?" Okay, definite heart attack now. TIA, at the very least.
"Well someone's full of himself," she said in her best "indifferent to your bologna" voice. It was a good thing her mouth seemed capable of working at all times, no matter her mental, physical, or emotional state. Good old, trusty mouth.
"Don't be dull, Abbey. Evasion and denial only work on idiots."
"I'll have you know I did come round to see John. I lost my stapler at work, and I was right fond of the fella, too! I looked everywhere and couldn't find it and got to calling it in my head, 'The Case of the Missing Stapler'. Then it struck me funny, seeing as how I'd only a few days ago happened to meet the world's most famous detective! Then that got me thinking what a nice bloke that Mr. Watson was, only it turns out he's Dr. Watson, and I thought it such a shame that I don't get to know more people because I'm always thinking 'Well, it would be right awkward to just pop by a stranger's flat and ask 'em to lunch', so I decided to hell with awkward, I was going to see if John wanted a cuppa or something!" Look who could spew whole paragraphs of nonsense without breathing now, Mr. Holmes.
Sherlock had been looking at her with the same focused gaze he always seemed to have, and now he angled his body away to set his violin against the corner wall and rest his bow on the music stand.
"I almost believe you," he said.
"Same to you, arsehole," she said, turning to walk down the stairs, although she didn't feel mad at all. She supposed her mouth had conspired with her legs to portray an air of righteous indignation in order to save face. They were such quick thinkers, her mouth and legs.
"Wait," came his voice. Calm, but commanding.
"Yeah?" She didn't turn all the way around. Her legs thought that would be a give-away.
"John will be home any minute. He just went out for tea. He'd be very displeased if he learned I'd scared away a visitor. Especially a, oh how did he put it—shaggable one." She turned the rest of the way around, because shock apparently overrode her legs.
"You're making that up," she exclaimed, her face red as a Maraschino. He lifted an eyebrow. Whyever would you think that? She sputtered.
"If he'd really thought that, which I'm not saying he did, then he wouldn't have said that to you! And if he had, which I'm not saying he did, then you wouldn't have told me!"
"Whyever would you think that? Any of those things, in fact?" More sputtering on her part.
"Blokes don't tell birds when their mates find them shaggable! Plus, he was so…"
"Nice? Yes, women do seem drawn to John's 'nice guy', wounded soldier, honorable doctor routine. Initially."
"Great, now I'm under the catchall category of women, which, by the way you articulate the word, I'm seriously rethinking Mrs. Hudson's insistence that the two of you aren't gay, although I suppose you could be and he not be, but anyway I'm also apparently too stupid to tell if John's actually nice or if he just pretends to get laid? Which he isn't trying to do. Get laid. With me." Okay, now she was standing in Sherlock Holmes' apartment, practically yelling the phrase "get laid". This couldn't have gone worse. Until…
"Uh, Sherlock? Abbey?" John's much less baritone, but so much more welcome (well, would have been welcome had he not been the subject of discussion) voice came from almost directly behind her. Abbey brought her fingers to her temple and closer her eyes.
"You couldn't have said, 'Gee Abbey, what nice points you make, but it appears John is coming up the stairs, so perhaps we can continue this discussion at a later time?'"
"If you hadn't wanted John to overhear, you shouldn't have said it all. Why people insist on hiding their silly feelings, which are so blatantly obvious, from each other is beyond me."
"Uh, yeah, hello. Remember me? The one I'm pretty sure I heard you two shouting about when I came up the stairs?" Abbey turned on her heel and smiled apologetically at John. She couldn't tell how red her face was anymore. Once it got to a certain stage, she was entirely desensitized.
"Hi John, Dr. Watson. I popped by to see if you wanted to maybe get a cuppa, but your charming flatmate ensnared me in conversation." John smiled a Yeah, Sherlock does that and do I even want to know what you were saying about me because it didn't really make sense to me and I think I missed something smile.
"Well, I've just gotten some milk, if you'd like to…" he trailed off and gestured to the kitchen. "Actually, no, on second thought, I've no idea what Sherlock's got in there—"
"Decaying fingernails."
"—so probably," John ground out, obviously trying to ignore Sherlock's disturbing interjection, "we should go out somewhere. Oh, but not today. Got work in a bit. Tomorrow?" he asked. So nice. John Watson was such a nice man. A little old, for her, as Mrs. Hudson had said, but then again, so was Sherlock. And so was her last crush, her forty-year-old boss. And the one before, her thirty-four-year-old philosophy professor.
"Uh, right," she said, stunned. "Tomorrow." She started to drift toward the door, a little shell-shocked from the entire encounter, when Sherlock again said, "Wait." That snapped her out of it.
"Yes, Your Highness?" she shot at him, voice just a-dripping in sarcasm (good one, mouth). Her false-but-not-quite-entirely-false malice fell away when she swore she saw just the tiniest change in his expression, though. The hint of a amusement pulling at a reluctant corner of his mouth.
"Your mobile. Shouldn't you give John your number? Wouldn't want you to have to 'pop by' unannounced again, would we?" She rolled her eyes and held a hand out for John's mobile, which he fumbled out of his pockets and gave to her. She punched it in and told him he could text her sometime with the details. Then she smiled and left, not looking at Sherlock.
She had a hard time breathing on her tube ride back to her apartment. Talking to Sherlock Holmes put her in a vacuum, where everything but him was sucked away, but you couldn't quite tell until all the air came rushing back in afterward and your lungs couldn't handle it.
And now she had a sort of date with his flatmate, who was lovely, but no Sherlock. Oh what a tangled web we weave…
A/N Review, please? Multiple story alerts and 0 reviews make me sad. Especially since I know I pick fics to read based off how many reviews they have (lots=good, few=bad). So I would adore you if you took a sec to tell me your thoughts!
