A/N: Thank you all so much for your kind words and the follows. I only hope that you continue to enjoy!

Before the week was over there was another thing Thatcher could add to the list that Sherlock was right about: she had completely moved her things in and had most of the unpacking done. Though the movers she hired had been expensive, she was well aware of her own limitations and that there was very little chance she would have been able to get her furniture down the stairs by herself. She sat on the floor in the middle of her living room, counting her belongings as if something would be missing.

'Couch. Chair. Coffee table. Bed. Dresser. Kitchen table. Bookcases.'

It wasn't much but it was all she needed, especially the bookcases. They were overflowing with books, scientific journals, notebooks from previous work she completed and textbooks from her studies. There were only two pictures that had made the trip over with her, both of her family, and they were both still in the only unpacked box left in her apartment. Every time she pulled them out to place on the mantle she ended up putting them right back in the box. She loved them and knew they loved her back but it was hard enough for her to be alone in a new country without being constantly reminded of who she had left behind. It wasn't like she was just away at school anymore; there would be no more last minute trips or family functions. Instead, it would be major holidays.

'Christmas,' she thought, sighing to herself. Since she had just moved and Christmas was so close there was no way she could afford to fly back. Her parents had offered to pay but she didn't feel right about it; they had done so much for her already. The next time she came home she wanted to have done it on her own and prove to everyone that she could make it. If that meant being gone for over a year, so be it.

Thatcher looked up at the ceiling as she heard the now-familiar sound of violin music wafting through the entire house from Sherlock's flat. She had only seen him in passing since moving in and so far things had been fine. He kept rather strange hours but other than that, she enjoyed the violin playing and not having to make awkward conversation. She stood slowly, stretching her legs and deciding to pay her neighbor a visit. Thatcher climbed the stairs but didn't bother locking her door behind her. If anyone came into the building she would hear them anyway. The next set of stairs she climbed slower until she saw that his door was open. The old wooden stairs creaked beneath her feet as she finished and reached the landing.

Sherlock turned his body enough to look over his shoulder to look at the intruder but did not stop playing. He had finished a case the day after she moved in and already found himself growing restless. While most would assume not being called in by the police for help solving a crime would be a good thing but not him. He craved distractions, puzzles, anything that would keep his mind occupied. He noticed that the longer he spent between cases the more he indulged in certain behaviors which while certainly distracting did not provide the satisfaction he desired.

"Bach?"

Sherlock turned slowly to face Thatcher and tried to keep playing but the notes weren't coming to him anymore. He sighed and let the bow and violin move from playing position to rest in his hands at his side.

"Well don't stop," she said, moving from her spot leaning against the door frame to take a seat in the left corner of his couch. "You play beautifully."

He scanned her over quickly, immediately grateful for his findings. Her hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, no traces of makeup were found anywhere on her face, and she was dressed very casually in a t-shirt and sweatpants. He felt confident in his assumption that she was not going to try and make any sexual advances so he raised his violin back up to rest on his chest. "Your alma mater?" he inquired, pointing at her shirt with his bow before picking up where he left off. He shut his eyes and could see the notes before him as if he was looking at the sheet music.

"Yes. Washington University."

"Impressive."

"If you say so."

Sherlock opened his eyes to look at her and was met with the sight of her smirking at him.

"Is it safe to say that the dangerous bacteria has been removed from the premises?"

"Hardly dangerous," he responded, shrugging lightly.

"Right," she said slowly, laughing a bit. "How did you even get ahold of it? I've only ever seen it in pictures. Oh, and once in person in a contamination-free lab but I had to wear this ridiculous plastic suit."

Sherlock almost allowed himself to smile at the mental image but caught himself in time. "Found in the lungs of a dead man. Police originally thought he committed suicide."

"Thought?" she inquired, tilting her head to the left slightly.

"He was found hanging in his apartment," he replied matter-of-factly.

"Right. And that's not suicide?"

"Not when there is a rare, lethal bacterium in his lungs."

"Ah. I take it you're not a big proponent of coincidence then?"

"Hardly," he said with a scoff, playing again.

Thatcher listened for a few moments before interrupting with another question. "Do the police ask you whether someone committed suicide or not on a regular basis?"

"Relatively."

"But you don't work for the police department. Come to think of it, you never mentioned what you did." Thatcher crossed her arms across her chest and laid her head back on the couch. So far their interaction had been much less painful than either of them had anticipated.

"I do consulting work. Mostly for the police but occasionally I take requests."

"Consulting? So…you're like a consulting detective?" she asked, barely able to get the phrase out before yawning.

"I'd rather you didn't fall asleep on my couch," Sherlock stated quickly.

"Me too. I've got my first day of work tomorrow." Thatcher stood, lifted her arms above her head and stood on tip-toe, feeling the muscles in her body stretching. She didn't wait for any sort of wishes of luck from him because she felt relatively sure that she would be waiting for a long time. She walked through the doorway and had a foot on the first step when she stopped. "Can you keep playing?"

"Why?" he asked, furrowing his eyebrows at her.

"It's relaxing," she said, shrugging. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

Instead of responding to her he began playing again, though he had to admit it didn't seem to have nearly the same appeal as before. She offered him a smile but didn't wait for it to be returned. As soon as she was downstairs, in her own apartment, she got into bed getting the chills from the cold sheets. She laid still, barely able to hear Sherlock playing anymore through the floors and closed doors between them. It didn't take her long to drift off to sleep so she didn't notice that the music stopped only a few minutes later or his rushed footsteps down the stairs.

Sherlock pulled his long, black coat tighter around his body against the chill of the night. Thatcher's company had provided a small amount of relief from the nagging he felt but it only seemed to tug on his mind even harder after she had left again. He played for a couple minutes, finishing the piece but almost immediately afterward put the instrument down and grabbed his coat and scarf. He couldn't stand to be cooped up anymore. He lost himself in his own thoughts, trusting his feet to lead him on the same path as usual. He always went to the same bar, always ordered the same drink, and always used the same line. And so far, it had always worked. Tonight, though, he thought of making an exception.

"Consulting detective," he mumbled to himself, liking the sound of it more and more. Sherlock flipped his collar up against the breeze and allowing himself to smile fleetingly. The scenery around him seemed to come back into focus as he arrived at his destination. He made two mental notes that night as he entered the loud bar, his eyes scanning the relatively large crowd for a Sunday:

One - It was 10:45 pm. If he made it back out by 11:00 pm he would beat his previous record, which was a tempting conquest.

Two - Bringing whatshername back to Baker Street that night was not going to happen.

Though he knew the reason why, Sherlock was not going to admit it to himself. He enjoyed having Thatcher as a neighbor and had a feeling that bringing random women to his flat, especially on weeknights, would definitely not encourage her to stay. After all, the last one who had moved into 221C barely lasted a month. He made his way through the crowd to the bar and ordered. "Scotch, neat."

It didn't take long for someone to approach him. "Can I buy you a drink?" he asked the woman leaning rather obnoxiously against the bar, much closer to him than someone who wasn't inebriated would.

"I've got wine back at my place," she said, a small slur present in her voice while her hand came to rest on his arm. Sherlock glanced quickly over her shoulder, checking the clock. 10:55 pm. He stood slowly and paid the bartender before taking her hand and leading her toward the door. Standing on the curb, he hailed a cab and was hardly listening to whatever 'sweet nothings' were being whispered in his ear. He was surprised when she didn't stop once they were inside the taxi. Exasperated, he kissed her quickly knowing that if he didn't shut her up soon he wouldn't make it back to her place and would have to do this all over again. Sherlock feared it was going to be a much longer night than he had originally anticipated.