AN: Oh poor Molly in this chapter. He doesn't mean to be a twat, he's just clueless. Hope you guys like it!


From the moment Sherlock laid eyes on Jane Watson, he dismissed her entirely. (Ordinary. Dull. Unremarkable just like the rest of them.) And he had every intention of scaring her off right then and there. However, she presented as a bit of a puzzle than he initially thought, and the bottle of acid proved there was something more under that unassuming and two sizes too big jumper. It was at the very least…interesting.

His other flatmates over the months had all been disasters. (Morons, all of them.) They all had petty lives and expectations, and were impossibly tedious and offended easily. At first he conjectured it was because all of them were male, and to test his hypothesis he had tried rooming with a female for a whole month which was equally disastrous with all the aforementioned grievances and on top of it an added dose of unwarranted sexual attraction on her part. It ended with him in his current situation needing to find new place of residence. (Who knew she was a pyromaniac? It's always something.)

Then there was Jane. He could tell the whole issue of a sexual attraction would not be a problem with her, and there was the fact that she wasn't intimidated by him one bit. She also did stuff for him. Two favours in under three minutes — that could prove useful. And she was a girl. Girls did…domestic-y things. That would mean more time for him to research and experiment and not have to worry about things like laundry and bills.

It was these reasons that had him re-examining the possibility of a flatshare with a member of the opposite sex. He will admit now that he might have been a bit over eager in his deductions at the end, wanting nothing more than to impress her into coming tomorrow. If she could just see the location he knew she wouldn't be able to turn it down. (It's Central London after all.)

And there was that other thing: he made her laugh. Which was interesting considering when he revisited the conversation in his head, the implications with the riding crop should have been on all accounts unsettling for normal people at least. (Acceptable social conventions, innuendo, and all that.) Mike nearly swallowed his own tongue in the end. But Jane actually laughed. It was then that he knew Jane Watson, former Army doctor, was perhaps a bit less normal and possibly a person that could put up with him of all people. He knew he had to make her move in with him.

"Um…Sherlock?" Molly's timid voice squeaks out from behind him. "Here's your…er, riding crop." She blushes and holds it out to him. "It was accidentally zipped up with Mr. Albertson."

"Ah. Thank you Molly." He flexes it in his gloved hands for a moment appreciating its lithe form. His head snaps up suddenly. "Molly. Does recreational sex paraphernalia intimidate you?"

She blushes an alarming shade of scarlet. "Wha – what?" she nearly chokes.

"Sex toys!" he says impatiently smacking the end of the crop against his palm. She flinches violently, her eyes wide.

"N-no. I'm not a prude," she says in an impressive feat of gathering her wits. He really wasn't the sensitive type, and in retrospect he wonders if this was perhaps the best way to go about things. He dismisses the notion.

"Good. Will you go by Paramours and pick up a ball gag? I need to run more tests."

"Paramours…the sex shop?"

"Problem?"

"Well…"

"A man's alibi depends on it Molly!" he says raising the crop in the air.

"Yeah so you've said," she says morosely. He cocks his head and puts his hands on her shoulders.

"You could be saving a life, Miss Hooper," he says quietly, and she blinks up at him.

"Yeah. Yeah all right," she says, her cheeks pinkening again.

"Excellent! When you get it, just pop it into Mr. Albertson's mouth, and I'll be here first thing in the morning to check on him." He opens his wallet and hands her a few notes. She looks up at him startled.

"Sherlock this is fifty quid."

"What not enough?" he immediately thumbs through the stack in his wallet and hands her another fifty pounds.

"No! No it's too much. I mean…I'm just guessing, of course. I don't think a ball gag is that expensive."

"Oh. Well keep the rest I don't care," he says waving his hand, his mind drifting to other things. "You best hurry, Molly. Rigor Mortis should be setting in soon, and I should think it would be most impossible to attempt to force anything into said orifice for very much longer."

She blushes deeply again all the way to the tips of her ears, and Sherlock wonders if she has a condition.

Without waiting for her reply, he turns on his heel and makes his way to the lift with his riding crop under his arm, frantically thumbing through his mobile. He's so preoccupied he almost misses the black sedan slowly following him on the street. He groans as it pulls up to him and the tinted window rolls down.

"Oh god, go away," Sherlock hisses.

"Still on the prowl for a flatshare, Sherlock?" Mycroft says cloyingly. "I had thought that after your most recent escapade, you would have sworn off flatemates for good."

"You think I'm going to prove you right after everything? If anything I'm even more determined."

"Yes. Which is why I've taken the liberty to procure a file on Miss Watson."

"Doctor Watson," he says attempting to march off.

"Of course. Now get in the car. I know you want to." Mycroft arches an eyebrow and waves the brown file tauntingly. Sherlock grits his teeth irritated that he's tempted, and in the end he decides to get in the car convincing himself it's only to get him to go away faster. He slams the door and pulls out a cigarette.

"I thought you were trying to quit?" Mycroft says and pulls out a lighter. "I know your new landlady doesn't allow smoking in her building."

"What do you want, Mycroft?" he says around the filter between his teeth. He ignores the offered lighter and instead he pulls out a book of matches. He takes a drag and doesn't even try to aim the smoke away from his pompous brother. Mycroft grimaces and waves his hand in front of his face.

"It's really atrocious, your manners, or lack thereof," he remarks. Sherlock simply smirks, and Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Do you want to see what I have on Doctor Watson or not?"

"I'd rather not, no. It defeats the point."

"Ah yes. You like surprises don't you? How did that work out last time?"

Sherlock thinks back to his bed back at Montague Street. On fire. While he was still in it.

"At least I wasn't bored," he shrugs nonchalantly swishing the riding crop in the air in front of him. He prods Mycroft in the stomach.

"Sherlock Holmes!" he barks, snatching the crop and slamming it down on the seat next to him. "This isn't a game anymore. I had hoped you would be a better judge of character and I wouldn't have to do everything for you like always, but after your last flatmate, I can see that you can't even manage this on your own."

"Can you really not keep your big nose out of my life? Is this what this is about? You feel like you're losing control?"

"It's about the people you keep company with. And this one's no different. I'm not just talking about jealous piques or misplaced affections, Sherlock. Doctor Watson is dangerous: unstable even."

"Please," he scoffs trying to hide his sudden excitement. (Jane Watson really was proving to be a puzzle.) "She's all of five feet, what could she possibly do to me aside from burn the place down? — which I know for a fact she doesn't have proclivities towards incendiary devices whatsoever."

"She has PTSD."

"That's to be assumed. She just got back from Afghanistan. Nothing that a spot of therapy won't fix. That's what normal people do after all," he dismisses.

"Yes that is what normal people do. However, normal people usually don't break their therapist's arms and then go about finding a flatmate all in the same day as if it were nothing," Mycroft levels. Sherlock sits back in the seat positively stunned.

"Oh, now that is interesting, isn't it?" Mycroft groans at this. "Wait. Why is that interesting?" he asks no one in particular, his mind whirring. He recalls his eidetic memory and catalogs everything about Jane Watson that he overlooked previously:

her hair usually fastidiously pulled back due to years in the military was unkempt and hastily tied;
the jumper she wore hurriedly donned as an after thought, was practically a study in semiotics itself clearly throwing of signals that scream at the world to keep its breadth;
and her rigid posture when she met him, instantly on the defensive.

It all clicks into place.

"Of course…she was assaulted."

"Pardon?" Mycroft says surprised flipping through the file.

"Yes. Obvious. Her therapist took advantage of her, or tried to at least." His lip curls in a smile. "Come on, Mycroft. The woman is a doctor and asoldier. I can't think of anyone with a more steadfast moral compass, can you? She's hardly the type to just go around breaking people's arms without a good reason. What was the therapist's name?" Sherlock asks already half way through composing a text to Lestrade.

"Doctor Ella," Mycroft supplies easily enough, but a puzzled curiosity flashes in his eyes. "You think she's not the first." It's not a question.

Sherlock doesn't answer. Instead he finishes thumbing out the text urging the DI to look in on the nefarious psychotherapist. He snaps his mobile shut with a flourish and takes the cigarette that had been loosely hanging from his mouth. He blows another acrid cloud in Mycroft's direction.

"Well this has been a marvellous chat, but I've really got to dash." The car rolls to a stop at the kerb. "Oh and mind your business, Mycroft. And get rid of that file. I've no use for it."

"As you wish, Brother," Mycroft says with a tilt of his head. Sherlock slams the door and sets off down the street. He flicks his cigarette to the ground and crushes it with his heel, and fishes his phone back out of his pocket.

After a bit of poking around in some files he really shouldn't have access to, he manages to find out Jane's number by narrowing it down to a handful of service providers. His thumbs flash over the keys.

You don't have any cats do you? I hate cats, and I'm not sure Mrs. Hudson would approve.
SH

Sherlock tucks his phone back in his pocket and heads for the Vauxhall railway arches. When he crosses Waterloo bridge, he lights his last cigarette and observes the London skyline, enjoying the last of his smoky nicotine while he can. His pocket vibrates.

how did you get this number?

He smiles. It took her less time than he thought to figure out it was him. Of course he did use his familiar signature, so it's possible even someone like Anderson could put two and two together.

Not important. Let's just say Mike.
SH

The next text comes almost immediately.

ok. who is mrs. hudson?

Our landlady. Now about the cats…
SH

right. I don't have any cats. and let's get something straight, I don't even know if I'm moving in with you yet.

Of course you are. Just wait 'til you see it. It's a prime spot.
SH

sounds expensive. Central London.

Mrs. Hudson owes me a favour. She's giving me a deal on it.
SH

some deal I gather.

A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.
SH

wait you stopped her husband from being executed?

Oh no. I ensured it.
SH

There is a lapse in the conversation here, and Sherlock isn't sure why this suddenly makes him nervous. He does the only thing he can think of and fires off another text to fill the dead space.

Your grammar is terrible, by the way.
SH

Then after another beat:

Most mobiles have an automatic capitalisation feature. You could save yourself the hassle and turn it back on.
SH

well now mr. science man. if I knew that I wouldn't be troubling you with my terrible grammar would I? do you normally insult all of your potential flatmates mr. holmes?

Make no mistake. I insult everyone. And you can call me Sherlock.
SH

I can assure you it's much less tedious to program Sherlock into your contacts than Mr. Science Man.
SH

Another lapse. Before he can think too much on it, he crams his mobile back into his pocket and sets off.

He spots Alison where he knew she would be, nursing a coffee in a paper cup out side of the small diner near the train station.

"Mister 'Olmes," she acknowledges with a tip of her head. She holds the warm coffee in between her palms.

"Alison," he says and scrutinises her. He pulls off his leather gloves one finger at a time. "Cold out here. You should check out that shelter I told you about."

"Mm. Just might tonight," Alison says her breath ghosting out from her lips. "None've us have 'eard anyfing on that Davenport woman. Nor the other one and that Sir Jeffery bloke. Other than what's already in the papers, that is."

"Noted. It's as much as I expected. Our killer is a clever one." Sherlock reaches for her cup and takes a sip, grimacing at the flavour. Before he hands it back, he deftly slips a piece of paper in the protective cardboard sleeve. "I need you and your people to keep tabs on a certain psychotherapist. He's likely to panic once indictments go under way, and he's the type to skip town when things go pear-shaped."

"Sure. Me and mine'll keep an eye out," she nods and accepts a few notes from him.

"Should be easy to spot. I'm told he has a broken arm," he smirks, and presses his gloves into her free hand. "Stay warm tonight."

"Will do. Cheers," Alison says, and he heads for the nearest street to hail a taxi.

"Where to?" the cabbie asks.

"Baker Street," Sherlock says, slipping his phone once more out of his coat pocket. He has one new text.

ok Sherlock it is. you can call me Jane.

-oOo-

That night clear across town, Jane Watson sits down at her computer staring at her newly minted blog. Her fingers hover over the keys tentatively, her left hand shaking but only slightly. She looks over at her phone, and smiles.

January 29th
Nothing ever happens to me. But today, something did. Something happened…