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THE PERSONAL BLOG OF

Dr. John H. Watson-September 14

-The Adventure of the Empty Basement Part 2-

Violet Stoner, our new neighbour, is having a smashing good time redecorating the basement. I thought at first that it would be a bit odd having a woman in our building, and also wondered if she might be terrified at the things that show up in our refrigerator. Sherlock continues to complain about the fresh paint smell and says it's giving him a horrid headache. When he protested to her, Miss Stoner simply opened the windows by his chair and continued with her work.

She has been working on 221c for the past few days and refuses to allow anyone a peek at her progress. Sherlock assures me it's nothing special, and her decorating choices are boring.

I'm sure his sulking was caused by his expert observations about Miss Stoner being incorrect. It is no secret that Sherlock Holmes prides himself on his impeccable skills, and the fact that he is never wrong. I myself am still a bit blown over by it, but I suppose everyone has a margin for error. Even Sherlock Holmes.

2 comments:

I was not wrong. I am never wrong. I simply was too preoccupied to notice specific details about Miss Stoner that would have narrowed my observations down to the correct conclusion. And I resent that you would put this incident on your blog. Did I blog about you dating a woman who couldn't even spell chrysanthemum? No I did not. Sherlock Holmes

You WERE wrong. And Bob's your uncle. John Watson

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Chapter 2

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It took me a few hours to fall asleep on the couch in the men's parlor. Partly because Sherlock kept staring at me and refused to go sleep in his room when John asked him to. I was startled awake the next morning by loud violin music, and fell off the couch onto the hard floor. The player continued his piece as if I hadn't made a sound. I looked up through a veil of my brown curls and saw Sherlock with his back to me, playing next to an open window as if the entire street paid him to wake them up every morning.

What was with this guy? I got up and noticed my suitcase was a bit askew. Most people don't notice when their things have been moved, but I always do. A quick check inside it told me someone had rummaged through it while I slept. My underwear wasn't put back properly. I had a sudden urge to leave.

"Miss Stoner," I heard John say while he trotted down the stairs to the parlor. "I trust you slept well. The sofa isn't exactly a bed of feathers, but Sherlock sleeps on it sometimes, so it can't be all bad." He smiled charmingly, then noticed I was rearranging my suitcase and had a guarded look on my face. His smile dropped and he turned accusingly to Sherlock. "Did you go through her bag?"

Sherlock played a long mournful note and lowered his violin. "It was necessary, John. She could've been an axe murderer." I looked down at my suitcase. I was pretty certain an axe wouldn't fit in it.

"Hello, boys!" a cheerful woman's voice called out from the stairwell. "I had some leftovers I thought you might like to eat for breakfast." An older woman walked into the parlor carrying a tray filled with crumpets and tea, and noticed me before she could set it down. "A client this early? You boys really should take a break."

John introduced me, but I was busy contemplating the second usage of the word 'client.' The woman, whose name was Mrs. Hudson, served John and I some breakfast before leaving. By the time I'd finished my first crumpet, I made a guess out loud. "Are you detectives?" I almost dropped my tea when John and Sherlock froze mid-action, and gave me the most incredulous looks.

"How did you know that?" Sherlock asked me. From the look on his face, I almost felt like not answering, and wished I'd kept my stupid thoughts to myself.

"You have pictures of bodies on the wall, and your books are about corpse decomposition, knives, and regional pollen. Either you're a detective, or you have some hobbies the police should be concerned about."

They continued staring at me for a few minutes, until Sherlock finally moved and sat down sideways in the empty chair with his legs hanging out. "It took you all night to come up with that? Pathetic."

John sighed and shook his head. "Even you have to admit that was impressive of Miss Stoner to work that out."

"How many types of tobacco ash are there?" Sherlock threw in my direction as he inspected his nails.

My voice croaked while I tried to think of an answer, but the only thing I could come up with was, "There's more than one kind?" Sherlock rolled his eyes at me and turned into his chair to ignore us.

John also rolled his eyes, and then smiled at me. "Well, I have to be off to work soon. I wanted to know what your plans are, Miss Stoner? I'd offer for you to stay here, but I'm sure you have things you want to do."

Before I could answer, Mrs. Hudson walked back into the parlor. "Mrs. Turner tells me I should keep trying to rent out the empty apartment. She said Mrs. Carrolton across the street found a tenant for her basement, and all she had to do was fix it up, but I just don't have the-" She stopped as she noticed me. "Oh! You're still here! Here I was having a conversation with John, and we still have company!" She laughed brightly and picked up the breakfast tray.

"Would you rent the basement to me?" I asked while standing up. "I have the money, and I'll fix it up for you."

Mrs. Hudson regarded me for a few seconds. "Well, I have an application downstairs. Let me go and get it."

By the time she had come back up the stairs with the apartment application, John was about to leave for work. She assured me that applying was just a formality, and she didn't see why I couldn't rent the basement until my visa runs out, especially since Sherlock had looked through my bag and not called the police (John added that last part). I set to work filling everything out while John went to work (What did he do, anyways?) and Mrs. Hudson went downstairs to watch "telly."

I'd been sitting on the couch for over an hour, having just finished the application, when Sherlock suddenly stirred. He hadn't moved since his weird question about tobacco ash, and I'd have forgotten he was still in the room if I hadn't been sneaking glances at him instead of writing on the application. Yesterday I would've thought it was impossible for someone to not even twitch for an hour. Don't his legs hurt?

"John, could you-" Sherlock stopped and looked around the room like a child who'd lost their mommy. "Where's John?" He spotted me and his face fell. "Oh. You're still here."

I wiggled my fingers at him and got up to stretch. "John left awhile ago. Did you just tune everything out for an hour?"

"I was thinking," he said simply. "You were raised by your grandmother after your parents died, your grandmother ran a bookstore, and always made just enough to get by. You nursed her through an illness, but she recently died, and left you her very lucrative insurance money so you could travel the world. As for the football socks, they were given to you by someone important. Perhaps they were your father's?"

"Well…." I said slowly. "You didn't call me fat this time." Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "My parents aren't dead, just my mother. My dad is still alive, and he did give me the socks. You were right about everything else." I didn't bother asking how he knew all that, but I would've bet money that he'd messed with my phone.

He stood up and snatched the apartment papers from my hands. "This is an apartment application," he stated.

"Very astute of you," I said sarcastically, grabbing it back. I left the parlor and started down the stairs to knock on Mrs. Hudson's door. She answered and walked me into her kitchen so she could look the application over. I stared around the flowery green room until Mrs. Hudson was finished reading.

"Everything looks to be in order," she said brightly. "I would love to rent you the basement, Miss Stoner. Whatever you buy to fix it up, I'll deduct it from your rent." She chatted about the damp, and then remembered a crucial detail. "The basement doesn't have a loo or kitchen, so you'll have to share with the boys upstairs."

The grumpy voice of Sherlock sounded from behind me. "She'd better not touch my dog hair collection."

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