Ever since she was young, Violet had wanted a place to call her own. Somewhere she could curl up and read. Somewhere bathed in warmth by soft glowing lamps and enough sunlight to fight the chill on a winter day. Somewhere with a fireplace crackling and twinkling as it burned sweet pine, making the whole place smell of forests far away. Somewhere that felt like home.

Baker Street, surprisingly, was giving her that simple yet most dear dream. It was quite magical, really. She felt somewhat like her own fairy godmother, bringing beauty to life with a flick of her wand. Though, in this case, her wand was a hammer.

She was surprised Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock weren't cursing her existence, what with the constant noise she was making. Not to mention the ever flowing line of plumbers, electricians, and workers trailing into her flat. Yet, despite it all, her landlady and neighbor hadn't voiced any annoyances to her. Actually, Mrs. Hudson was overjoyed. Noise, she said, meant the stinky, moldy basement flat was finally getting the face lift it desperately needed.

Sherlock was a different story. Violet hadn't seen the consulting detective in over a month. Mrs. Hudson said he tended to disappear when he was on a case, and Violet wondered what his case was at the moment. Murder perhaps? Espionage? Government secrets? Criminal plots more complex than sending a man to the stars?

She laughed to herself and shook her head. She had fanciful ideas, she knew. Sherlock's cases most likely weren't anything like that, but still… she hoped they were.

Although she hadn't seen Sherlock, she had heard him. He tended to cause a racket when he came home, if he came home at all. The first sign of his arrival was the front door slamming. Then it was the pounding footsteps up the stairs. The sound reminded her of a child's on Christmas morning, hurried and eager. There were many times she wanted to climb those stairs after him and see what had gotten him so excited, but she always chickened out about halfway up. One day she'd make it up the last few steps.

What really let her know Sherlock was home though, her favorite thing about living in Baker Street actually, was the music.

She'd first noticed it about three days after moving in. It had been a Tuesday. Her teaching day. She'd taught four classes, equalling about 430 college students and 480 minutes total. To say she was exhausted would be an understatement. At the end of the day, all she wanted was to go to sleep and dream of nothing, but the universe had other ideas.

The moment her head hit the pillow, she knew she wouldn't sleep. Three hours passed and she hated that she was right. She lay there, the sheets strewn about her as she stared at the ceiling. Gladstone snoring by her feet was the only sound until, slowly, soft violin music streamed in through the darkness. It was beautiful; the crescendos like a sunrise and the vibrato the softest of lullabies. Peace seeped through her. She felt as if she'd just woken from the sweetest dream. She fell asleep with a smile on her face.

Now, the door to the stairs leading down to her basement flat was always kept open. She made sure of it. The music travelled in better that way.

Today though, was her turn to play the music. She only did so when no one else was home. The songs felt like an extension of herself and she didn't want others to hear something so personal. That and she really loved to play everything at full volume.

The lively tunes of Russian symphonies filled her flat. Violet had just finished painting her living room. The dark yellow color stained her forearms and a significant part of the floor, but she wasn't too worried. She was getting a rug anyway. As celebration for finishing painting, Violet decided to cook in her brand new kitchen. She chopped mushrooms on the wooden countertops before tossing them into a pan on the stove. Bacon sizzled in a pan beside the first, and a stack of already made pancakes waited for her on a plate on the table.

Breakfast for dinner is always a good idea, she thought.

"Gladstone!" She spun around on one foot, her thick socks making it easy. She tossed a strip of bacon to the dog who'd been watching her every move. He caught it in one chomp. Violet giggled and spun back around, going back to cooking her eggs.

Her favorite Sergei Prokofiev piece came on just as she finished cooking. Although there were no words, she sang along, feeling downright giddy. She threw another piece of bacon to Gladstone. He grunted as he swallowed it whole. Violet smiled and, holding a plate with her eggs set neatly on top, spun around in time to the fast-paced flute melody… then immediately let out a scream and jolted backwards in surprise.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her. He stood calmly, halfway in her kitchen and halfway in the living room. His hands were clasped behind his back in that assessing manner he typically had.

"What are you doing here?" Violet demanded, one hand covering her frantically beating heart. Gladstone trudged over to the man as she shrieked. Sherlock watched him approach.

"If you were intending for a guard dog, you've chosen poorly." He observed. Gladstone plopped down right in front of his dress shoes, staring up at him in what Violet knew was a demand to be pet.

"I chose perfectly." She set her plate on the table none too gently before spinning back to Sherlock, her hands flying to settle on her hips, "Why on earth did you break into my flat?"

His eyes moved from Gladstone to her, "I didn't break in. You left both doors open and unlocked. I trespassed."

"Alright." She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, "Why did you trespass, then?"

There was a beat of silence. Sherlock watched her disinterestedly for a moment and she took him in. He looked very thin. His normally sharp cheekbones stood out even more than usual, showing shallow cheeks and sunken eyes. Even his hair looked haggard. It hung limply against his head, the dark curls dampened. Despite it all, though, he was alert. His eyes were bright as he watched her. He lifted his head then, dismissing Gladstone to address her.

"I've finished my case," He said, "and your music is too obnoxiously loud to sleep through."

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" She flew across the kitchen to where her speakers sat, turning the volume down until there was only a soft chatter. She turned back to Sherlock, wringing her hands in front of her, "I didn't know you were home. I wouldn't have played it so loud if I had."

"Spare the niceties." He responded curtly, "As long as you're quiet when I need you to be, I don't care what you do."

Violet ignored the offense rising in her chest and tightened her grip on the back of the dining room chair. She lifted an eyebrow, "And what about when I need you to be quiet?"

"I presume you'll tell me." He said, "I also presume you know I won't listen." He smiled then. It was completely and obviously sarcastic, more of a snarl than anything.

Violet blinked in surprise. She shook her head once, her lips pressed together.

"Well, in that case…" She turned back to her speakers and flipped the volume up past where it had been before. A particularly vivacious bassoon concerto filled the room. Sherlock's eyes narrowed at her. She just smiled sweetly and plopped down into a chair at the table. She started to eat then, using her fork as a baton between bites as if conducting the orchestra herself.

Suddenly, the music cut off. The flat was completely silent.

"Excuse you," Violet calmly turned to Sherlock where he stood, his hand still on the speakers. He was glaring at her. She found the whole situation quite hilarious, but glued a serious expression on her face, "I don't believe I gave you permission to touch my things."

"If you're going to act like a petulant child then I don't need permission."

"You're the one who's messing with someone else's toys." She pointed out, her tone teasing, "How am I the child?"

Sherlock growled under his breath. He spared her one glance before flipping his coat out and storming toward the door.

"If the music returns to its previous, ridiculous volume, I will come back and break the speakers."

"I'll just buy new ones!" She called after him.

"I'll break those too!" He yelled before stomping up the stairs like a tantruming elephant.

Violet listened, quite amused, as the door to the basement stairs slammed, then more thumping as he climbed the set of stairs to his own flat, and at last, his door as it banged closed.

A laugh bubbled of her on its own.

"Well, Gladstone," she smiled at the bulldog where he sat by the door, his ears perked in confusion at all the loud noises, "looks like I'll have to introduce you two some other time."

Gladstone grunted then waddled over to her. She laughed when sat by her feet underneath the table and stared up at her between her knees, begging for food. She pet him as she finished off her meal.

Ever since getting the dog, Violet had noticed a difference in herself. She was less lonely, which was the original purpose, but she was also less anxious. She didn't need to take her medication anymore and she couldn't even remember the last time she'd had a panic attack. That was a real miracle.

Taking a bite of bacon, Violet looked down. The bulldog's head was pressed against her leg as she scratched behind his ears. He was clearly enjoying the petting, but his eyes were fixed only on the bacon. Drool dripped from his mouth and onto her pants. Violet grinned.

"Here you go, you big lug." She threw the other half of the bacon to him. He ate it happily.

"Why do you have to be so cute?" She groaned, laying her forehead against the edge of the table, "You're making me feel guilty."

Sherlock had played a part in her getting the dog. She felt like she owed the man something; nothing big of course, but… something. She probably shouldn't have teased him so much and gotten on his nerves. That wasn't the best way to go about making friends, especially friends with Sherlock.

Gladstone licked her face, and she laughed, her mind now made up. With a kiss to the dog's head, she piled a plate full of bacon and pancakes, and covered it with a towel. She set that on her old tea tray along with some milk, sugar, and a teacup filled to the brim. She didn't know if Sherlock liked any of those things, but hopefully he'd appreciate the gesture. Then again... maybe not. It was worth a try though.

Violet stumbled upstairs. She had to walk fairly slowly to keep the teacup from overflowing, but eventually made it to the ground floor without spilling a single drop. Momentary pride swelled up in her, only to immediately evaporate. She stood at the base of the stairs leading to Sherlock's flat feeling incredibly nervous. Her heart was beating a mile a minute and her sweaty palms made it difficult to keep hold of the tray. Maybe she should bring Gladstone…

No. That was stupid.

"Don't be a baby." She whispered to herself. There was no reason why she couldn't just go up there and talk to him. If he didn't want the food, then fine. At least she tried.

Taking a breath to compose herself, she walked gingerly up the stairs. She passed the halfway point, further than she'd been before, then was right in front of the door. It was halfway open. She could see a little bit of light through the crack, but the flat seemed mostly dark. Curiosity overcame her nervousness and she pushed the door open with her foot.

"Sherlock?" She called gently, more than a little distracted as she took in the room.

It was a mess. An organized mess she assumed based on Sherlock's overall personality, but a mess the same. Books and papers lay strewn about the hardwood floor. Dark patterned wallpaper covered the wall to the right where a Victorian fireplace stood with two bookshelves on either side. Two well-worn armchairs were perched beside them on a large, ruby colored rug. The wall across from the door held two tall windows draped with heavy looking curtains. That explained why the room was so dark. A small table sat between the two windows. Piles and piles of papers were stacked there, looking like they might topple over any second.

"Sherlock?" She called again. This time she braved a small step into the room.

"If you're going to intrude, try your best not to step on the case files."

The deep voice made Violet jump. The china on the tea tray clanked and she barely managed to keep herself from dropping the whole thing. She turned to the right where the voice had come from to see a portion of the room she hadn't seen from behind the door. Burgundy and white fleur wallpaper covered the wall. There was a bookshelf off to one side, a chair on the other, a painting of a skull on the wall, and, in the middle, Sherlock.

The tall man was laying down on a green leather couch against the wall. He barely fit. His feet pressed against the arm of the couch and he had a pillow propping his back up so his head could lay comfortably. He wore pajamas and a blue, silk dressing gown. It was the first time Violet had ever seen him out of the Belstaff, let alone out of dress clothes. She felt like she'd crossed into uncharted waters, but calmed when she noticed how human the man in front of her looked at the moment. He was almost… normal. If it weren't for his hands. They were pressed together, steepled against his lips. His face was blank and his eyes closed.

It was a thinking position, Violet realized immediately.

"I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you," she shifted from one foot to the other, still standing by the door, "but I wanted to say thank you."

Sherlock paused.

"What for?"

"For inspiring me to get a dog."

"Inspiring you?" He turned his head toward her then, his eyes on her and his steepled hands held against his cheek.

Violet shrugged, "You… deduced? Yes, you deduced it awhile ago. I'd been thinking about getting a dog, just a passing fancy really, but when you said it, I realized how true it was. So, I got a dog."

"I saw." He turned his head away and closed his eyes, his hands pressed against his lips once more.

"His name is Gladstone." Violet offered. Sherlock didn't say anything and she took a tentative step forward, "Anyway, I also wanted to apologize for teasing you earlier."

"Then get on with it." He mumbled in slight irritation, his words muffled by his fingers.

Violet didn't let his attitude stop her. She nimbly navigated through the maze of papers and books on the floor to reach Sherlock's side. The china clinked as she set the tea tray down on the short coffee table beside the couch. She saw Sherlock's eye crack open and look over at what she was doing, but she didn't let him know she saw him. Instead, she rearranged the tea tray: turning the handle of the teacup toward him, setting the dish of sugar and the saucer of milk beside that, straightening the knife and fork, and settling the bottle of syrup next to the plate of pancakes.

"Was your mother or your father American?" Sherlock asked suddenly. Violet's hand froze over the tray for a moment before she realized why he was asking.

"My mother used to make us breakfast every morning." She smiled at the detective and the memory, "She said it was the 'right way' to do breakfast. Not the way us Brits do it. Well, not me I suppose, but you get the point."

Sherlock hummed, eyeing her for another moment.

"You said 'make us breakfast'..."

Violet nodded, "My dad and me."

He hummed again, this time like he was confirming his own suspicions. His eyes narrowed for a split second before he turned away, returning to his thinking position. Violet felt like she'd been dismissed, but she stayed put. It had taken her so long to gather the courage to come up here. She wasn't going to leave so soon. She fell into the ridge-backed armchair beside the couch. Sherlock, surprisingly, didn't react. Violet wrung her hands together in her lap.

"D-Do you have any siblings?" She asked in what she hoped was a conversational manner.

"If you insist on staying, please do so quietly." Sherlock responded immediately. Nothing but his lips moved. He stayed completely still, like a statue sleeping. Violet's hands stilled on her lap.

"So, you do have siblings." She smirked when he cocked a brow and turned to her. His face was perfectly blank, but there was curiosity in his eyes.

"What makes you think so?" He asked. Violet shrugged.

"There's no logical reason to hide the fact that you don't have siblings, but there are many reasons to hide the fact that you do." Violet leaned back in her chair, smoothing her hands on her pant leg, "Plus, you seem like the little brother type. If your storming off was anything to go on."

Sherlock replied without missing a beat, "Perhaps it's simply my character."

"Perhaps it's both." Violet grinned. The consulting detective only stared.

"I thought you came here to apologize for teasing, not to do more of it."

"Oh hush." She shook her head, pushing the flash of guilt aside at his words, "I know you don't care whether or not I apologize, so don't try to make me feel bad."

Sherlock met her gaze. The blue of his irises swirled beautifully with ambers and greens. Violet forgot about chastising him, and found herself wishing she had something more interesting than her boring, brown eyes. It was one of the things she'd always disliked about hers-

Sherlock shot up and spun around into a sitting position so suddenly and so fast, Violet felt a little dizzy just watching. He shook his hands in front of him, settling the sleeves of his dressing gown down by his elbows, then snatched a piece of bacon off the plate.

"You're lucky I've just finished my case." He said, taking a large bite.

Violet shook her head in amusement and confusion, "Why is that?"

"I don't eat when I'm working." He explained, "It slows me down."

She frowned, "Why would eating slow you down?"

"My line of work requires my brain functioning at maximum capacity. I find fasting the only thing which produces the necessary drive."

"Oh…" Violet was speechless. That explained why he was so thin. Now that she was closer to him, she could see how pale he looked; his normally creamy skin was practically transparent. He was obviously malnourished.

"Actually," she clarified, "you're lucky I decided to make so much food right when you solved your case. You really need to eat something. Looks like you might keel over any second."

"You're one to talk." He gave her a pointed look as he folded his legs and moved the tea tray onto his lap.

Violet stiffened. The smile dropped off her face and she pulled her cardigan tighter around herself.

"I was sick as a child." She looked down and scratched at a stain on her jeans with her thumb nail, "Never really grew out of the sick looking phase."

She felt Sherlock's eyes on her and looked up. His eyes pierced her sharply, but she met them with an evenness which surprised her. She wondered what he saw because, after a second, he hummed and returned to cutting his pancakes. Dropping the subject. Violet breathed a sigh of relief. She was grateful he hadn't pressed her into talking more about it.

The soft chime of a clock ticking pulled her attention to the rest of the flat. There was a kitchen off to the left which she hadn't noticed before. Aged, white cabinets and a bright overhead light gave off a sterile feeling. A table sat in the middle of the room, completely cluttered with microscopes, glass slides, and various beakers filled with colored liquids.

"How'd your case go?" The words passed her lips before she could think twice. She winced. Maybe he didn't want to talk about his case. She had interrupted his nap, after all. She should probably just get out of there as soon as possible so he could sleep...

Yet, Sherlock seemed to have entirely forgotten about his need for sleep. A light sparked in his eye at the mention of his case. Violet forgot her worries and smiled.

"Doctor Macintosh was murdered." Sherlock said cryptically, stirring a bit of milk into his tea.

Violet nodded, "That's what you said the last time I saw you."

"There was a scrap of paper in his hand when his body was found." He continued like she hadn't even spoken, "Scotland Yard didn't think anything of it. Seemingly random words they said." He widened his eyes dramatically and gave a small shake of his head, "It's a wonder DI Lestrade still has a job."

Violet rolled her eyes, but Sherlock didn't notice.

"The paper, of course," he continued, "was vital to the case, as is everything Scotland Yard chooses to ignore. The handwriting was clearly done by two people. One old, the other young. Most likely related. Macintosh's office also had a chamber of brandy and a set of glasses, three of which had been used recently, so obviously there had been a meeting there on the day he died."

"Obviously." Violet smiled, laughing lightly. Sherlock eyed her and she smiled wider, wanting him to go on. He looked momentarily perplexed, but continued.

"That led me to believe there were two murders. I followed up on a couple of leads, all heading nowhere, but eventually found myself at the Cunningham Clinic where Macintosh worked. The place was typical, clean and orderly, nothing of suspect, but outside. There lay the key. A pile of medicine shipping crates. Too many for a clinic the size of the Cunningham. Someone had been ordering a surplus amount of drugs."

Violet leaned forward in her seat. Her elbows rested on her knees, her chin in her hands as she listened intently.

"I suspected illegal drug sale, of course," Sherlock waved his hand in the air, "and after some digging, discovered the clinic is run by a Thomas Cunningham alongside his son, Alec. They were incredibly suspicious when I interviewed them. I couldn't find anything tying them to anything criminal though, so I followed them. Two weeks watching their every move and I finally caught them moving a crate of oxycodone for a sale in the West end.

That of course was enough to arrest them. I photographed the exchange and alerted Lestrade who took them in. We then searched their house and found a paper with a missing corner which fit perfectly with the scrap found on Macintosh's body."

Sherlock paused then. Violet had the feeling it was for dramatic effect and her grin widened, both in amusement and intrigue. Sherlock turned his eyes to her, smirking.

"Macintosh had been blackmailing them." He said, his eyes dancing, "He found out about the drug sell and was demanding money. The Cunninghams complied, of course. That is, until Macintosh demanded too much. They then sent him the letter, saying they would meet at his house to discuss their situation. In reality, it was a ploy to murder him.

When they arrived, Macintosh offered them brandy and they all sat down in his office. Cunningham the younger poisoned his drink. The doctor noticed the altered taste, but had already taken a sip. A scuffle broke out. Macintosh threw Alec into the bookshelf, knocking down the picture frames, and Thomas took it upon himself to hold Macintosh down until he died. The elder Cunningham then carefully cleaned up the scene. He told Alec to get the note they sent which the dead man was holding. Alec tore it out of his hand, ripping the piece off which was eventually found by Scotland Yard."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Sloppy work really. They might have gotten away with it all if Alec hadn't been so brash."

He settled back into the couch, dropping his fork onto the now clean plate on his lap. There was a sort of pride rolling off him. His eyes sparked. Violet grinned.

"That's fantastic." She sighed happily, leaning back in her chair. Sherlock eyed her.

"It was." His lips turned up the slightest bit and Violet felt a rush of adventure go through her. It was second hand, but it was adventure nonetheless.

All too quickly, Sherlock turned away from her.

The adventure disappeared, snapping like a rubber band stretched too far.

Sherlock dropped the tea tray onto the coffee table in front of him and stood to his full height. Violet had to crane her neck backward to look at him.

"I'm in desperate need of sleep." He said before gliding toward the kitchen. His blue dressing gown fluttered behind him, "I'm sure you can show yourself out."

His headful of dark curls disappeared around the corner. There was the sound of a door shutting and Violet was left alone in the room. It was startlingly quiet now. She felt incredibly out of place in the dark, still strange flat, especially knowing its equally strange owner was just in the other room.

Coughing lightly, she pushed herself up out of the seat.

"That could've gone worse." She said to herself, gathering her tea tray into her arms.

It really could have. Sherlock wasn't the friendliest person, she knew, but he'd actually talked to her. He'd even eaten the food she brought for him. Based on what she knew of the man and what she'd heard about him from Lestrade, she knew that was rare. She smiled in spite of her discomfort at Sherlock's disappearance. Things had gone better than expected.

Violet grinned at the room. It wasn't so dark really, now that she looked at it twice. It was actually kind of cozy. Once she got used to the skull on the mantle and the crime scene photos on the floor, that is.

Feeling a little brazen from how things had turned out, she paused as she was leaving. She picked up a pen and a piece of blank paper from the floor. Quickly, she scribbled a note.

Sherlock,

Please let me know when you finish another case. I'd really like to hear about it.

Also, if you ever want tea or food, you're welcome to come by my flat. I'd be happy to make sure you don't starve yourself.

Violet

Smiling, she lay the note against his microscope in the kitchen. He would definitely find it there.

Without giving herself time to regret writing the note, she scurried out of the flat. She closed the door to 221B behind her and practically flew down both sets of stairs. Slamming her door closed, she leaned back against it. Her breaths came out in wheezes. The china on the tea tray clanked with the sharp rise and fall of her chest as she tried to calm herself.

Gladstone stared at her from where he lay on the couch. She felt silly under his gaze, which of course made her feel extra silly. He was just a dog. There was no reason to feel that way. She watched as he grunted and he lay his head down on his paws.

"I know, boy." She panted, letting her head fall back against the door, "I'm a mess."


AN: Hello everyone! I just wanted to tell you all how exceedingly kind your lovely words are. I didn't really expect anyone to read this, but I'm so glad my story can make a few people smile. I've just started my last semester of college and am student teaching in a fourth grade class. That means I will literally have no time, not like I had much before, but I won't be able to write for awhile. Probably not until May. I won't be abandoning this story though, so I hope you all can be patient with me! Thank you again for your kindness and I hope you're all doing well!