A/N: I got my inspiration for the last but of this chapter by looking up if Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Edgar Allan Poe were related. They are, unfortunately, not, which I suppose should have been rather obvious because Poe was American and Conan Doyle was Scottish, but you know, hindsight is always 20/20. What I did find out is this jewel of information (which is probably common knowledge, but whatever, I didn't know) that Sherlock Holmes' character was heavily and shamelessly influenced by Poe. Anyway, fun facts aside, here's the next (although kinda short) chapter.

John had finished moving his things into Sherlock's room, and Rebecca was now furnishing the room with her own stuff. It was cute and girly, with a duvet printed with little green flowers and white eyelet curtains. A few posters were tacked on the walls, and Rebecca loved the room, although, true to her word, she was often absent from the flat.

John, after forcing Sherlock to clean his room and doing some cleaning himself, although still being mildly uncomfortable in the unfamiliar rooms was adjusting well. Sherlock's bed was more comfortable than his own had been, and the room was cozy, in a strange way, although John could more easily hear Sherlock as he paced or experimented in the night. He tried not to let it bother him.

When Rebecca was at the flat, John found himself watching her. She was a sweet girl, really. Bright and happy about nearly everything, and quite smart too. John wanted to like her, but he couldn't keep away the feeling that she was hiding something behind her pale green eyes. He couldn't trust her, not fully. It was unfair, he knew, as she had been nothing but an angel to him and Sherlock both, and he couldn't rationalize it, but it still irked him, and he tried to ignore it.

As John sat in his chair, he heard the sound of light, feminine feet behind him. Rebecca placed a cup of tea in his hands, smiling at him kindly before taking a seat in Sherlock's chair, sipping her own tea. John felt guilty as he hesitated to drink from his cup.

"It isn't poisoned." Rebecca's voice startled John. She sounded more serious than her usual cheerful banter, and John swallowed thickly. She was more observant than he thought.

"Of course it isn't," John said, meeting her gaze. He took a sip.

Rebecca rolled her eyes, smiling lightly. "Relax, I wouldn't try to kill you," she told him. "Not with a detective living in the same flat, anyway," she said tonelessly as she curled her legs into the chair.

Before John could speak, she gave him a teasing smile, breaking into giggles as she brought her tea cup to her lips. John smiled back, but his eyes were not in it.

...

"John."

Sherlock's voice broke John out of his thoughts. Rebecca wasn't in the flat, and John was alone with Sherlock.

John looked up at his friend.

"It's highly irrational for you to be worried about our guest."

Of course Sherlock would know exactly what he was thinking.

"I know that, Sherlock. But we don't know anything about her except her name. Who knows what her real motive is," John voiced.

Sherlock sat facing John, placing his hands on his knees. "Listen to me, John. I can assure you that we are both perfectly safe. But stressing over this is taking a toll in you and you need to quit. It's not fair to her, and it's not fair to you either."

John gave him a weary smile. He was glad Sherlock was concerned for him, but it didn't help. "But how can you be sure?" He trusted Sherlock, with his life, but right now he needed undoubtably assurance. Sherlock did not have an answer.

...

Rebecca sat by the fireplace, one of the rare occasions that she was actually in the flat. She was reading a book in the warm glow. Since his talk with Sherlock, John had made an effort to put aside his feelings of unease about her, and he had been less stressed, although he still wondered about her, and what she did outside of the flat. She never spoke a word of it, and although John never asked, he knew she wouldn't tell him. Sherlock, however, seemed to trust her entirely, and never felt the need to question her whereabouts. Perhaps he knew what she did. He had a knack for that.

John supposed that of Sherlock had no problem with her, there was likely no problem to be had. John trusted Sherlock's judgement, although he was always one to exercise caution.

"Hey Sherlock," Rebecca called, sticking her finger between the pages of her book to mark her spot. Sherlock hummed in response from the other room.

"You're a consulting detective, right?"

Sherlock hummed again, more interested this time.

"The 'only one in the world,' right?" she pressed further.

"Yes, I invented the job. What are you getting at?" the man asked impatiently.

"Well, it's just that I'm reading this story, and the character reminded me of you," she told him.

Sherlock stumbled into the room, blanching as he scanned the cover of the book: The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe.

"I was just thinking that maybe you had read this story and got inspired, because C. Auguste Dupin sounds pretty much like a consulting detective. Of course, the term 'detective' hadn't been coined at the time this was written, but the idea is the same. He didn't even take money for his work, and the police seek his help. The similarity is eerie, actually," Rebecca said, suppressing a smile.

Sherlock cleared his throat, and John thought he looked a bit uncomfortable.

"Well, it is possible that I was a fan of Poe as a child, but any similarities are purely coincidental," he informed, scratching his nose.

John wanted to laugh.

"I thought you didn't believe in coincidences," John couldn't help but tease.

Sherlock looked at him with dismay, as if he had been betrayed, and John did bark a laugh at his stunned face. He quickly sobered as he realized the hurt on his friends face looked genuine.

"You're not actually upset, are you?" John asked, a hint of concern in his voice. Rebecca had gone back to reading her book.

Sherlock sighed, not meeting John's gaze. "No, of course I'm not upset. I just didn't expect you to side with her," he grumbled childishly, walking into the kitchen.

John smiled, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, and followed him.

"Sherlock, I'm not siding with her." John leaned against the counter. Sherlock turned to face him. "I was teasing you, pulling your leg a bit. Not trying to laugh at you," John said earnestly.

"I understand that, John. You don't have to apologize," Sherlock said mildly. He turned away to pour himself some tea.

When he turned back around, John gave him a look that said 'I know how you really feel, don't bother lying.' Sherlock sighed internally.

"Sherlock, when I spoke you looked offended. So if I offended you, it wasn't my intent, and I am sorry," John apologized.

Sherlock took a long sip of tea. "John, I'm not mad at you, and this is childish. We're done," he said with finality.

John let it drop, and they both stood for a while, companionably quiet. John studied Sherlock, watching fondly as he swallowed a mouthful of tea.

"You know," John said softly, "In my opinion, you're a much better detective than C. Auguste Dublin."

"Dupin," Sherlock automatically corrected.

John laughed. "See? How good of a detective can he be if I can't even remember his name?"

Sherlock smiled at John, sincere. John was obviously making an attempt to cheer him up, and although he didn't really need it, the gesture was thoughtful, and he was rather touched by it. It was one of the things he liked about John. He was always willing to spare a moment for someone else's sake, something Sherlock would never do. He was selfless and giving, and Sherlock was startled by the amount of affection he felt towards the doctor.