The Neighbor Girl

Part Three: When Ellie met John

Doctor John Watson pushed open the door to 221B Baker Street and hopped inside, narrowly escaping the fat rain drops that had just begun to fall. When he shut the door behind him, the entryway darkened and John wondered if Mrs. Hudson was out for the evening, or if she'd simply forgotten to turn on the lamps. It must be the latter, he decided, for as John began to climb the stairs up to his flat, he could hear a conversation. The low rumble of Sherlock's voice was unmistakable but the other voice was too soft to make out. Probably tittering about the state of the apartment.

John briefly considered postponing his homecoming to avoid this familiar lecture, but the rain deterred him. Instead, he braced himself for the inevitable and entered the space he shared with Sherlock Holmes. But as John closed the door and peered around, he was not greeted with the sight of his land lady shaking her head at the mess Sherlock had made just the day before. In fact, Mrs. Hudson was not present at all. Instead, John was met with the most peculiar of visions.

Sherlock was seated in the middle of the couch on the far side of the room. A woman occupied the seat to his right. Her back rested against the armrest and her legs were draped across Sherlock's lap. A manila folder was open on her lap. Both Sherlock's head and the woman's were bent, seemingly looking down at the information inside.

John wasn't sure what to say. He wasn't sure what to think. Who was this woman? And why on earth was she draped across Sherlock Holmes so intimately?

John had only seen Sherlock in an intimate situation once in their time of knowing each other. This, of course, was the time The Woman insisted on speaking with Sherlock completely naked. And while Sherlock's poker face was spot on, John had been sure there had been something akin to awkwardness in Sherlock during that encounter. Or perhaps John's own discomfort had clouded his reading of Sherlock.

In any case, this particular scene was very different. While the closeness of the pair seemed affectionate, it was not sexual in nature. Sherlock seemed completely at ease, more so he didn't even seem to notice how the woman's fingers were casually running through his dark curls as they concentrated on the contents of the manila folder.

So who was this woman that Sherlock allowed to play with his hair and rest her body against his?

John was certain he'd never seen this woman before. She was thin with long legs. Her hair was a mass of auburn curls. A big, black bow sat atop her head keeping curls away from her face. It matched the black baby doll blouse she wore over white leggings. John could not yet see the color of her eyes, but he could see the heart-shape of her face and the smattering of freckles across her nose.

Just as John was deciding to say nothing and retreat, the woman glanced up, catching John's eye and rooting him to the floor. Her eyes ranked over him once before she untangled herself from Sherlock and got to her feet with surprising grace.

"You must be Doctor Watson," said the woman in a modulate tone. She approached John, her right hand outstretched.

John took the woman's hand and shook it with a quick glance to Sherlock. He wasn't paying any attention to their interaction. John looked back to the woman.

"Erm, yes...I'm sorry, and you are?" John ask with a slight inclination of his head.

"Eleanor Taylor," said the woman smoothly, as though she'd practiced her name a million times.

"Oh...and how do you know Sherlock?" John tried again. Was she really unaware how odd it was to find a woman entwined with Sherlock Holmes?

"Sherlock hasn't told you about me?" Eleanor asked. Her tone was light and there was an odd, little smirk on her face, but the hurt that flashed in her eyes for the briefest of moments was unmistakable. She glanced back at Sherlock, who was still not paying them any mind, before glancing back to him. "I'm his neighbor."

John's face screwed up for a second, thinking that didn't sound quite right.

"Sorry," Eleanor rolled her eyes, seemingly at herself. "Old habits die hard. I was his neighbor; we grew up together."

"Oh..." John blinked. So childhood friends. Sherlock had never mentioned having a close childhood friend. John was unaware that Sherlock had any friends, aside from John himself. "No, Sherlock never mentioned..."

"He rarely does," Eleanor sighed, crossing her arms and glaring lightly over her shoulder at Sherlock. "You'd think a few decades would be worth a passing mention but I never seem to make the cut."

"Ah!" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed. He jumped to his feet, the manila folder falling from his lap and onto the floor, and dashed passed Eleanor and John, bounding down the stairs and out the door, not even pausing to grab an umbrella.

"I sure hope that's about my case," Eleanor mumbled, completely unfazed. John supposed she had to be if she'd been witnessing such scenes for years. Eleanor walked back to the couch and picked up the file from the floor.

After placing the folder back on the couch, Eleanor began to wander the apartment. She'd stop here and there, peer in a box or flip quickly through a book. Despite her placid attitude as she did so, it seemed clear to John that she was looking for something.

"Do you have a case for Sherlock, Eleanor?" John asked.

"Please, Ellie will do. And no, not exactly," Eleanor replied, not peering up from a stack of Sherlock's notes that she was quickly thumbing through. "I'm a journalist for The Telegraph. Sometimes I enlist Sherlock's help with an article."

Recognition lit up John's face. "Oh yes, I've read your work!"

"And I've read yours," Ellie finally glanced up, smiling in John's direction with a twinkle in her eye. "I quite enjoyed 'The Elephant in the Room'."

John chuckled, thinking of his blog. It seemed endearing to him that Ellie kept up to date on Sherlock's cases. "You've never covered Sherlock in any of your articles, have you?"

"No," Ellie said, returning to her task. "Conflict of interest and all that."

Ellie then paused at Sherlock's desk, peering down at a glass tank filled with an orange liquid and a skull. It had been part of an experiment Sherlock had been conducting yesterday. Her back was facing John when she spoke again.

"John, I ask you not to repeat to Sherlock what I am about to ask you."

John stayed silent. The last time John had met someone acquainted to Sherlock and had been told to keep their meeting a secret, it was his brother, Mycroft. Of course, John had not kept that a secret from Sherlock. It was his right to know that his brother was keeping close watch on him.

Ellie turned to face John and the superior, smug look permanently attached to Mycroft's face was not present on hers. While her face was expressionless, her eyes were a whirlwind of emotions. Fear, uncertainty, hope, empathy. It was a curious sight to see her face so calm while holding back so many emotions. This line of defense likely came from growing up with Sherlock. He'd always be able to read her every move if she was an open book. But her eyes...it was unlikely that Sherlock spared the effort to really look that deeply into them.

"Has Sherlock been using?" Ellie asked.

Oh. Yes, of course. She'd been examining the room for hidden drugs. And she seemed to be awaiting his answer with baited breath.

"Not that I've ever noticed," John replied. He knew that Sherlock had a history of drug abuse and it was possible that he used when John was away, but John had never witnessed anything.

Ellie's shoulders visibly sagged with relief. She then turned back to Sherlock's experiment. No longer worried over her friend's welfare, she now moved keen eyes over the set up in interest.

It was quiet for a moment before John risked a question. "When did Sherlock begin using?"

Because Ellie's back was once again to John, he could not see her face, but her tone was quiet and she seemed to be in another place; another time.

"I don't how long he'd been using before I caught him. But when I did, we were fifteen..."

Ellie raced over to the Holmes residence the moment school let out. She was driven with purpose and desire and the time was ripe for mischief. Her parents were away at a charity gala and Sherlock's parents were away for the week in France. Or was it Spain this time?

Susan Thompson had just resigned as chief editor for the school paper and the position was wide open for Eleanor Taylor. But they weren't going to just give her the position. Oh no, it looked too good on a university application for her peers to pass up the opportunity.

No, she was going to have to do something major to secure her place as editor. Fortunately, Ellie was a natural and had already secured a plethora of informants and was part of all the right gossips circles. And through these Ellie had learned of quite the scandal involving the headmaster. Before she could put this in print, however, she needed proof. Incidentally, that proof was securely locked in the headmaster's office. Which, of course, wasn't a problem when you were friends with Sherlock Holmes.

And so Ellie raced up the porch stairs to the door and let herself inside. After all these years, Ellie rarely knocked. Besides, only Sherlock was home anyway.

The entryway was dark, as the shades were closed over all of the windows. But as it was late afternoon, it was still bright enough to see and Ellie skipped her way to the staircase and took them two at a time until she reached the landing. One, two, three doors to the right and she was at Sherlock's room.

The door was slightly ajar and Ellie let herself in. "Hey Sherlock, I need your help-"

She stopped short. Sherlock sat on his bed, but his right side was slumped up against his pillow. His head was slumped forward, towards his chest.

"Sherlock?" Ellie called, wondering why Sherlock had fallen asleep in such a strange position. But he didn't answer; which was odd considering that Sherlock was a very light sleeper. Ellie stepped further into the room, calling louder. "Sherlock?"

But again, Sherlock did not answer. Ellie rushed over, panic spreading through her. What if something was terribly wrong? What if Sherlock had fallen very ill? Or one of his experiments got out of hand? Should she run downstairs and call an ambulance?

But then Ellie was close enough to Sherlock to see what lay beside him. It took her only a moment to piece together what had happened to her friend. It was glaringly obvious but it took Ellie's brain a moment to swallow the horror of it.

Atop the bed sat a book and upon it sat a small baggie half filled with a white, powdery substance. What looked like a pen with the end removed so the inside was hallow, sat beside the outline of a thick line.

Ellie was frozen. What was she to do? Was Sherlock alive? Had he overdosed, or was he just in a stupor? Did she wait to find out? What should she do when he came to? How long did she wait to see if he came to?

Ellie stood there above her friend for minutes with questions swimming in her head. She was scared and uncertain. Should she call his parents? Or Mycroft? Or the hospital?

There seemed to be no right answer. Torn with indecision, Ellie let herself go numb. She wandered to the desk chair in the corner of the room, turned it to face Sherlock, and sat.

Ellie sat and waited, and waited, and waited. She did not glance at the clock. Her gaze never let Sherlock's prone form. It grew dark outside and only when it became so dark that Ellie could no longer make out of the movement of Sherlock's chest did she turn on the desk lamp beside her.

When Sherlock finally stirred, it was very late. Ellie's thoughts of the school paper had long since vanished. In fact, she was unsure what she'd been thinking over the hours that she kept her vigil. Nothing it seemed.

Sherlock blinked slowly and struggled to lift his head, as though it weighed a ton. Ellie watched as he orientated himself. It took a good five minutes for Sherlock to realize that Ellie was in the room and when he noticed her, he said nothing but merely stared at her groggily. His pupils were small, despite the relative darkness of the room and there was sweat forming at his hairline.

The pair sat in silence for a long time. Sherlock continued to struggle to become alert and Ellie just watched. Finally, Sherlock gained enough control of himself that he sat up straight and glanced to his left where the evidence of his drug use lay. He moved to take care of it, but Ellie was faster. In a flash surprisingly quick for someone who sat unmoving for hours, Ellie was at Sherlock's bedside and swiped the small baggie of powder before he could grab it. Sherlock stared up at Ellie, frowning, but Ellie was glaring.

The last several hours hit the red-head all at once. All the fear and worry and anger bubbled to the surface and Ellie unleashed it all.

"What the hell, Sherlock!? What is this!?" she screeched, furiously shaking the small baggie in the air.

Sherlock said nothing and continued to stare listlessly at the girl in front of him. This of course, only infuriated Ellie further.

"How could you do this!? Why!? What's so bad in your life, Sherlock!?"

Sherlock, again, did not answer. How could Ellie understand? She was too naive, too lively, too...normal.

It was clear that Sherlock wasn't going to answer any of her questions. No matter. Ellie could tell her anger was about to dissolve into tears and she'd be damned if she let Sherlock do that to her. Ellie clenched the baggie of drugs in her fist, planning to dispose of it.

"If I ever catch you doing this again, I'll tell your parents!" Ellie threatened.

Tears beginning to push against her eyes, Ellie spun on her heel and fled.

"I never did tell them, though," Ellie admitted. "Sometimes I'd have to call Mycroft and we'd take care of Sherlock, but I never told his parents. Usually, I just stayed with him until he sobered."

"Why didn't you say anything?" John asked, awed by the tale he had just heard.

Ellie sighed and turned to face John. Her face was anguished. "A lot of reasons I guess. I feared if I pushed him to get help, he'd resent me and continue anyway. And if I was gone, then there'd be no one to look after him. Part of me wasn't sure I had the right to stop Sherlock. I'm frankly just too normal to understand how such an exceptional mind like Sherlock fairs in such an unexceptional world. Also..."

John raised an eyebrow when Ellie didn't continue. "Also...?"

Ellie glanced down. "It's selfish...but I guess...if we kept the secret close to us, it became part of who we were rather than a serious problem. I know it sounds...stupid, horrible, but...well if it wasn't a problem...then Sherlock remained perfect."

Perfect.

Well, that was never a word John had ever heard used to describe Sherlock Holmes. And surely Ellie could see all his faults. Perhaps more clearly than others because of their history together.

But then Ellie glanced up to John, her eyes pleading with him to understand, and suddenly he did. Of course Sherlock wasn't perfect. Of course he had his flaws. But to Eleanor Taylor, all of those flaws made him perfect. Because Sherlock was something special to the curly-haired woman. Something very special...

Before John could muse further or respond, the door burst open and Sherlock entered, his curly hair dripping water onto his shoulders. His jacket was equally wet. But Sherlock didn't seem to notice. He was murmuring to himself as he strode back over to the couch and, despite his wet clothes, sank down onto the cushions. He grabbed the manila folder he'd been pouring over when John arrived, stuck his nose in it, and was lost to John and Ellie.

Ellie and John exchanged a glance. While John found this behavior of Sherlock's a little exasperating, Ellie was holding back a grin of amusement. She loudly cleared her throat and addressed the consulting detective.

"Sherlock, I have a tip to follow up on. I'll return tomorrow for your conclusion."

It was hard to gauge whether Sherlock had heard because he showed no sign of acknowledgment that he had. Ellie didn't wait around for a sign. She turned to John and offered her hand, which he took.

"Well, John, it was nice to meet you. I hope our paths across again soon."

John smiled and nodded in agreement. Ellie gathered her handbag and umbrella, bid Sherlock farewell (which he ignored) and left. John watched the door Ellie had closed behind her for a long moment before glancing to Sherlock. Was he aware of the complicated dynamics of his and Ellie's relationship?

"Is Ellie seeing someone?" John asked aloud.

"Of course she is, she just said she was going to meet an informant," Sherlock replied without looking up, proving that he was paying attention and naive to basic human communication.

John rolled his eyes. "No, Sherlock. Is she seeing someone romantically? You know, is she dating anyone?"

Sherlock looked sharply at John then and for the first time that day (hell, maybe for the first time that week), John truly felt that he had Sherlock's undivided attention.

"I assure you, Ellie does not wish to be your latest flavor of the month," Sherlock Holmes glared coldly.

"That's not-" John huffed, but stalled. That was not his intention. "I mean, does she date at all? Does she have a significant other?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course not, don't be ridiculous."

John didn't think that notion was ridiculous at all. Why wouldn't Eleanor desire to find that special one, as many people did? Certainly there were men out there who fancied her. She was intelligent, accomplished and attractive.

Ah, but John was only trying to prove his own theory. That Eleanor did desire a special someone, but it was the one person she could not have.

He didn't understand it, not truly. First and foremost, how could anyone deeply love Sherlock Holmes? He was impossible to get along with, impossible to please and, frequently, even impossible to communicate with. Sure there was Molly Hooper who had pined after Sherlock for quite some time, but it was merely an infatuation.

What Eleanor seemed to harbor was something else entirely. It seemed to him, just in their short interaction, that Ellie viewed Sherlock simply as part of her world. There was no Eleanor Taylor without Sherlock Holmes. And that kind of love, John reasoned, was something else entirely. And it was certainly the kind of love that would prevent Ellie from finding a mate even when she (John was rather sure) knew that Sherlock was incapable of such a brand of love.

It was sad, really. A tragedy right out of a Shakespeare play. And Sherlock was blind to it all, at least, John would stake his life on that guess. Sherlock's response to John's misinterpreted question was at least a little reassuring. That at least Sherlock harbored something of his own for Eleanor Taylor. And who knew what that was. Perhaps it was love, but an unexplained love. Something that just was, rather than something that could be written out in the pages of a romance novel.

In a twisted way, it made sense to John. Although, he was sure if he said any of this out loud it would sound absolutely ludicrous. Not that he would. Sherlock and Ellie seemed just right the way they were, as bizarre as it seemed to others.

But John liked bizarre. If he didn't, he wouldn't be living with a roommate who left freshly defleshed skulls laying around. And so John hoped, as he left a suspicious Sherlock on the couch, that he would see the bizarre red-head again very soon.


Author Notes

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