Author's note: Nope, not done as it would seem.
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I couldn't believe it when I finally got around to reading John's new post. Was that really my name, it couldn't be, could it. I had to read it several times to make sure it was Rosalind, and not Rosaline or Roslin; it was my name. That was my window he was speaking of. It was Sherlock Holmes he caught trying to remember my name and staring at my window. I was white as a sheet, shaking and gob smacked that this was real. He was intrigued by me? I set my laptop down carefully crossing to the window, slightly peeking out the curtain. I saw Sherlock and he was gazing in my direction. I flung myself against the wall and held my breath. No, no, this couldn't be happening. Why would John write about me? Why would Sherlock be intrigued by me? This can't be possible. I let out my captive breath heaving a sigh. Just as I started to relax and go on about my life, that was certainly not in the blog of John H. Watson a loud knock echoed through my flat. My heart started to race and I jumped letting out a slight yelp at the loud noise. Was it John; Sherlock; my landlord? A hundred and one different greetings flew through my foggy head as I neared the door. Please, please let this be my landlord. I sighed opening the door. There in the archway was a man, tallish, lily white skin, slender in a smashing pin stripe suit and an umbrella.
He pushed into my flat, looking it over before turning to me, "Miss Raines, we need to have a conversation."