Chapter 4

"Are you sure you are okay with this?" I asked Jenika for the umpteenth time.

"For goodness sake, Anne! You've asked me that way too many times in the last two weeks. I. Am! The papers have all been turned over to Matt and I, plus all of your stuff has already been moved over to the Baker Street place. It is too late to back out now," Jen scolded.

She was right, as usual.

"Oh, Jen, I am leaving you a month early. We must still do tons of things before your wedding."

"Duh. You are not moving very far away, and this gives Matt and I time to get things settled in. Otherwise we would be doing everything after the honeymoon," she said.

Before I could say anything, Jen continued, "Now go. John is waiting for you," she winked.

I grabbed my bag and pushed her, jokingly.

"Don't you even. You have no time for your silly matchmaking antics."

Jen pouted, "But you are moving in with a guy. If he is not gay, then sparks may fly."

"Jen! I am there to find out information, and nothing more!" I exclaimed.

Jen saw me blush and gasped, "But he is cute, yes? He must be somewhat cute if you are turning that shade!" She fell back on the couch, giggling.

Blushing deeper, I shot back, "I'm only blushing because it is going to be a tad but weird sharing a flat with a guy. That is all there is to it: weirdness."

Jen snorted, "Whatever, you liar."

I stuck my tongue out at her and walked to the door. "I'll be seeing you Jen."

I was passing Speedy's Café, a block from Baker Street, when I received a call from Mycroft.

"So you did take it then. I was quite right about everything, wasn't I?" Mycroft said smugly when I answered my mobile.

"Oh hush, Mycroft. I'm taking it on one condition."

"And what may that be?" he asked.

"You pay for six months of rent, not three." I said stubbornly.

"Oh all right. I suppose that is fair enough, considering the magnitude of the favor I have asked," he sighed.

"Yes, I dare say it is." I smirked.

"Well, on that note, I will go. But I will be in touch with you every so often."

"Yes, I know. Bye, Mycroft." I hung up just as I reached the front door of 221B.

Mrs. Hudson opened the front door as I was ascending the stairs. "Hello dear. Are you all settled in?"

I turned around to face her, "Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I think I will like it here."

"John is upstairs. I am sure he would be glad to assist you if you need anything."

I nodded my thanks and continued my climb up the stairs.

I reached the upper landing to find the door open.

Walking through, I couldn't find anyone around.

"Hmmm…" I mumbled. "He must be up in his room. No matter."

I walked through the kitchen and stopped at the door to my new bedroom, my hand resting hesitantly on the handle.

Taking a slow breath, I opened it.

The room had undergone a complete transformation. To the left of the window, a dresser had been added, equipped with a mirror. The windows were now covered with soft blue curtains, and the walls hung with various items: pictures of Jen and I at University, copies of my favorite paintings, and random sketches I had drawn over the course of many years.

The plain white sheets that had previously occupied the bed were now replaced with sea green covers and lilac blankets and pillows.

Just by looking at my room, you could tell how different I was from my brothers. They always had a great fascination with science and math and facts. I, on the other hand, preferred to study English, art, and culture.

Don't get me wrong, we are all equally intelligent (though neither of the boys would admit it). We just excel in different areas.

The only thing similar between us was what our parents chose to teach us.

Among other things, our parents ensured that we were each fluent in at least three languages.

Mycroft had gone further and learnt six languages. I had learnt one more, and Sherlock, I wasn't really sure.

I sat on my bed and looked at the nightstand. Next to the clock was a picture of Jen and me on the night after she got engaged.

I knew it was coming, of course – Matt had asked my help in finding a ring.

Still reminiscing, I turned my gaze once again to my new room. It was then that I noticed a small parcel on my dresser.

I walked over and picked it up, shaking it lightly. Based on the weight and sound, I knew what it was.

Confused, I opened the little card on top of the parcel.

Anne,

Welcome to 221B Baker Street. I hope you find it to your liking. Here is a little housewarming gift to help you settle in.

From,

John Watson and Mrs. Hudson

Thinking maybe I was wrong, I looked back at the box.

I opened the parcel to find that I was right – John had given me…an ashtray.

I looked once more at the note, "housewarming gift" it said. Why on earth would John give an ashtray as a housewarming gift? And an expensive ashtray, at that.

I set both the note and the ashtray down on my dresser, confused.

"Sherlock must have worn off on him," I muttered.

Just then, I heard a soft knock on my bedroom door.

"Come in," I called, turning to face the door.

The door opened and John poked his head in. "Hello. Just checking to see if you have settled in all right."

"Yes, I have, thank you. And thank you for the gift." I replied.

"Do you like it?" he asked with such sincerity that I felt compelled to smile and respond, "Yes. It is fantastic. Where did you get it? It looks expensive."

"It…" John hesitated, then continued, "It came from Buckingham Palace. Sherlock stole it on one of our trips there. I thought that maybe you would want something of his, as a keepsake."

It suddenly occurred to me just how kind John was. This was obviously a cherished item of his-we all keep items of good memories-and now John was sharing that memory with me, attached to the small ashtray on the table behind me. It was also symbolic of his acceptance of me into his life. He was okay with his new flat-mate being his deceased best friend's sister.

I smiled, touched. "Thank you. I didn't realize it has such sentimental value. You are an amazing person to have the courage to part with such an item."

John nodded. He was looking down, but I could detect a small smile on his lips.

Knowing it was time to change the subject, I said, "So, what do you usually do for dinner around here?"

"Usually I go out, or order food. I sometimes make an omelet, or toast…or salad. I can do salad," John said, looking slightly embarrassed.

"Then salad it is!" I clapped my hands and walked into the kitchen; John followed.

Alright, you make the salad, and I'll see if I can whip something up from what I find around the kitchen.

John nodded and pulled out the necessary ingredients for a nice salad.
I inwardly smiled. When I rented the extra room, I never considered the possibility that John may not know how to cook. Omelets, toast, and salad were a start. I would have to teach him to cook other things; otherwise I would end up making all the meals.

Looking in the fridge, I found milk and eggs.

I went over to where the bread was, and set my items on the counter next to it.

Scanning the kitchen, I asked John, "Hey, where do you keep the pans?"

"They should be under the corner cupboard," he said pointing to it.

I went over, and grabbing a pan out, I gasped.

It was covered in the dry, hardened residue of some substance I didn't want to identify.

"What is it?" John inquired, walking over.

Wordlessly, I held the pan out to him.

He stared at it a moment, then, "Oh."

"Oh? Never mind. Just clean it." I demanded, disgusted.

I looked in the cupboard and found a clean pan.

I heard John washing the gross pan while I began to mix some eggs with milk.

With some tentative searching, I managed to locate some cinnamon sugar, and added it to the mixture.'

John finished his little chore, and came over. "It is cleaned. Also the salad is ready."

"Fantastic. The main dish of our meal is in the works."

"What are you making?" he asked curiously.

I looked at him surprised. It must have been a while since he's had French toast.

"It is French toast. Why don't you help me out?" I grinned.

"I haven't cooked in a long time, other that the items aforementioned. I might end up burning it, "he said, uncertain.

"Oh no you won't," I said, putting butter on a pan and putting it on the stove-top."

I turned the burner on and continued, "Just take a piece of bread, dip both sides in the mix, and set it on the pan. After a couple of minutes, flip it over. Do that until both sides are nice and golden brown, then take it off, put on a plate, and repeat with the other pieces of bread. Do six."

"Okay, but if they turn out burnt, don't say I didn't warn you," he cautioned.

"Great! I'll set the table."

Twenty minutes later, we were sitting at the table digging into our dinner.

"This French toast is not bad. You only blackened half the pieces," I congratulated John.

He smiled, "Thanks."

Then John turned serious. "I think we may be expecting the Detective Inspector tomorrow. He said he was going to stop by some time before noon. Just a heads-up."

"Oh, alright. I have to work at one, so I guess I'll be here to meet him," I said.

We finished and cleaned up.

"Well, I am off to bed. Thank you for dinner, my fine cooking apprentice," I winked at him, and walked into my bedroom.

Closing my door, I breathed out a sigh. Tomorrow I would begin my search for the secrets behind Sherlock's death.