Chapter 4 - Neighbor
You fumble with the small key as you insert it into the door's knob. You twist the metal in the lock and move to push open the door but are suddenly paralyzed. In the reflection of the glossy wood you see an almost colossal figure rise behind you. Your immediate reaction is to whip around and face your opposer. Before you can even think about your action, you strike the man across his face. He raises a gloved hand to his now clearly stinging cheek and you finally get to see who he is. You feel an enormous rush of heat to your head as realization sweeps over you.
"Oh my g-Sherlock! I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. It's not the first time I've been slapped." His frank tone doesn't help erase your worry.
Sherlock attempts lowering his hand from his face but quickly replaces it as the bitter wind beats against the wound. He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth and you immediately take notice.
"Are you sure you're fine? Let me look at it."
Despite his protests, you drag Sherlock through the entry way out of the snow. With more force than you intended using, you peel his hand away from his face, revealing two slashes across his cheek. And though it isn't enough to worry about, your eyes widen when they meet the thin trail of blood streaming from one of the cuts. The scarlet stands out vividly against his creamy white skin and you cry, "Y-You're bleeding!"
"Clearly"
"But this—this is all my fault! I've—I'll go get a towel!" you shout in a flurry as you dart up the stairs of the apar—flat. You know what? This isn't a time to be worrying about "correct terms"!
You rip open every cardboard box and container in your living room until you at last uncover your package of towels. You drown one in your small sink and race back down the steps. But once you catch Sherlock in your sight again, your feet slow to a more casual pace.
You begin dabbing the cuts with the damp flannel and at last find something to say to break the awkward silence. "Why are you here, anyway? I mean, if you were right behind me, you obviously were going to enter the same door I was."
"You're not the only person who lives in this building." he retorts, staring at the opposite wall.
You finish cleaning the red from the side of his face and fully realize what he said. "Oh," you breathe as you lower the cloth. "I'm sorry, I—I wasn't thinking." You scramble for words. "Umm which flat do you live in?"
"204" he barely mutters as he pivots on his heel and nearly sprints up the steps.
"204?" you repeat. Well, now you know the meaning of that cryptic text you received in the cab: BEWARE OF THE MAN IN 204 -M You live on the side of the building in flat 205, so there's only one room surrounding you. But what could be so bad about Sherlock Holmes?
You ceremoniously wipe the back of your hand across your forehead as you gaze at your finished work. You arranged all of the furniture in your small flat and emptied every one of your boxes. Of course you didn't move all your things to London, but you brought enough for a year, and that was plenty to make it a job of unpacking.
You glance at your clock hanging against the tan wall. 9:45. Well at least you have a bed to sleep in now. You throw on your (f/c) pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt and slide under your blankets. You close your tired eyes and fall into a blissful slumber. Or what would have been blissful if you weren't woken by the sound of an eruption two hour later. The source of the noise came from behind your wall. The one that connects with Sherlock's room...
You leap off of your mattress and would have continued to the door if the roar of heavy footfalls from the hall hadn't halted you. The wood nearly splinters in Sherlock's door as a thick fist pounds against it, making more uproar than the explosion had. The door opens with a click and Sherlock slides his goggles above his eyebrows.
"Mr Holmes," the raspy words of the landlord rips the suspenseful silence. "I've told you before, you may not house any kind of explosives in this building!"
"They're not explosives, they are controlled experiments." the detective corrects as he folds his arms.
"Controlled, my arse!" he spits, raising his tone but not the volume of his voice.
"Look, I just spilled two chemicals that don't belong together. It won't happen again."
"That's what you said last time! I'm adding this to your rent. There are other people living under this roof and I will not have you burning it down on top of them. So either conduct your experiments elsewhere of move out!"
With that, the red-faced landlord stomped down the stairs of the flat and you can't prevent the smirk that forms on your lips. At least your time here won't be boring.
Two ways you could have caused Sherlock's face to bleed: 1 You could've slapped him with your key still in your hand. 2 Your nails could've sliced his skin. Just pick whichever you think would be most plausible for you.