Chapter 1:
If you recognize it, then I probably don't own it
Of all the things Rory Braugher liked about London, the view of her pseudo-boyfriends ass in his khakis was her favorite. He couldn't exactly be her boyfriend, he was the lecturer of her methods module and while their relationship was mostly physical. He didn't grade her work… at least he didn't, when classes were restarted in the next week (for spring term in the beginning of February) he was going to switch positions with the other TA. Now Ernie Pruitt was going to grade everyone's analyses, assessments, and papers while Ian Welton (and his alarmingly thick Newcastle accent) would be teaching the module.
While they still had time, Rory and Ernie would be together. Together also conveniently meant moving Rory into her new flat in central London. Surprisingly cheap, and oddly void of any responses. Rory submitted an application and was almost instantly accepted by the land lady Mrs. Hudson (who was endearingly patient—at least over email). Who did mention she had an additional leaser already living there, but it would not be a problem.
So hand in hand, Rory and Ernie walked from his central London apartment (see closet) to her new flat, to sign some paperwork and then wait for the truck with all her things to arrive.
…
"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson scolded, she fluffed a pillow nervously. She set down on the chair, frowned at her placement, and began to adjust it again.
"I don't need another flatmate!" He grumbled at Mrs. Hudson, his eyes were closed as he lounged horizontal on the couch. His hands in a prayer position.
"Yes, you do," She turned on her renter, and began fluffing the all pillows on the chairs, "I shouldn't have to do this, I'm not your housekeeper!"
"I don't need another flatmate," He grumbled again.
"You're not taking any new cases, you need the help. Your accounts are dwindling and you're not supplementing your income, Sherlock. How do you expect to live in central London and not pay your bills? I'll kick you out, you know I will." She shuffled the miscellaneous paper on the table into a neat pile.
"Mrs. Hudson, if you're going to clean, do run a rag, there's a lot of dust."
"I'm not you're housekeeper. And you're new flatmate is going to be here in a few hours and I expect this place clean, and you on your best behavior, Sherlock."
"I don't need a new flatmate, I can afford this place by myself."
"Yes, you do. I've seen your bank account. You're not taking on any new cases, you haven't been working since John left."
"So I'll take on a case, if that's all you want."
"I want you to stop moping, Sherlock. And I want this place, clean, and you on your best behavior when she shows up. I already got you a flatmate, she's signed the lease. She's moving in and there is nothing you can do about it."
"Well, what's his name then?"
"Rory Braugher, and you will not do anything funny or I'll kick you out." Mrs. Hudson said, as she pulled out her phone to respond to text.
…
"Oh, hello you must be Rory Braugher! Welcome to Baker Street." Mrs. Hudson greeted the young woman and man at the door with a smile.
He had on thick plastic glasses, a green sweater, khaki pants, and brown suit shoes. His blond hair was tousled and slightly greyed. He held the hand of a young woman, her hair was brown, down to her chin, and curled. She was wearing a smart long tan trench coat, blue long sleeve shirt, jeans, and sneakers.
"Yes, it's lovely to meet you in person." The young woman held up her free hand and smiled sheepishly, "This is my…"
"Ernie Pruett, I'm her mate Ernie Pruett. I'm here to help her move." He said to Mrs. Hudson, with a smile.
"Oh, well welcome, Rory," Mrs. Hudson said to the woman, "Come on in, come on in, both of you."
She let them both into the building, "Now, I must warn you Rory, Sherlock is a bit cantankerous. He doesn't like new people. But once you get to know him, he's tolerable." She chuckled.
"Thanks for letting me know, but I'm afraid I'll be spending most of my time at my campus and here just to sleep."
"Well that's good," Mrs. Hudson, opened up the door to 221B. "As I told you in the email, this place is fully furnished. You'll have your own room and adjoining bathroom on the upper floor. Unfortunately there is a shared kitchen and Sherlock keeps his unsavory projects and experiments in there."
"Sounds fun." Rory smiled.
"Not as fun as you would think."
Mrs. Hudson, led the way into 221B, looked around for a moment. "Now, it looks like Sherlock is hiding in his room, not a big fan of new people."
She showed Rory and Ernie around before stopping in the foyer once more, "Now back to mine so we can go over some building policies and I can give you you're key."
…
Sherlock heard the door close, as the 3 people left. He'd be remiss if he didn't even try to conduct his profile of Rory even if he didn't see him. He'd heard the heavy footfalls and shuffling that belonged to the man. The shoes were nice, albeit old, but nice—expensive. His voice was low, but emotive. And the women he was with did most of the talking. He was submissive, boring. Easily manipulated, good—Sherlock wanted a flatmate he could convince to move out.
Hours later he had to endure ignoring the sounds of shuffling and movement as the couple moved boxes and luggage into the upstairs room. It didn't take them long, they were obviously younger than him, that and they had didn't have a lot to move in, he'd provided most of the furniture.
He'd heard laughter from the both of them, it wasn't obnoxious or loud, but still enough noise to annoy him. Then he heard nothing, clearly they were upstairs in the second room.
…
"So where do you want to do after we set up your room?" Ernie asked screwing the light bulb into her lamp.
The majority of her room was finally set up. Hours had passed from the morning as the trudged up and down the stairs with boxes. Now finally, at almost ten pm they were adding the final touches. Like bedsheets, and light bulbs, folding clothes and putting them in drawers. The black wire frame held the mattress and box spring, one black Ikea nightstand (had a lamp) had the all the charger connection, the other was waiting for its lamp. The white laminate desk was settled nicely in the corner, her desktop was set up, with wifi connection. Her bookshelf was filled with her binders (full of notes and loose leaf textbooks), her physical books ranging from textbooks to pleasure books were organized by subject then author. The hanging skeleton had his labels reattached and was in the corner of the room by the desk. The blackout curtains were hung, and so were the pictures.
"Chip shop?" She raised an eyebrow and put pulled the flat sheet on top of the bed, "Or we can get a curry."
"We can get trashed and go for kebabs?" He suggested, and doing a practice light up on the lamp.
"But I don't know the closest pub round here." She waved the duvet over the bed and began to tuck the sides under the mattress.
"We can go to mine?" He placed the lamp on the side table.
"We always go to yours." She reminded him. Walking away from the bed and putting the extra of the bed dressings in the trunk.
He walked up behind her, wrapped his hands around her waist, and kissed her neck. "I guess we can always order in and christen yours." His hands drifted into the waistline of her jeans, and he unbuttoned them.
He nuzzled her neck, "We should break in your bed."
"Please," She breathed heavily. Leading him to the bed.
…
Sherlock heard noise coming from above, soft and loud moans. He'd heard those noises before, when John lived up there. He'd never actually made those noises himself, but if he'd had he was sure he'd never make the same stupid noises and say the same stupid words. He closed his eyes and escaped into his mind palace.
…
Sherlock opened his eyes the next morning, got out of bed, and made his way to his bathroom. He heard nothing from the upstairs room as he emptied his bladder. When he got out of the shower, he'd heard nothing. Rory was either asleep or not here, either way, not Sherlock's problem.
After washing his hands and teeth, he made his way into the kitchen. He hadn't bothered to put any clothes on, and his hair was still dripping slightly as he didn't bother to dry it.
He filled the kettle with water and placed in the stove, went back to his room and got his phone. Mrs. Hudson wanted him to make more money so he didn't need a flatmate. Fine, he would take on cases show Mrs. Hudson how well he could handle himself, by himself. Then once he drove Rory away she wouldn't bother to find him a new flatmate.
…
A week went by and he had not seen hide nor hair of this Rory. Though he did hear the squeaking and creaking of the bed late at night. Awake, and only boring cases to solve. A fate worse than death. January would soon be over and lover's quarrels and crimes of passion would soon be rife with murder, and interesting. Soon Lestrade would be begging him to come to a crime scene. Sally and Anderson would annoy him in only the gleeful "Sherlock is smarter than me" way that haunted them.
It was too early in the morning for anything but tea, the flatmate had been eerily quiet last night and the night before. Sherlock's mind had been racing all night, piecing together cases, collecting money. There was no heart in it, nothing fun. No real juicy stuff. Just affairs and nothing spectacular.
Sherlock was naked now more than he used to be (John had almost scared of nakedness, despite being a doctor). It served a purpose, he slept naked, and now he worked naked. It wasn't like he was going to crime scenes or needed to dress. He was also naked just in case Rory Braugher happened to walk in and was as skittish as John.
…
Rory was late. She'd bathed last night and intended to sleep in just a little bit before rushing off to her internship. So in only a green bralette and a bright orange thong she was in the kitchen making tea to put in a thermos, then race back up the stairs to put a grey turtle neck and the unforgiving pencil skirt on (which was clean, high waisted, and tight around her thighs).
The kettle whistled as Rory was tearing the tea tag off the bag, to place in the thermos. She tore too hard and the bag split. Cursing she reached to open the cabinet and grab another tea bag. This tag tore easily, she placed the black tea bag in her cup, and she poured the hot water into the thermos.
Turning around, she cursed and nearly dropped her tea. A naked man—her flatmate—stood in the doorway watching with a weird look on his face, like he couldn't exactly work his brain.
"I'm late," She said, quickly, "Otherwise we'd have time to go over," She gestured at his nakedness, "This." And hurried past him.
…
Sherlock wasn't expecting anyone to be in the kitchen at this time in during the day. Her back was to him. A spine that wasn't curved, or protruding out as she moved. On the bottom of her back she had two dimples above her bottom, which was mostly out. Just by orange morning light (being swallowed by dark clouds predicting rain) he could see her skin was incredibly smooth.
And when she turned around, her reaction? Not typical, not… well normal. And her response? At his nakedness! What about hers. Sherlock wasn't uncomfortable with the human form. But why wasn't she? Surely she was like John, normal—a bit boring, but she did have the ability to surprise him.
Lost in thought he got his own tea.
…
He showered, his body moving automatically. Shampoo. Conditioner. Body wash. While his mind moved a million miles a minute. The woman in his flat. The scent of her. The way she's already become familiar with his flat. His things. The casualness at his nudity. It wasn't that he hadn't been able to deduce her from the second he saw her. Post graduate student, some kind of medical field, but to specificity he wasn't sure (there's always one thing). Overweight childhood, the way she went about marketing her bare flesh, the light stretch marks that you only see on someone who'd lost a significant amount of weight that had been held since childhood. The lack of shame over her breasts, stomach, legs, and bottom lead him to deduce she'd felt previous shame. But her clothes, or lack thereof. A bra, and a thong. Yes, as unremarkable as they were to him, they were a point of wealth and desire to others. She had a job, a paid internship within her education. Rare, but within the medical field it wasn't exactly uncommon. And the quality of the thin fabric, a point of extravagance. Like she was used to spending a lot of money. It meant that her over clothes would be equally expensive. But this Rory man, the one who lived in this flat. The one who brought this woman. Sherlock needed words with him.
…
It wasn't until he was wrapped in a towel that the realization hit him. This Rory man, was no man. But the woman who was in his kitchen. That's why his flat reeked of her. That's where the familiarity came from. Not her intrusiveness, but her mere existence in Baker Street came from her living her.
…
It was a day later, the sun had risen, and he had heard her arise, walk into her bathroom. When he heard the water run he took his chance.
…
2 hours had passed. He waited in the alcove of John's—her room. There was no sound of water running, and the hair dryer had stopped. He had barely bothered to dress, choosing only the first clean pajamas his hands touched. If she stayed she had to follow his rules. It was no loss to him. After another age, she walked out of the bathroom, and for the first time engaged in an appropriate reaction; she screamed. A short surprised scream, but a scream nonetheless.
"Do shut up, your pitch is too shrill for you to continue at this volume."
"What the fuck is wrong with you! Have you ever considered the door was shut for a reason?" She was dressed in only a towel. Her hair curled at the bottom, her makeup was done, and she had jewelry on.
"You are Rory Braugher."
"Yes, and? Have you considered that a closed door is merely a challenge?"
"You, a female, an approximately 26 year old women, in your post graduate studies in a medical field. A formally fat child, who lost enough weight for her body to be taut, spends way too much money on clothes. Thought you could live here and not be deduced? So what drew you here anyway? Try and seduce me with your provocative underwear, tempt me into your bed with the riddle of your identity. But you forgot. I am Sherlock Holmes, and I am smarter than you."
"First, I'm 27, and I don't know how you know about the fat kid things, but if you read the fucking renters application you'd know that I'm here for Central London. The rent here is dead cheap. As for the whole megalomaniac end to your monologue I don't know who you are. I have more important things to do. Ask for my 'nakedness' the other morning," She got more and more heated as she went on. "I hadn't met you yet. You're not awake when I am, and I had decided to kip down to the kitchen for some tea before I left for my job." She grabbed his arm, the shock of which impacted him in a way he did not expect. He moved as she dragged him, "Now if you'll excuse me, get the fuck out of my room." She pushed him out the door, slammed it shut, and locked it.
…
She shook off the introduction, grabbed her clothes, and went into her bathroom to change (just in case Crazy decided to break in again). She emerged back from her room and stomped down the stairs. Sherlock looked up from where he laid on the couch to see her in a cropped beige sweatshirt with a small rainbow embroidered patch above her left breast, jeans, and red pumps. She had a school bag around her shoulder, and a tan trench coat over her arm. She paid no attention to him as she walked out of the flat.
…
"He's in the fucking alcove of my room, while I'm naked in nothing but a towel. And he thinks I moved in to seduce him." Rory said t the people sitting in tables next to her.
"Rory, you have to move back in with us. He sounds like a nightmare." One of the women, Annalise said.
"I can't move back in," Rory sighed dejectedly, "I signed a lease until December. I'm stuck."
"Talk to Ian, I'm sure if you betted your eyelashes he could buy you out of your lease." A male, Nick, said to her.
"No thanks, I think I'm going to stick it out. He didn't even know I was there for a week." She paused as Ian passed their cluster and set himself up at the front of the room. "And I'm only here for Methods, and meeting Dr. Wharron to prep for orals and my thesis. Then I'm done." She resumed. "And I just submitted an edit yesterday. So here's hoping."
…
"Okay, I'll get the cab, Nick please grab Annalise!" Rory directed. Her friend nick went back inside the pub.
Her friend Mona retched once more, and Rory patted her back with on hand holding her hair with the others. "Let it out, Moans."
"No more drinking," Mona said in-between retches. "You should have stopped me."
"This I on you. If you hadn't invited Neal and Ian, and then gotten into a drinking competition with them. You wouldn't be vomiting and Annalise would be able to stand up straight." Rory reminded her friend. "Listen I'm gonna get a cab, we're gonna stop by a chip shop and fill you and Annalise up then put you both to bed."
"Okay," Mona heaved again.
Rory hurried to the street and held her hand out. The first cab she flagged stopped, and she bent down to the window.
"Hey, we gotta a couple o' drunks, we're just trying to get to the nearest chip shop. Are you okay with a couple o' drunks?" She turned to look at her retching friend. "We'll keep them by the windows and—"
"Get in the car, Miss Braugher."
She turned back to look at the person who spoke, a well-dressed woman with shinny hair looked up from her phone. "Get in the car, Miss Braugher." It was only then did Rory notice the door was wide open.
"No," Rory scoffed, "I'm not doing that. Hey!" She shrieked as she was pulled into the car. She kicked out as the man holding her, pinned her arms to the side. She whacked the thin stiletto heel of her shoe into the man's shins. He grunted by didn't let her go.
The door slammed shut.
"What the hell is going on!" She pulled at the handle.
"He wants to speak with you."
"Who wants to speak with me? My friends are at the pub, if they don't see me, they will call the police." She said in quick succession
The man who pushed her in—the diver turned the ignition, and drove off.
"They won't worry, they've been given a cab, will be filled up with chips, and sent home. They're taken care of." The car started moving and Rory grabbed at the handle trying to continue to both unlock and exit the car.
"It's no use." The mysterious woman in blue said looking at her phone." We'll be there soon enough."
"We'll be where? And who even are you?"
The woman paused for a moment. "Anthea." She said. "We'll be there soon enough."
"I take it that's not your real name?"
"Correct." She said typing on her phone.
…
They let her out in an empty car garage. They left no instruction, just left her in the middle of the third story of a four story garage. They threw her out the same way they brought her into the car. Forcefully.
She walked through the garage towards the stairs. One thing she noticed on the way up. No lift, she wasn't exactly thrilled about the hike back to the street, especially in heels. Her anger at her flatmate, because who else would fake kidnap her and set her free in an empty garage except someone who called her fat and decided she was seducing him in under three sentences. She didn't have her phone. She'd left it in her bag at the old flat, because chivalrous Nick insisted he'd pay.
There were barely any lights on in the garage. Just a few safety ones, that flickered yellow. She turned the corner making it halfway to the stairwell when the rest of the lights went out.
"Fucking hell." She muttered to herself, and quickened her pace.
Then another light, a bright one illuminated a man leaning on an umbrella.
"Victoria Braugher, I presume." He said.
"Are gonna kill me?" She took a step back.
"A week with Sherlock Holmes and you see killers everywhere."
"I just met him today." She said involuntarily flexed her calves preparing to run.
"When one is avoiding Sherlock Holmes, one learns discretion." He agreed. "I'm not here to kill you, in fact that never even crossed my mind."
"So kidnapping me was what? Foreplay?" She asked.
"So." He ignored her sarcasm, "How many times have you interacted with Sherlock Holmes. Has he invited you to any crime scenes yet? If he's interested as you deny, I expect a wedding announcement at the end of the week."
"Who even are you?" She asked.
"An interested party." He replied.
"Ah, so you're a stalker."
"I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."
"So he has no friends, but goody—a stalker. What else could you be?"
"An enemy, Miss Braugher."
"An enemy?" She repeated. Looking at him intently.
"To him, certainly. And if you were to ask him, I'm sure he'd say I'm his archenemy. He does love to be dramatic."
"And you, surely, have never expressed an interest in drama." She raised her hand and indicated the garage.
"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"
"Is that really any of your business?"
"If could be?" He said, his eye brows raised.
"No, really it can't."
"So loyal, in such a short time." He tutted.
"I'm not. I'm just to interest in whatever you're offering."
"Being overweight as a child does make one apprehensive to others."
She crossed her arms over her bare stomach. "You know, you're the second person to call me fat today. I'm not really into negging."
"So you trust him already? I guess he's better at talking to women than I thought."
"Are we done?"
"You tell me. Victoria Secret undergarments can be quite expensive."
She crossed her arms over her chest.
"I find that one has expensive underwear and shoes. Expensive clothing only adds to expenses." She adjusted herself. Her arms no longer covered herself in hiding, but crossed in anger. She moved a foot in front, her entire orientation changed, from fear to anger.
"Living in Central London, paying for school yourself, and making a meager sum from Saint Bart's doesn't leave much room for shopping."
"I make enough," She said through her teeth.
He pulled a flip phone out of his pocket and tossed it her direction. She caught it. "It's time to choose a side Miss Braugher. I can pay you, handsomely, for any information about Sherlock Holmes. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd be uncomfortable about telling me. Just tell me what's up to, on a regular basis."
"Why?"
"Because I worry about him, constantly."
"That's nice of you."
"I would prefer my various reasons of concern go unmentioned. We have a…difficult relationship."
"I'd prefer to have not been kidnapped. But we can't have everything we want." She said she turned and walked to the stairwell.
…
The same car that brought her to the garage was waiting on the street.
"Get in, Miss Braugher, unless you prefer to walk." Anthea said.
Rory wasted no time getting into the car.
"Do me a favor," Rory said, "Tell your boss to lay off the Victoria Secret catalogues."
…
Sherlock heard his flatmate stomping up the stairs as he watched an old Jeremy Kyle. The key was turned, and was hit in his shoulder by a shoe. He wasn't sat on the couch, but standing in front of the teacher in front of the table. Not because the couch was uncomfortable, or because sitting was uncomfortable. But because standing was better for deducing.
"What the hell kind of people are you related too?!" She yelled. The other red pump in her hand. He turned to look at her. She threw the other pump, and it bounced harmlessly off his chest.
"I don't know what you mean." He said and turned back to the television.
"Oh you didn't think calling me fat, having your bloody archenemy kidnap me, then call me fat too to be an inappropriate flat warming?" She slammed the door to the flat.
"Archenemy?" He turned back to her, with an eyebrow raised. Jeremey Kyle now forgotten.
"Your brother? Did you honestly think I wouldn't be able to tell?" She said dangerously. "Same basic bone structure, eye socket depth, the start of the nose cartilage, detached earlobes, and forehead ridge prominence! A lot of similarities in your faces. I bet if I stripped you both down I could find more."
"You got all that from our faces." He said intrigued and strode toward her. "Did he offer you money?"
"Yes."
"Do you take it?"
"No." She glowered. Remembering the flip phone in her pocket, she had said no, hadn't she?
"Shame, we could have split it." He rolled his eyes. "Tell me, how you able to tell our relation were based on our faces."
"I told you, your bone structure. It's so obvious you're related. Anything else and your parents have lied to you."
"What kind of medical professional knows how to tell familial relations." He gripped her wrist. "I know you're a medical profession because of the slight smell of formaldehyde in your hair. The textbooks, notebooks, and binders in your room, and the skeleton in your room with labels of the muscular system and nervous system labeled. As well the proper names and layman's terms for the skeletal system."
She wretched her wrist from his grip, "I'm studying to be a bloody forensic anthropologist." She turned away from him, and he was hit with the smell of her floral perfume, as well as formaldehyde. He heard her stomp up the stairs to her room and slam the bedroom door.
…
John frowned as he picked up the red pump by his seat in the living room of Baker Street.
"You're…not…"
"It's not mine," Sherlock didn't look up from his laptop. "Which sounds better than missing child or missing drug money?"
"If it's not yours, then whose is it?' John asked turning the heel over in his hands.
"You're right. Both utterly boring." Sherlock placed the laptop on the table from his lap, and laid down on the couch. His hands in prayer over his lips, his eyes clothes. "Obviously missing child is custodial interference, and there is no missing drug money—it was spent on drugs."
"Sherlock?" John said again, "Are you seeing someone?"
Sherlock opened an eye lazily. He reached into his pocket unlocked his iPhone. He tossed it on the table and wordlessly encouraged John to take it. "It's my new flatmate." He growled.
John picked up the phone flicked through the pictures app Sherlock had opened. The renters application, a picture (a sneaky shot Sherlock had taken that morning) of her rushing out, and her student ID.
"She's pretty." John noted.
"Victoria Braugher," He spat, then corrected, "Rory. In her final year of uni. 26, formally fat child. Likes to wear expensive clothing and underthings—"
"How do you know what kind of underwear she likes to wear?" John interrupted as he analyzed her renter's contract.
"I've seen them."
"You've seen them?"
"She parades around in them. Impossibly small strings of expensive fabric, moving her hips from side to side. Claims she has no idea who I am, but you and I know better. You're blog is popular enough that it's more than reasonable that she knows who I am, than not." Sherlock grumbled. "Mrs. Hudson says I'm not allowed to change the locks, or run her out."
"Mrs. Hudson likes her?"
"She's charmed Mrs. Hudson, like a snake."
"What's she like, Rory?"
"Interesting enough, Mycroft thought she could get information from her." Sherlock said, his voice now sleepy. "Stay if you want. She'll be here soon enough."
…
Rory turned the key in the lock, all she wanted was a soak in her tub; surrounded by the expensive three wick candles, aromatic bah oils, and bubbles. Lots and lots of bubbles.
"Oh Rory-Dear," Mrs. Hudson called as she climbed up the stairs "I'm glad I caught you. Sherlock has a mate over, I haven't seen John leave yet. But I'm about to pop up and make some tea from them. Would you like a cup?"
"Sherlock has a mate?" Rory asked, then quickly, "No thanks on the tea, Mrs. Hudson, I've had a long day and I just want a bath."
"Oh, I understand," Mrs. Hudson said, "If you change your mind, I'll be in the kitchen."
…
John turned his head as the door opened and Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock's new flatmate walked in. Rory Braugher was wearing an oversized sweat shirt as a dress that reached her mid thighs and long suede boots with a chunky wooden heel, the boots reach about 3 inches from the hem of the sweater. She had a large toe bag around her shoulder, and her brown hair was in pony tail. She had 2 large gold hoops in her ears. Her tan beige trench coat was like a cape behind her.
She paid no attention to Sherlock as she walked in and passed him to the stairs to John's old room.
"Tea? John? Sherlock?"
Sherlock opened her eyes and looked at Mrs. Hudson. "Is tea really worth it? We have nothing to use tea for."
"Oh, cheer up, Sherlock. Soon there will be a nice, messy murder."
"How's the new tenant?"
"She's lovely," Mrs. Hudson said, "it's nice having some feminine energy around here, don't you agree Sherlock?" She walked into the kitchen to make tea.
They heard the roar of water above them, as the bathroom that connected to John's old room came to life.
"She's taking a bath?" Sherlock grimaced.
"She's had a long day." Mrs. Hudson supplied from the kitchen.
"What's she in school for?" John asked Mrs. Hudson.
"Oh, something medical." She called back.
"Forensic Anthropology." Sherlock replied.
"Forensic Anthropology? Like on archeological digs?"
Sherlock nodded, "Boring isn't she. Can't even be a doctor of alive people."
…
Rory rested her head against the edge of the tub. Her hair was piled on messily on the top of her head. Her earrings clinked gently against the tub. She closed her eyes, and breathed in the lemon and sage bath oil. The candles flickered gold in the many bubbles that rested atop the water
She felt the day soak off her, her most recent edit didn't go as well as she expected. Her day started early, rushing off to Nick's to pick her phone and school bag up. Then back to campus to submit the part her advisor requested before she met with him. And method was a mess, Mona and Annalise were so hung over that they spent more time throwing up than going over their share of the experiment analysis.
There was a knock on the door, Sherlock.
"Go away, Asshole." She said, her eyes closed.
She heard the door open, and the footfalls of her flatmate.
"Do you really not know who I am?" She heard his deep baritone voice.
She didn't bother to open her eyes and respond,
"Hang on is she—are you naked in there?" His mate asked.
"Are you listening to me?" Sherlock asked at the same time.
She sank down lower into the tub into the tub, her knees popped out the top of the water but not above the bubbles.
"We shouldn't be in here." John said, "I'm leaving."
She heard the second man's footsteps as he exited the room. She heard more footsteps coming towards the tub.
She heard a splash as he reached into the water and grabbed one of her wrists. She was jerked up, and opened her eyes with an eye roll.
"Can I help you?" She asked. His hand still holding her writs, his sleeve was wet.
"Do you really not know who I am?" He asked again, his blue green eyes shone, and bore into her blue eyes.
"As I said previously, rent here is dead cheap. Now I know why. It's closer to my school and internship." She made no mind to his grip on her hand.
"You really don't know me?"
"Should I?" She asked. "Why are you even here? In my bathroom? Interested in seducing me into bed? Entice me with questions about your identity? Sorry, mate, I'm in the tub. I can make room if you like?"
Sherlock looked from her eyes to his hand holding her wrist and released it. She took her other hand out of the water and adjusted herself to sit up. "Be a lamb, get my towel please."
Sherlock turned and grabbed her a towel and handed it to her. She got up carefully, as not expose herself any more than she'd done a few days before. And wrapped the towel around herself. She grabbed his wet arm with her hand, and led him to her bedroom.
"Oi, boyfriend." She said at John who was waiting patiently in her room.
He pointed at himself.
"Yes, John. She didn't mean the skeleton." Sherlock reprimanded.
"Oh, uh, John Watson." He held out his hand for hers. She grasped it for a moment before dropping it.
"Rory Braugher. You forgot your pet in my bath." She released Sherlock.
"Oh, sorry." He said, "You're quite organized with your med notes. I could have learned something from you when I was in med school."
"You went to med school?" She raised her manicured eyebrows. And Sherlock saw the glittery gold eye shadow she'd yet to rub off.
"Yes, he's a doctor." Sherlock said impatiently. "Now tell him what you told me."
"I believe the exact words 'get the fuck out of my room.'" Rory said, she crossed her arms over her chest.
"No, no. Not that." Sherlock shook his head. "No the other thing."
"I have a bath, I'd really like to get back too. I'm not in the mood to play guess what she said."
"She said she has no idea who I am." Sherlock reminded Rory. "That means she doesn't read your blog."
"Who care about a blog? Seriously. Can you both leave so I can drop my towel and go back into the bath?"
"You can go back to the bath. We won't look" Sherlock said.
At the same time John responded. "Oh yes, we'll be going."
"No John. You don't have to leave." Sherlock said. He waved Rory off. "The baths here. Don't mind us."
"You're in my room!"
"Technically it's John's room, as he occupied longer than you."
"He doesn't pay for it! I do!" Rory exploded.
"Really Sherlock. I'm sorry Rory, we'll be going." John said.
"Nonsense." Sherlock strode into the bathroom, unplugged the bathtub stopper and the water drained down. "There. No longer a problem."
"I'm hallucinating. I must have drank some isopropyl alcohol and have imagined you just drained my bath?"
"You don't need a bath. You're clean enough." Sherlock dismissed He rubbed his hands together. "Now where was I? Oh yes. You—"He indicated Rory, "don't read his—" he indicated John, "blog. Which is curious because you work for the medical-legal lab that operates outside of Saint Bart's."
"A lot of people work in that lab. What does that have to do with me?" Rory asked.
"The lab works for Scotland Yard." Sherlock explained
"I know that! Why the hell do you know that? And how the hell do you know where I work?"
"I read your renters application, per your suggestion."
"So what does working at the ML Lab have to do with her?" John asked her.
"She doesn't know who I am." Sherlock reminded.
"Who cares! So I'm not in true crime! That doesn't mean I'm bad at my job."
"No, but it means you are unsuitable for living here. This flat is a plethora of experimentation on the art of crime. Your presence here is no longer required and consider your renters application and lease disapproved and voided."
Rory let out a large sigh. "No it's not. If you'll excuse me." She turned and walked back into the bathroom. Sherlock and John heard the bath water run.
...