Hi all! Just quickly wanted to say, I started writing this four years ago (I know) and just decided to get back into writing regularly and felt the urge to roll with this. Also, I haven't watched Sherlock in five years? But I'm enjoying having more of a fresh mind in regards to this story and these characters. Most storylines will of course be pulled from the series (or John's blog) but I'll be throwing in some random arcs of my own as is apparent in this first chapter. Anyways, enjoy :-) Hopefully :-)

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I rested my forehead against the coolness of the car window as I watched the familiar London rain collect on the Baker Street sidewalks. I had lost track of time as I sat in the worn driver's seat, but I knew there were sizable puddles that had somehow formed in the few or possibly many minutes that I'd been seated there. I also knew that the man standing in front of Speedy's Café was avoiding his wife while he pretended to make a phone call, only muttering and nodding when she rapped sharply on the window behind him. I smiled slightly when he scratched the top of his wool cap and said goodbye to a blank cell phone screen, walking dejectedly inside.

I'd always been more inclined to notice the details that no one else seems to (or cares to). Even as a young girl I would find myself focusing and fixating on the obscure and the extraneous. My father found it humorous when I would walk away from a film having paid more notice to discrepancies in the amount of milk in a glass or bites out of a piece of toast than I did to major plot points.

I felt something gently brush my side, pulling me out of the saga of the Speedy's stranger that I had been mentally establishing. I mindlessly reached down to pet the smoky grey cat as I murmured, "What do you think? Time to go inside?"

Normally I don't mind change; rather, I embrace it and compartmentalize when necessary. Though as I stared out into the rain at my new flat with nothing but some boxes of family heirlooms, clothing, and kitchen utensils in my backseat, I couldn't help but feel as though my life were in a state of complete upheaval. When my mother had passed away months before I allowed myself to cry, reflected fondly on the past, then quickly repressed emotions and tried my best to move forward with my chin held high. When my father then sold our home and many of our more unnecessary belongings to move to France I bought him an espresso maker and helped him pack. When it came to be my turn to embrace a new life trajectory, I finally succumbed to the feeling that I was in a state of absolute and irreversible change, for better or for worse. My move to a new flat was the beginning of a new chapter in my life, and it provided closure to the twenty-seven years leading up to it.

I fished a crumpled envelope out of my glove compartment and shook its few contents onto my lap; a silver key and a note tidily scrawled in purple ink:

Key is for the front door

You may want to leave the door open for ventilation

I did try my best to get rid of the mold smell.

- Martha Hudson

Having known Mrs. Hudson for a number of years, I did not doubt that she had spent a fair amount of time wandering around the basement flat, perhaps spraying various perfumed cleaners on the walls and ceiling, muttering about the uselessness of professionals. Mold and all, I was thankful for the flat.

I cradled my compliant feline companion and made my way into the unremitting drizzle, instantly comforted by the warm air that greeted me when I pushed open the heavy front door. The building smelled of woodsmoke, coffee, and cedar, which instantly melted away my few hesitations. I had never actually visited the flat, as when Mrs. Hudson mentioned the inexpensive basement vacancy at my father's going away dinner party I was quick to accept the offer. I'm not typically the type of person to make decisions quickly or carelessly, but in that moment the thought of doing something rather reckless and spontaneous had greatly appealed to me.

"221C." I muttered to myself, "Right, just past the staircase."

I glanced up the wooden stairs that lead to 221B as my mind wandered to my new neighbors. I had heard Mrs. Hudson speak of the two men when she would visit my parents' old home to play cards and Cluedo. Though her words were affectionate, there was always a hint of exasperation that was invariably loving and familial.

On one occasion she had insisted that I read John Watson's blog, stating from behind her glass of wine, "John writes occasionally, bless him. Sometimes he's so desperate for content the poor dear even writes about me."

I had skimmed a few entries, admittedly reluctantly, and was surprisedly sucked into reading about the various cases he pursued. I was also intrigued by the "madman" partner and roommate he wrote about, though I think all of those in London that bothered to carefully read the news were as well.

"Ah, here we are then." I quietly said as I stepped through the door to 221C, watching the cat lazily jump onto the creaky hardwood floor. The living area smelled strongly of lavender, which I assumed was the scent of whatever Mrs. Hudson had used in her attempted mildew eradication. I surveyed my rather derelict surroundings, inwardly thanking the landlady for providing the space with necessary and bulky pieces of furniture. I knew that once I arranged my belongings, threw some logs into the fireplace, and smoothed on a fresh layer of wallpaper that it had the potential to be agreeable and cosy. I couldn't help but find its shabbiness to be rather charming.

I trusted my cat as I left the door open on my way to retrieve his food and boxes of my possessions. At this point I'd had the old boy for eleven years; since I'd found him as a kitten wandering the streets of South Kensington on a chilled December evening. I had chased him determinedly for hours, surrounded by Londoners and tourists doing their last minute Christmas shopping and unwilling to help a teenage girl run after a small stray.

I dashed to the car and gathered one of the large cardboard boxes containing things I'd kept from my parents' home but objectively didn't need; a patterned lampshade with a fringe of string tassels, a gold frame housing David Bowie's written response to my mother's fan letter, and my father's stained copy of Julia Child's cookbook to name a few articles.

"I won't need the book in France," Dad claimed while pushing his round, tortoiseshell spectacles up the bridge of his nose, "because I'd like to think I will be living the recipes as opposed to reading them."

I continued to jog back and forth from building to car, successfully transporting nearly everything inside in a matter of minutes. The drizzle didn't cease, but I appreciated that it prodded me to be more efficient.

As I walked briskly to the front door cradling my last box, I heard someone shout my name and turned to see none other than a waving Mrs. Hudson with a plasticine rain bonnet tied around her head.

"Mrs. Hudson," I said, more so to myself, grinning and squinting because of the soggy weather. "How are you?"

"Oh I'm fine. Inside, inside." she said as she nudged me towards the front step. "We don't have to catch up in this miserable weather. Did you just get in?"

"Just moments ago." I nodded appreciatively as she held the door open for me. "I've just finished unloading my things, though that wasn't anything too strenuous."

"I was hoping I'd be here to see you in, dear. I just had to pop down to the corner store to pick up some tea as I'm afraid the boys had cleaned out the stash." I noticed a few dark bottles in her bag when I glanced down, noting that there was another stash of hers that had also needed replenishing.

"Have the boys made their presence known yet?" She questioned. "I imagine they haven't. They can be so reclusive until they want a cup of warm drink..." I heard her mutter to herself as she carried her groceries toward her door.

I've always appreciated conversations with Mrs. Hudson as she often seems to answer her own questions without seeking a lengthy response.

"Do you want a cup of morning tea?" She questioned from the hall. "I'll make you tea as long as you live here, but only if you join me in drinking it. I can be your company but not your housekeeper."

"That would be grand, Mrs. Hudson." I punctuated my response with a heavy thud as I ungracefully dropped my sentimental junk next to the sofa on my living room floor. "I'd love nothing more, honestly." A statement which in that moment was entirely true. After a rain drenched early morning of both thinking and driving in circles I could think of no better or more soothing tonic.

"Change out of those wet clothes in the meantime, dear. I'll holler when it's nearly ready." She waved as she made her way into 221B.

I smiled inwardly at the exchange as I dug through a bundle of my clothing, unearthing a knit jumper and black jeans. I held the cable knit material to my face and inhaled deeply, glad that I gave into the sporadic urge when the comforting scent of home met my senses. It was a nostalgic mix of cinnamon and the forest of herbs that we had grown in our kitchen.

I'm sure there are those that found it pathetic that a woman well into her twenties had still been living with her parents, but I had been content with the arrangement and not entirely keen on braving the London housing market alone if I had no need to. My parents had for decades owned this house that was, quite frankly, too large. Without trying I could have spent days going about my business at home without making contact with mum or dad because of the layout. Smaller spaces had always made me feel more comfortable. I thought of our old forest of kitchen herbs now strewn in a sad heap in a sludgy garden that no longer belonged to us and closed my eyes; no more thoughts of decay. No more.

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror after changing and giving myself a quick and informal tour of the flat, hesitantly surveying my reflection for the first time in what had felt like ages. My tired hazel eyes no longer looked red or irritated, and hadn't in awhile, though the dark circles underneath them remained noticeable. They always were. I ran a hand through the ashy dark brown waves that echoed my mother's; curls that had become more pronounced after prolonged exposure to the rain. I was often told that I was a perfect clone of my mother, which was a remark that I considered to be a great compliment but one that I inwardly declined and could never fully accept. With her large and inquisitive eyes, gorgeous cheekbones, sloping nose, and dark brows, she had been a classic beauty. When I looked at my reflection I didn't see any of the compassion or warmth that her features had so effortlessly possessed, which was what had made her beautiful.

An effectively loud and simple call of "Tea!" pulled me away from the mirror before I could further attack my self esteem.

I quickly pulled on my old leather boots and shuffled across the hall, following the aroma that was wafting out of the oven in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen.

"God that smells wonderful, whatever it is." I sighed and stretched as I wandered into the flat.

"Scones. I also have some store bought biscuits on hand if these turn out anything like my last attempt." She said while worriedly opening the oven door.

"Even if they came out tasting like rocks the smell would be well worth-" My comment was cut short by the slamming of a nearby door and the sound of two voices engaged in a seemingly heated conversation.

"Don't be daft, John." I heard a deep voice declare as it mixed with the sound of feet ascending creaky stairs. "Few humans can be commanded to play such a role in someone else's dark bidding, let alone something as vacuous and impassive as a snake. A caged snake, no less."

"You're calling me daft, now? I'm not the one ignoring the only concrete piece of evidence we've obtained. A snake is a snake, regardless of its upbringing!"

"And I suppose a snake charmer is a snake charmer, regardless of whether or not he communicates with a toodley thing? What astonishing legitimacy."

"It appears as though The Man That Sees Everything is really just an imperceptive bast-"

"Tea, Mrs. Hudson!" The deep voice thundered from down the hallway, "We will have that tea!"

"Just a moment, love." Mrs. Hudson replied without removing her gaze from the oven.

I stared with wide and curious eyes as the duo charged into the kitchen. The two were led by the man I immediately recognized to be Sherlock Holmes. There was no denying his commanding presence, especially when he questioned, "Who is this?" with a long finger pointed overtly in my direction.

"Evelyn Bennett." I offered with slightly raised brows. "Just moved in across the hall, actually."

"Hello." I was able to put the second voice to a face as John Watson gently pushed past from behind Sherlock, smiling widely with a hand extended in my direction. "John Watson. Your upstairs neighbor." I smiled politely while he maintained a firm grip on my hand. "Apologies for the, er, spirited conversation."

"Hello," I half chuckled. "I have read a few of your blog entries at Mrs. Hudson's urging. Mysterious deaths, Chinese antiquities, snakes, apparently. It would be daft for one to assume that a case could be solved without its fair share of turbulence. Especially with the, er, snakes." I smiled whilst running a hand through my hair.

"Especially turbulent when snakes very obviously haven't been involved." Sherlock offered blankly with a hand curled nonchalantly around his chin and without a glance in John's direction.

"Tea ready then?" John said through a forced, toothy grin and a clap of his hands. Mrs. Hudson didn't move from the oven door she was kneeling in front of.

"How do you take yours, Evelyn?" John asked while aggressively grabbing an extra teacup from the cupboard to add to the three that seemed to have their designated place next to the sink.

I grabbed and shook the carton of cream on the counter and smiled in appreciation as John poured me a cup and I took my seat in a random armchair in the dimly lit living room.

Mrs. Hudson assembled her scones, perfectly baked of course, on a plate and we all settled into our respective chairs (aside from Sherlock, who chose to lean against the fireplace and towered over my seat). Mrs. Hudson then mentioned something about a forgotten appointment and hurried off into the rain with a scone.

"What do you do for work then?" John inquired through a bite of berry scone and a moment of quiet following the slamming of the front door.

I looked at my hands which were cradling my warm cup, secretly working up a few moments of courage. Though it had been a handful of months since the incident, it wasn't the easiest to talk about. Grief doesn't have any sort of rigid timeline. I didn't enjoy being the paria in whatever company I surrounded myself with. The one everyone had to walk on eggshells around. The poor, bereaved girl. No stranger to tragedy. In my current company, however, I felt comfort. I didn't feel as though I would be viewed as unrelatable or fragile. I was in the company of men that chased death and discomfort and snakes, though that was currently up for debate.

"I worked at the British Museum." At the mention of it Sherlock finally made proper eye contact with me. I smiled, trying to feign normalcy. Trying not to immediately let on that my mum was one of the handful that died in a national tragedy at my old place of work. Our old place of work.

"It's been months since I've worked. I'm… trying to navigate going back? It's a bit grim, as you can imagine. The thought of spending my days walking around these protected, priceless items after what happened. It all feels a bit shallow. Meaningless, if that makes any sort of sense." I shook my head and shut my eyes as I tried to gather my scattered thoughts.

"You were there when it happened?" Sherlock asked, his eyes not leaving my face, though I didn't squirm. I felt reassured, and nodded while maintaining eye contact.

"I was in the Great Court, beginning my first guided tour of the day when everything just, shuttered. It was the loudest sound I've ever heard but also the greatest stillness I've ever felt. Like there was an electric charge in the air." My fingers twitched. Ten minutes into meeting these two and I was already sharing my most traumatic experience. I suppose that's just what they attract. Walking magnets for those that have experienced the strange and unusual and disturbing. I looked back down at my milky tea as I remembered my hair standing on end. The sensation of every muscle tensing. Grabbing the random, wild eyed children next to me out of instinct as I whipped my head towards the screams that were now beginning to echo from the high ceilinged rooms to my left.

"I always thought that I'd be the type to run, to take flight if something were to go awry, but I ran towards the noise. It felt as though I was wading through water, but I ran and ran until I found the source of it all. Chaos, as you could imagine, but the most horrible combination of this intense chaos and a horrible sense of quiet." Room 18. Greece. Parthenon exhibit. Mum's blazer. Mum's hair. Mum. The wreckage that a bomb leaves behind.

"Jesus." John said, staring uninterestedly at his abandoned scone.

I was nearly certain that Sherlock recognized the resemblance between myself and one of the victims, especially if he had studied the incident as much as I expected he would have; surely knowing the names of those that had died. That there was of course a Bennett in that mix. Why he didn't choose to acknowledge it in that moment I haven't a clue. He just nodded knowingly, which when was this man ever 'unknowing' from what I'd gathered, and then took a sip of his tea. I was thankful.

"All right, who's next? Fancy sharing your own trauma?" I downed my last harty gulp and crossed my arms while hollowly grinning expectedly, feeling surprisingly at ease in the presence of my new neighbors.