Welcome to London

Early morning is a time usually noted for its relative peace in relation to the rest of the day. Whether a person's routine is only beginning or coming to a close, the time is marked by general peace and ease. Well, that and many a different theory will always need to have a few challengers to that rule…

A teenaged girl mentally ran through the checklist of everything she had with her, as the clock drew nearer to midnight. She didn't dare use a light for fear she wake the rest of the house, so the room remained as one with the inky blackness that colored the sky outside her window. Sliding several envelopes into her leather jacket, she scanned the room of the place she never could call "home", shared with people she never could call "family". Well, not for a number of more recent years at least.

Satisfied that nothing necessary was being forgotten, she lowered her few belongings out the window of her first- floor bedroom before tying dental floss around the window lock, crawling out the window, shoes in hand, and shutting it, using the floss to lock the window after her; letting it slip off afterwards, sliding out the small gap without a trace.

"That ought to keep them busy for an hour at least", she snickered mirthlessly to herself as she jumped off the ledge, put her shoes on, and biked off into the early morning twilight. She could only hope that all traces of the life she had known would be lost forever. Maybe then she could heal, and hopefully, eventually, she could forgive herself of her failures.

Across the North Atlantic Ocean, dark gray skies threatened rain over the bustling London cityscape. The streets flooded with more and more traffic as the hours passed, pushing the sounds of people, horns, motors, old brake pads and the occasional siren towards it's inevitable crescendo. Nothing would have seemed out of the ordinary had anyone been standing in the sitting area of the little flat that perched directly over a small café, facing the rest of the world.

Well, to clarify, nothing outside the flat would have been out of the ordinary. The inside on the other hand, and more precisely the kitchen… well, that was a different story entirely.

The space contained all of the most basic normal things that a kitchen should. All the appliances were basic and battered. The cupboards were stuffed with utensils, even if they were a bit oddly categorized, and cluttered. It was the rest of the objects laying as if they owned the spaces in amongst the mundane, expected things, which would give pause to those unaccustomed to this particular flat; or in fact, the occupant of it.

The out of sight spaces held the strangest of the collected oddities. Petri dishes lined the bottom, darkest cupboards. Solution-soaked cloth pieces hung by magnets to the side of the refrigerator. The refrigerator, and freezers themselves, as well as the microwave contained anything from varying tissue samples, to dismembered portions of the human body, this time including a lung, and tonsils. Not to mention that the milk was always to be considered suspect, whether from experimental means, or just plain age.

The kitchen table was littered with a rather impressive chemistry set, surrounding the cause of the extremely mad environment. All six feet of one entranced-looking, human mass sat hunched over a microscope and it's current specimen. Hair poked out to every possible direction like a massively coiled, dark sable, compass rose.

He looked intimidating; setting his jaw at times in concentration, his mind focused exclusively on tasks around him that only he could name. Minutes of silent deliberation past, in which it was almost impossible to see signs that the man was even breathing. But his surreal trance-like state was broken in one swift movement, as he shot up to his feet, and swiped his arm at full span across the table top, swatting an entire binder of papers, and scattering half of it onto the floor.

Stomping into the living room, he made his way toward the bookshelf by the window, standing in front of it for a split second before vaulting over his chair, and landing neatly in it; though looking a bit like a furious amphibian, with his knees drawn up almost to his shoulders, feet digging into the dark leather material.

Moments later, quick but cautious footsteps made themselves present on the stairs ascending to his flat. The man dropped his shoulders, letting his head fall back as he let out an exasperated groan, and rolled his eyes knowing what conversation was about to take place.

Mrs. Hudson hummed lightly to herself, feather duster, cleaning solution, and rags in hand, as she mentally made a check-list of things that still needed to be cleaned in the basement flat before her new tenant arrived. The young lady had already sounded a bit flustered over the phone, though she tried to hide it; but it wasn't anything Mrs. Hudson couldn't understand. After all, it was a young girl moving overseas by herself, saying she had just turned eighteen; it was a situation that would put anyone out of sorts. The question of why the girl had chosen to do so, and have a destination so far from home had only been answered vaguely, but for once Mrs. Hudson didn't try to get any deeper questions answered. It just didn't seem decent.

The girl had intended on renting from Mrs. Turner, but the older lady's lack of memory, and overestimation of how many would be able to comfortably rent from her, quickly put a kibosh on that plan, and caused the girl to make a mad dash for the next most suitable flat. At least that is, until Mrs. Turner had lamented about her own inefficiency, and Mrs. Hudson gladly took it upon herself to help.

The landlady's past few days had been spent trying to make the lower flat seem livable. It was still prone to spots of mold in the summer months, but the prospective renter hadn't been put off by that fact. About the only thing left to do would be wiping down the baseboards… and the most interesting task, letting her current tenant know he had to be on his best behavior. It wouldn't solve anything, not by half, but she couldn't bring herself to just throw the stress of having to deal with Sherlock on a new guest so suddenly, and have the detective retaliate straight out of the box. She hoped the quirky man could at least pretend to tone himself down for the first few days, as she made her way up the steps to explain the situation to him.

Sherlock moved to seat himself in a slightly more proper manner, just as a light rapping made itself known on the door to his flat.

"Yoo-hoo!" the older lady sang as she waited for signs of life from within.

"Yes." Came the monotone reply, as Sherlock made himself look busy, picking his laptop off the coffee table, and placing it in his lap, the screen already displaying an unfinished entry for 'The Science of Deduction'.

"I've got a bit of news dear, thought you might like to know about it." Mrs. Hudson stated quietly, as she made her way into the flat.

Sherlock typed away on his keyboard, not even bothering to look up as he spoke, "So you found someone to rent the lower flat; last week in fact, so it seems a bit useless to tell me now."

Mrs. Hudson dismissed the last part of his statement, as she had told him, but he ran off before she could even finish a sentence. So she simply let it go deciding he was most likely going to be contrary about the whole ordeal for a bit, and it would simply have to pass in time.

"Well it would help me financially. And you know what I'm going to tell you about this. Please be on your best behavior. Especially no shooting things all willy-nilly in the middle of the night. It wouldn't do for that to be a persons 'welcome' to London."

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a marked petulance at the preemptive reprimands. True, he'd just finished a case (a trivial one, but it stopped him from being entirely bored); but he still had to file away all the new information in his mind. He also had mentally compiled a list of experiments that would require his attention for at least another two weeks. Only then could he even begin to contemplate his mind's inevitable decent into the depths of absolute stagnancy.

The new addition to Baker Street was not going to be a welcome one for Sherlock. He could already hear the stupid requests that John usually received to go for a pint with a person from down the street that he would never see again. Those denied requests would probably be met with an annoyed Mrs. Hudson, and more reprimands pointed in his general direction. All in all, nothing he couldn't ignore, but it would be a large amount of time and patience wasted.

Mrs. Hudson had turned to leave when Sherlock decided to ask the dreaded question. "So when should I expect this new invasion?"

Mrs. Hudson turned, putting a hand to her face in thought. "Well if all goes as planned, she should be here before noon tomorrow. Though I was warned, and I quote; 'If anything goes wrong with my arrival, feel free to blame the O'Hare airport.' If you ask me, it does sound a bit of a mess."

Sherlock practically slammed down the laptop onto the table, with the new piece of information, exclaiming with a shout; "O'Hare? So it really is to be an invasion! An American on Baker St.!" He practically vaulted out of his chair, waiving his hands in short jerks as he did so.

And with that little revelation, Mrs. Hudson decided just to take her leave. She really did care about Sherlock, but there were times when he simply could not be reasoned with in any way. She was racking her mind for a way to help this transition along smoother, when the doorbell sounded a few minutes later. As she opened it, Mrs. Hudson was pleasantly surprised to see John standing at the step.

"Oh John! It's so good to see you. Unfortunately, Sherlock's gone and worked himself up. It's rather frightful." Mrs. Hudson stammered fretfully.

John, being used to this near-daily occurrence, just slowly let out an exasperated sigh.

"And what turn of events has sparked his indignation this time?"

"There's to be a new lodger here; I finally made the basement livable, and now Sherlock is throwing a bit of a tantrum." Mrs. Hudson lamented.

Now John was more confused, "And what's wrong with someone living in the other flat?"

"She's American. And she's just moved out on her own for the first time."

John visibly cringed at the thought of the fuss his friend had to be putting up, "Oh heaven help us all. When is this mysterious American girl supposed to be here?"

Mrs. Hudson looked more than a little worried now, "Before lunch time tomorrow."

"That doesn't give us much time then. Tomorrow's Saturday, the practice will be closed. I'll go talk to Sherlock now, and I'll try to be here by teatime before the big arrival so as to at least tell this girl a little of what she's in for.

"Just don't tell her too much." Mrs. Hudson warned, "She might be scared half to death of being here otherwise."

"No, she'd be scared not knowing why there's a gun going off over her head at two in the morning, or why the air up the steps smells like a Chem. Lab, or why police officers keep showing up."

"Well, yes, perhaps she should be warned that one of her neighbors isn't the most 'normal' of persons around here…" Mrs. Hudson whispered.

"I only hope she's not squeamish, Sherlock was running out of room for experiments in his fridge last time I came to visit. Sorry Mrs. Hudson but this looks bad." John sighed again shaking his head.

Mrs. Hudson wrung her hands, "I told Sherlock to be on his best behavior, but you know how he is."

John gave only a humorless laugh in response. "Sherlock's best behavior usually accompanies dead bodies." The twisted humor was lost though as realization dawned on him. "Oh goodness, let's just hope he doesn't try to take her to a crime scene, or to visit Molly at the morgue."

Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat. "So you'll try to talk to him?" She asked hopefully.

John started up the steps, "Well someone ought to get through to him."

It was approaching evening as a rather spent and wearied-looking girl stumbled into the Kalamazoo O'Hare airport. She looked like she hadn't slept in days, and her deep-set, brown eyes did nothing to lessen the intensity of her appearance. All she had left with her was a backpack and a medium sized luggage bag; the three boxes she couldn't take on the plane, were being over-nighted by the post office, and would most likely get to her final destination before she did.

She made it through all of the scans and lines with relative ease, noting expressions of all those around her. The girl shook her head, her naturally loose-crimped red-ish chestnut hair flowing just above her shoulders, as she saw the contrast of the elation of some intermixed with the harried expressions of others. This was how people reacted to everyday life; jobs, vacations, weddings, funerals, and other such reasons for journey all packed into a few miles of building. She assumed many people were trying to leave certain cares behind, while others went in search of them. And yet she doubted that any of the horrors they knew were as real to them as hers were, or that they could find as much peace in their travel as she hoped to. How big a difference a move would end up changing her, and optimistically, make her more secure. She set her jaw carefully at the thought, angling out her already square face.

After noting the location of her gate, and finding something to eat, the girl pulled out the large envelope from the inside of her jacket, and looked at the few things she had that still tied her to the life she knew. Her passport had her date of birth and her name, Ryanne printed in bold letters across the paper. All of her personal papers, and every government issued record of her existence fit neatly in the aging manila envelope.

Ryanne reached in the packet and pulled out a smaller envelope. Inside were two pictures, ordinary to anyone who by chance would walk by, but to Ryanne they sort of summed up her life. The first was a family picture, three rows of people stood in a large yard, a smiling four-year-old Ryanne stood front and center with a man and woman behind her, and a man who looked more than a little overdressed for the occasion, crouched down to the left of her, hugging her close. The second picture was of the same man running to catch up with Ryanne. It was slightly blurry, and very much off-center, but you could see the smiling profile of the man from the nose down running to catch up with the little girl who had thrown off her shoes and decided to run down a hill in the background; her red-streaked, light chestnut hair flowing behind her. Ryanne put the pictures back, her stomach suddenly swirling with rage, and pain. What hurt the most now was that she couldn't bring herself to get rid of the photos. So they now were left in a small envelope, rarely to see the light of day.

Ryanne squeezed her carry-on closer to her knees and began to sulk for what seemed to her to be ages. After an aggravatingly long, and boredly contemplative wait, came a most welcome interruption. Her phone was ringing out as Ryanne checked the caller ID to find that it was Mrs. Hudson.

John heard nothing on his way up the steps to his old flat. Oddly enough, that wasn't a good thing. Knowing his friend, and former flat-mate, silence meant that a brooding, and silently volatile, genius was waiting for the next person to enter so as to vent his frustrations. It didn't help that John's mind was reeling with trying to find a good way to help Sherlock come to terms with the situation with the least amount of incidence possible. He certainly didn't want to make the situation any worse, that would only come back to hurt the future neighbor in the long run.

But something still had to be said. That was for sure. All John could hope for at this point was for Sherlock to begrudgingly accept this change of events without an exorbitant amount of fuss. Though when it came to Sherlock the term 'exorbitant' was used rather loosely. Without even realizing it, John found himself at the door to Sherlock's flat. With calm determination etched into his entire being, he took one last step forward to knock on the door. At first no sound came. The silence lingered thick in the air to the point that John thought for sure that he could hear dust falling. He repeated the action, calling out to his friend a few times. It was close to five minutes when the faintest groaning of the floorboards could finally be heard as soft footsteps made their way to the entrance, and unlatched the door.

"Sorry John, I briefly thought Mrs. Hudson was back to berate me about conduct towards people with whom I will most likely never choose to socialize." Sherlock huffed, waving his currently yellowed, iodine-stained hands in a dramatic fashion.

John stepped inside, smiling at the childish behavior, shaking his head at the thought of their first meeting, before voicing his thoughts.

"Well can you really blame her? Within the first day you met me, we were running all over London on the trail of a serial killer cabbie. If I remember correctly, you asked me if I was used to seeing death, and if I would mind more of that in my life. That's not the sort of thing you can ask just anyone without them assuming that you're some kind of murderer, or at the very least, highly unstable. They might try to turn you in, to the Yard. Not to mention this is a young girl. Mrs. Hudson is just worried that the new renter is going to get the wrong impression of you, and it's going to cause issues you won't be able to predict. I'm just trying to help you prevent incidents for you to be seen as dangerous, as much as humanly possible."

Sherlock meanwhile, retreated to the window, an air of annoyance and lack of concern engulfing his features, as he absent mindedly raked his hands through his hair. He realized within seconds that John had been sent here to finish what Mrs. Hudson figured her scolding couldn't.

"And if you recall, the times I'm seen as dangerous are by criminal idiots, who very well should see me in that light; and the last time a child was afraid of me, there was coaching involved, and by Moriarty no less. So unless you're suggesting that those twins are moving to 221C, then I suggest that you find something more pertinent to concern yourself with."

John considered that train of thought for a moment. Perhaps he was over thinking things, but knowing Sherlock, he couldn't help it. At least he could say that he had tried to prevent the behavior now, but there had to be more to do in order for a smoother transition to take place. Sherlock was still glaring intently at the window, the reflection clear enough that John thought better of trying to say anything else to him at the moment. With a few parting words, John descended back down to Mrs. Hudson's flat.

The faint smell of tea flowed through the air as John made his way to the flat of his former landlady. He had an idea now, but not all of the pieces to make it work. He'd need to speak to this new lodger privately, and as soon as possible, without it seeming… well, creepy. John knocked lightly on the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat, the older lady emerging only moments later, to usher him in.

"How did it go then? Any success?" Mrs. Hudson squeaked out in a near whisper.

All John could say was the truth.

"None in the slightest. But this lodger's going to need to know about Sherlock, even if it's just so that she doesn't try to introduce herself too quickly. Just a thought, how is she planning to get from Heathrow to London? I'm sure she'll have a map or something, but the tubes can be confusing for people who aren't used to it, and a cab to London would be a bit expensive. I'll talk it over with Mary first of course, but if she'd prefer, I could bring her here. Mary will be at work, I'll have the car, and it'll be my day off. It would probably be the only time anyone would have to warn her, and she'll be able to get here without incident. Could you call her?"

Ryanne snatched up the phone on the second ring. "Hello. Mrs. Hudson?" she asked carefully, when the caller didn't speak first.

The other side of the line suddenly crackled to life followed by a sweet earthy voice.

"Yes dear, sorry to call so suddenly, but I was wondering how you planned to get to the flat when you landed. It would be over half an hour by cab, and goodness knows what route they'd take you through."

Ryanne chuckled silently at the extent of the older lady's concern. "Well actually I was going to take the Piccadilly subway line. Seems to be the most direct route, and it's at least somewhat cost effective."

"Well I have a friend of mine here, and we were thinking that it might be good for you to know where the shops are, and introduce you to a few people that you might see around. Little things, I know, but it'd be useful in the long run; that is, unless you'd prefer to do that after you're more rested." Mrs. Hudson mused.

The more Ryanne thought about it, the better the idea sounded.

"No actually, I think the sooner this happens, the better it would be for everyone involved. By the way, does this friend of yours have a camera-phone by any chance? I could pick them out of the crowd easier with a photograph."

Mrs. Hudson paused.

"Goodness me, I wouldn't know a thing about that, hold on a mo', I'll ask him."

A muffled conversation ensued on the other end of the line that Ryanne couldn't decipher hardly a word of; followed by an odd moment of silence. Ryanne almost thought she had lost the connection, when a man's voice came through the speaker.

"Um, hello… Sorry, it was 'Ryanne' wasn't it?"

Ryanne laughed, "Correct though with the inferior amount of information I've been given, I can only ask if this is the friend Mrs. Hudson vaguely referred to."

The man gave a slight scoff in response before continuing, "Yes, it's John by the way. I was told you would need some assistance getting to your flat?"

Ryanne sighed to herself, "Yeah, it would probably be best if I knew what businesses were nearby, and invest in a map or two. Sorry about putting you through all this."

"No worries, don't want any kids getting themselves lost in a place like this, and it would be easily done.", John replied, as he let himself cool down from Ryanne's previous comment.

It was then that John managed to remember Ryanne's previous request.

"Right, I suppose you still need that photo don't you. By the way, this is all sort of pointless if I don't know what gate to meet you at."

A short gasp escaped Ryanne's lips.

"Oh crap, sorry, I'll text the gate number right now. What's your number?"

They exchanged contacts and time of arrival rather quickly before Ryanne finally thanked John, and hung up.

John was left starring at his phone. For as much as he wanted to give this girl the benefit of the doubt, the first thought that crossed his mind was that because of her youth and naivety, Ryanne wasn't going to last a week anywhere near Sherlock. She would definitely need a lot of warnings about him. John only hoped she would take his advice seriously enough to put it to practice; just not to the point of outright fear. Neither of those extremes would end well for either her or Sherlock.

At this point, John assumed he would just have to wait and see what would transpire. He was not looking forward to it, and he could only hope that there wasn't a trace of that sentiment showing in this picture.

Ryanne was exhausted from expending so much energy. It would be at least another hour until she had to board her flight. And pending any delays with take off, there would be a few more hours during lay over before she could be on her way to Heathrow. All in all, an entirely exhausting trip, but with a couple days of rest it would all be worth it. Her peace of mind and sanity were worth enough to endure that a thousand times over.

As it was, even in her state of exhaustion, Ryanne felt she could breathe just a bit deeper. It no longer seemed like the world would crash around her head if she took just a moment to herself to unwind. She found herself smiling at the thought of her newfound freedoms, and laughed out loud in the sheer joy she suddenly felt. She wasn't stupid enough to think that adjusting wouldn't be hard. But the thought of her family would no longer hang over her head like a silent threat, and perhaps she could get some sleep after she boarded the plane. Sleep sounded like an unattainable luxury, but she would just have to test that on the flight.

The Next Day

It was about six o' clock in the morning, and John was not exactly ready to start his day. Sure he was up and dressed, and making himself up a plate that Mary had left him for breakfast, but that wasn't exactly the problem. He could almost hear the new lodger begging to go back home, because anything would be better that living within earshot of Sherlock Holmes. Of course a persons view of Sherlock differed depending on whom you talked to, but John was sure that only he, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft truly had the patience to deal with the man for any real length of time. Even Lestrade only stopped in to see Sherlock on special occasions if there wasn't a case involved, and a few times John had seen him leave like he was surrendering to some odd argument.

John sighed at the feeling that the day would only go down hill, subsequently taking a bite of toast. He could practically hear Sherlock yelling at him about loud music and other grievances that were sure to be hypocritical, knowing whom it was coming from. And yet somehow, John almost wished that it would help Sherlock see his own actions in a different light. The absurdity of that thought alone made John laugh as he put his dishes in the sink and made his way out of the flat.

London traffic was normal, that is to say, slower than molasses in January if you felt the pressing need to actually be anywhere. The drive felt long and tedious, which did nothing to soothe Johns already strained nerves. And to top it all off, none of his usual calming techniques he was used to employing seemed to want to do the trick today. Sure, breath regulation and pressure points and a trusty thermos of tea did wonders in a cab to or from a new, and ever insane case; but apparently it could not be said to be applicable for dealing with the threat of introducing an unknown person to your best friend, who despite knowing relatively nothing about them is determined to find all sorts of fault, in an effort to drive them away for a varying number of reasons. Or indeed if one was to speak with reference to Sherlock, there might really be no true reason at all.

John went over the things Ryanne should know about his friend, correcting phrasing, choosing more tactful words, trying to give meaning, without being hurtful to the friend he would always look up to… in more ways than one. He of course couldn't expect her to understand how he saw Sherlock at first; especially if the man's antics from their previous discussion carried into the girls introduction to life on Baker Street, but it's not as if Sherlock was like that all the time. The last thought sparked so much nostalgia in John that he could hardly begin to think of all the warnings that needed to be said by the time he'd actually pulled into the parking lot of the Heathrow Airport.

Ryanne made her way through the sea of people near the luggage carousel, her suitcase firmly in hand, and headed towards customs. That one last, tedious procedure before being released into the world outside, Ryanne drew in a long calming breath. Pulling out the large envelope from her jacket, she smiled at the airport staff, and showed her passport.

A few uneventful minutes later, she was on her way out of the airport. Pulling out her phone, she called the newest contact number and waited for the line to connect. Within four rings, the line picked up.

"Hello?"

"Yes, John? This is Ryanne, the flight and customs was breathtakingly uneventful. I hope I didn't keep you waiting."

"Not in the slightest, I'm just walking up to the airport now. Hang on; you're already out of customs? How is that possible when you said that you'd be here at…"

Ryanne rolled her eyes and cut in, "Yes I gave you the time I thought I would get out of customs, not the time I would be landing at. Five minutes and I'll be exiting the building, what area are you at in the car park?"

Ryanne's snarky comment nearly put John's mind into a tailspin. "Hold on, not so fast missy, don't you have to pick up any bags or anything?"

"Everything that couldn't fit in my carry-on was over-nighted by post, so I hope that if they haven't shown up yet, they'll show up tomorrow." At this point Ryanne was just thinking out loud rather than trying to carry an actual conversation.

John just sighed; this girl was definitely going to be a handful. "So I'll meet you at the front doors then?"

This was going to be a long day.

"That's perfect. See you there, John." Ryanne chimed with just a bit more animation than before.

Quickly, Ryanne scrolled through the pictures on her phone to find the man who would be waiting for her outside. She took in the details carefully. After all, it would be a bit embarrassing to ask him for his picture and then just forget what he looked like. She blinked at the picture upon seeing it again. There was nothing inherently remarkable about his face, but her stomach slowly tightened in new, dawning horror.

Putting it out of her mind for the moment, she jogged out of the building. The sky was a bit cloudy, and it was windier than Ryanne had been prepared for; but not an awful day by any means. Smiling, Ryanne let out a tentative breath as she walked down the pavement, backpack slung over one shoulder, bag in hand. She stood by one of the benches, seemingly mesmerized by the light gray sky, until a shadow walked up into her peripheral vision.

Turning, Ryanne caught a glance of the man she was supposed to be looking for. A middle-aged man with sandy-blond hair, and gray eyes met her gaze. Walking up, he proffered his hand.

"You're Ryanne I presume?" The man asked carefully.

Ryanne stood to shake his hand. "Yes, and thank you again for doing all this John…"

John smiled as he shook her hand and answered the question she hadn't quite asked.

"Watson. John Watson. Welcome to London Ryanne."

John wasn't quite sure, but as he turned to lead her to the car, he thought he saw Ryanne's smile falter into a look of fear.