04.

I couldn't seem to sit still. The waiting room was pretty empty, I thought, considering my usual appointment time had much more competition than two or three people. They all seemed perfectly at ease, flipping through magazines as they waited for the therapist to come and get them. I envied them their calm. It wasn't seeing Ella Thompson that made me nervous. This was my eighth visit so far. I was used to the office now, it was familiar enough that I could almost pretend that I didn't mind being there.

What had me so unglued, I knew, was the way my afternoon had gone. It was so bizarre, so totally unplanned, that I had called straight away to take an empty slot, any empty slot, in Ella's schedule. She had asked me to use her first name, but it still didn't feel quite right. We weren't friends. I wasn't sure if I should say that, though. It was probably considered rude, even if she was just my therapist.

When she came around the corner, looking for me as she called my name, I stood up and nearly ran down the hall to her office. She seemed surprised at first, but decided against asking me where the fire was and followed me inside as I took my usual seat near the window.

"I have a problem." I said, even before she was settled in her chair. "At least I think I do."

"Take your time." She told me. "Catch me up on your week, if you'd like. I have to admit, I was surprised when you called to come in."

"Well, like I said, I have a problem." I repeated myself, running a frustrated hand through my hair. Why was I so flustered? I couldn't figure it out. "And my week was... it was fine. The funeral happened. And I'm... look, this is not why I came here. This is about John's flatmate. Sherlock, you know."

Ella raised an eyebrow. "You met him?"

"Unfortunately." I muttered, and then crossed my arms. "John said he was a good person. So, I didn't think there was any harm in it. Well, this morning, I ran into him when I was out having breakfast. And it was nice. We talked and he wasn't unbearably rude, so when he asked me to walk with him, again I didn't see the harm."

"Was there harm in it?"

"Well, no. But this is where my problem starts. He's... lonely. I suppose. I am, too. Even though I lived alone before – before this, now I feel like everything is too quiet. I came here to stay with my parents, but I can't stand to be in the house for too long. It's empty. Everyone is empty. Sherlock, too, I think."

"I don't think I see what you're getting at, Katherine." Ella murmured, trying to keep me on track. She always used that tone, the one that was soft and low, like the one you would use if you were trying to calm a wounded animal. I tried not to think about that.

"I'm getting there." I said. "So, he's lonely. And I need the distraction. That's what he said, that it was 'a logical fit.' He asked me – no, actually, he assumed that I would move in with him."

For the first time since meeting her, I watched Ella Thompson look well and truly surprised. Her mouth hung open for a good half second before she remembered to close it. "Just like that?"

I laughed, but it was a sarcastic sound. It wasn't full. "I get the feeling he doesn't get on well with many people. And I think that he wants someone to fill the empty space that John left in his life. But I don't think that's how it works. Is it? You can't just replace someone."

Ella thought about it. "I don't think he's asking you to replace John. I think that Sherlock might need a friend. And it seems that you do, too."

"I have friends." I said, sounding defensive.

"Any you've spoken to recently?"

"Dana."

Ella nodded, smiling to herself. "And did it help?"

"In a way. But I think that even though a lot of people are sorry for us, they can't understand. Dana understands a little more than most people."

There was the nod again. "I see. So, you find it easier to be around her because she can understand your grief."

I shrugged. "I suppose so."

She hummed, much like Sherlock did when he was sure he knew something I didn't. This caught my attention and I stared at her, eyes narrowed. "Then imagine how much easier it would be for you to spend time with someone who really knew John. They were flatmates, Katherine. And it seems to me that they had a very strong friendship."

"But isn't that wrong?" I asked. "Isn't there some ethical rule about not using people to feel closer to others? I don't want to be friends with Sherlock because I'm looking for a missing link to John."

"Then don't." Ella said simply. I shifted in my chair to keep from huffing. I hated it when she pretended like everything was as easy as black and white. I knew that I lived my life in a gray area. I wondered when she would catch on to that. "Be Sherlock's friend for the sake of getting to know Sherlock. You say it's too quiet in your flat. You can't stand to keep staying in your parents' house. Are you seeing what I'm saying?"

"No." I insisted stubbornly. "I can't see how living at Sherlock's would be any easier. It was John's home, too."

"You don't have to live in his shadow, Katherine." Ella told me softly. "It's okay for you to create a life for yourself again. No one will think any less of you for it."

I blinked. Was that what I was worried about? I didn't think so. Maybe she was right. I felt like it wasn't right to move on too quickly. It wasn't right that I should move into the flat where he used to live. It wasn't right that I should have Sherlock as a flatmate or a friend because in my mind, all of these things were still John's. I felt like I was stealing something away from him. But, really, what was there to steal? John wasn't here and I was.

I needed to figure out how to live my life in a way that helped me deal with the empty spaces that John had left behind. Even if it meant embracing them.

"You knew John." I said.

Ella smiled. "I did, indeed. Your brother was an exceptional person, Katherine. And I think I know enough about him to say that he would never begrudge you any happiness. If you came here expecting me to talk you out of this, I'm afraid you wasted a trip. I, personally, think it would be interesting to see where this leads you. It might even be a good thing."

I sighed. "I never said I was going to agree to it."

Ella raised an eyebrow, a sly smile plastered on her face. "If you weren't at least considering it, why would you be here?"

My mouth opened and closed a few times. Damn her. I stood up abruptly and shoved my hands in my coat pockets. "Well, thank you for seeing me last minute. I'll think about everything you said." I started walking toward the door and heard Ella stand and tell me goodbye. I didn't look back. I was too consumed by recollections of the afternoon and the choice that lay ahead.

Sherlock and I had walked away from Blandford's silently, enjoying the fresh air and the company, I thought. I was caught off guard when he suddenly stopped walking entirely. "How do you feel about the violin?"

I stopped and looked back at him confusedly. I hadn't understood in the moment why it was that he would care what I thought of the violin. Why did it matter? The subject was so far removed from anything we had talked about all morning that it caught me unaware. "I find it lovely. Why?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?"

I could only stare. I remembered making some vague noise in the back of my throat, but I was lost for words. I couldn't figure out what route that conversation was taking.

"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, don't you think?" He asked, but didn't, and threw me an outrageously false smile. Another noise escaped me. I continued to stare, to blink, feeling the protest building even as the shock outweighed it and had nearly drowned it out.

"I'm sorry. What?" I squeaked finally, and I sounded like I was desperate for air. I couldn't remember breathing in those few moments, now that I really thought about it. My entire body had short-circuited in the face of the unexpected.

"I believe that this is a logical fit, Katherine. I am short one flatmate and you admitted yourself that a distraction would be welcome."

"Sherlock, you don't know me. I'm not my brother." I had insisted, trying to remember how to breathe. I wondered if I was going to be ill in the split second before the world righted itself and I regained control of my lungs. "This is... well, it's crazy."

"You can refuse the offer." Sherlock reminded me.

Instead of refusing him, I had promised to think about it. Even that, I didn't understand. But after speaking with Ella, I hoped I had gained a little more perspective. Or at the very least some resolve, one way or another. It had taken me some time to come to terms with the fact that I needed to talk to someone about what I was going through.

I thought at first that unloading on someone was ridiculous. I thought that it made me weak to need someone, to need them to help me find my way. But it wasn't ridiculous and I wasn't weak. Needing help made me human. It was cathartic to talk to Ella sometimes. It was getting easier to say what was on my mind, at least.

And it made it easy then to show up at Baker Street and knock on Sherlock's door. I didn't give myself room to think about it. When I heard the invitation to come in, I did just that and closed the door behind me. I strode to the middle of the room, arms crossed over my chest. Sherlock watched me from his usual seat, but instead of plucking at his violin, he was flipping through a newspaper. He put it down to give me his full attention. I noted that quickly and launched right into my speech.

"Okay. I thought about it." I said, beginning to pace across the floor. Sherlock only watched, waited for me to get everything out of my system. "And I'll do it. I'll move in. But a lot of things would have to change."

Sherlock raised a brow. "As in?"

"This mess. It's shameful. I can't live in chaos. Organized chaos would be better than this." I said, gesturing at the flat with both my arms spread wide. Sherlock scowled, but said nothing yet. "And also, I can't... John's things have to go. I can't compete with his ghost. Can you understand that? I'm moving here for a new start, this isn't me picking up where he left off. If that's what you think, then I'll go right back out that door."

"Do I have permission to speak?" Sherlock asked, sarcasm making his words sharp.

I scowled, despite my mother's many lessons. "Go ahead."

"Firstly, Katherine, this mess is my work. And in my opinion, there is nothing wrong with my organization. Everything is as it should be. Secondly," he put extra emphasis on this word when I opened my mouth to protest, "that is not what I think. This is a matter of convenience for us both, nothing more. I'm not confused as to who you are. I don't believe that to be even remotely possible."

"Do I have permission to speak?" I asked, crossing my arms again. I had stopped pacing, I didn't need to anymore.

Sherlock smirked. It drove me mad immediately, I wanted to smack it right off his face. "Go ahead." He said, repeating my words.

"Your work doesn't have to be strewn all over the flat. I stand by my first request; you have to organize." I stood there, wondering if I'd addressed everything I wanted to. "Also, the kitchen has to be a kitchen. No science experiments. No... jars of miscellaneous organs... and absolutely no heads." I said resolutely, recalling a hysterical phone call I'd received from John not long after he moved in.

"Are you quite done?" Sherlock sighed, tossing the newspaper aside entirely.

"No." I said. "John's things?" I waited, watched as Sherlock hesitated. And I certainly didn't miss the way his eyes wandered to the red plaid chair.

"You can take them." He said quietly.

I rocked back on my heels, suddenly feeling the weight of the room on my shoulders. I nodded before I found the words to say. "Thank you." I murmured. "So, when do you want me here?"

"Tomorrow." He said, almost immediately. I was left flailing.

"Well, I have to pack. And... tell someone at least."

"So, pack." Sherlock shot back, snapping up the newspaper off the coffee table. I could plainly see that he was done with this conversation. I felt my jaw lock as I tried to control my temper and took a deep breath through my nose. I didn't like being dismissed. And I would never get used to it. I wouldn't let him do that to me.

"One last request." I said, my voice as taut as the strings of his violin.

He never glanced up. "What is that?"

"Learn how to have a damned conversation." I growled viciously. Sherlock looked up then, looking almost startled by the sudden change in my demeanor, but he had nothing to say. It almost made it worse. "I'll be here at ten tomorrow morning." I pulled open his door and tried my very best not to stomp down the stairs. When I made it to the street, I leaned over and put my head between my knees and tried to breathe.

I kept telling myself that this wasn't a mistake, even though I wasn't entirely sure. It could very well have been the biggest mistake of my life. There was no way to tell yet. I had to take the risk, make the jump. I needed to learn how to trust myself again, to learn how to live with the fire burning me from the inside out. Sherlock couldn't put it out, but he could help me make my peace with it.

This was my chance. I was going to take it. I took another deep breath, stood up, and called a cab. On the ride back to see my dad, I tried to work out what to say. I tried to work out my reasons with words that he might understand. But by the time I pulled up outside, I had nothing.

Sneaking up to my room wasn't an option, my dad was in the living room watching something that I could tell he wasn't paying attention to. He looked over the back of the couch when I came in the door, taking the time to hang my coat before I faced him.

"KW?" He called softly. "You've been out for quite a while."

I tossed my bag down in one of the armchairs opposite him and thought vaguely that I needed to eat something; my stomach was beginning to growl. I opened my mouth and closed it. I stood around awkwardly for a moment and then I sat. I kept turning over the thought in my head that he wouldn't take it well when I told him about moving in with Sherlock. And I wondered if I shouldn't soften the news somehow, but wasn't it better just to tell him outright?

"I'm moving in with Sherlock Holmes." I blurted, drumming my fingers on my knee. I sounded sure of myself. I was glad of that. He might think I had been giving this a decent amount of thought for a while. I hoped he wouldn't ask too many questions.

He only stared at me, clearly trying to place the name. "Who?"

"Sherlock Holmes." I repeated myself calmly, keeping my voice even though my fingers still drummed frantically on my knee. "John's flatmate."

That rang a bell. My dad's mouth fell open and he shifted so that he could look me right in the eye to convey his indignation to the proper degree. "The loon?"

I sighed and my fingers ceased their drumming. "Oh, Dad. He's not a loon, he's just different. And different isn't a bad thing right now."

"Different is dangerous in his line of work." He muttered harshly. "I've heard the stories your brother had to tell about this Holmes fellow and I've read his blog or whatever it's supposed to be. I don't want you anywhere near him, Katherine."

The only thing that even remotely registered during his fit was the mention of Sherlock's blog. I'd known that John had one, but Sherlock? "What are you talking about? What blog?"

"His blog, you know." He insisted, waving his hands about. "The Science of De-something."

"Deduction?" I recalled the word from one of the manuscripts lying around Sherlock's flat. It looked detailed, hand-written. A journal, maybe. Notes at the very least.

"Yes, that." He said, sighing huffily. "I don't like it, Katherine. He's very odd." He watched my face, impassive under his moody gaze. I think he realized then that there was no changing my mind. Dad sighed and leaned back against the couch. "I can't stop you, can I?"

I smiled. "No, Dad. I don't think you can."

If it were possible, his frown became more pronounced. But then it disappeared. "Can I at least ask why you're doing this?"

"I hardly know." I said. "I'm trying to... give myself a chance, I think. I need this."

He paused. "Will you be happy?" The question seemed like it hurt him to ask, like it took something out of him to utter the words I'd seldom heard. My father was a good man, but he had never stopped to ask me things like this before. I realized it was another side-effect. He was worried now about the things he'd never had the time or presence of mind to ask my brother. He was trying to be better for me.

A short, swift sound came from my throat. I wasn't sure if it was a laugh, but it was close enough. I sat there, looking at the floor, thinking. Would I be happy? I gave him the most honest answer I had.

"I don't know."