Disclaimer: If I owned them, Stacy would still be on the show snogging House's face off. They belong to David Shore and his minions, the cruel geniuses.
She gets up from the piano at 3:24 A.M. The time that she can spend in this simple limbo is running out. She wanders about the apartment. She thinks she can see the good times and the bad times painted on the walls.
She remembers buying the place with Greg. Neither of them ever formally acknowledged that they were moving in together. It was more like Greg left the Princeton classifieds sitting on her kitchen counter with a few circled in red ink and the words "Meet me here at 4," written next to an ad that was heavily marked with red ink and a note on the bottom that read "I'm getting cavities from always forgetting my toothbrush and Wilson keeps asking me why I need a waxing kit. I love you, Greg."
The "I love you," sealed it. She met up with him at 4. Apartment 221B. She met him with a smirk.
"Your Sherlock Holmes fixation is starting to get out of hand."
"So says the one petitioning for a Murphy Brown DVD release."
She gave him a playful shove as she followed him into the place (somehow he had convinced the owner to loan him the key for the afternoon -- she didn't want to think about how he had managed that) "Let's just see if Holmes spent all his money on dope or if he actually put some of it into living arrangements."
The apartment was nice. Not spectacular, but there was nothing wrong with it, it was within their budget range, close enough to the hospital and Greg was obviously ridiculously attached to it because of the address. It was modern without being tacky and had the warmth that came from being lived in. It only had one bedroom but all the rooms were a proper size; whoever had designed it obviously hadn't cut corners (literally) so they could advertise two bedrooms and a small corner that was supposed to fit a normal-sized human being and desk.
"I could live here."
"I think my toothbrush would approve."