Chapter 7

"Mrs. Hudson, you are truly the best," I said as she tidied up the place. "But are you sure I can stay here no charge? I can always find a job. It won't be too difficult for me."

She wiped the surfaces down with a cloth. "Dearie, nobody wants this flat. I was surprised when you said you did." I heard her chuckle. "Didn't think after you saw it you'd still want to live here. It really is a rundown little thing." We stood back and appraised it. The place was really rubbish. All the wallpaper was peeling, the floor needed a good sweep, and there was a chilly draft that came from the grimy window. "Tell you what," she said. "When you live here, if you could just spruce things up a bit, I'll take that as your rent. Deal?"

We shook on it. "Sounds good. Any chance you have a spare bed I could abscond with temporarily?" The floor looked highly unappealing.

"Sorry love, I've got nothing," she said. "I'll leave you to it then." She hurried out, the mustiness of the place most likely driving her away.

I moved around the place, inspecting the layout and seeing if there was anything I could utilize for the time being. All I found was a bucket, broom, and some moth-eaten curtains. There was a table, but it had only three legs so I labeled it as scrap wood. All in all, it was a depressing sight. I closed my eyes right and put my finger to either side of my temples. "Become clean," I said, then opened them. No change. My eyes closed once more. "Suddenly be fully furnished." I looked again and immediately sighed. "If this is a dream, why can't I manipulate it?"

In any case, I swept the place up, collecting a considerable pile of moldy wallpaper, cracking drywall, and bug carcasses. With nowhere else to put them, I gathered up the pile into the bucket, spilling it several times in the process. I checked off dustbin in the list of things I was beginning to miss about being awake. That right next to people who didn't act like asses the majority of the time.

I carried my bucket (which I had decided to dub Moffat just because I could), outside and did the London thing: throw it in the street with the rest of the rubbish. But I was sensible about it. I used my foot to sorta spread the droppings so they weren't in a big obvious pile that way it didn't exactly look like I had done what I had I just done. I was about to head right back inside when I saw John exiting from a taxi.

"You held onto the paint, didn't you?" I looked at him half scathingly, half bemusedly. "I told you not to do that."

He looked at me, squinting his eyes. "Wait, how did you..." He shook his head. "Never mind, I don't want to know. Is Sherlock in there?"

"Yeah, trying to decipher the code," I told him. "I wouldn't help so he told me to bugger off. Well, not in those precise terms, but you get the idea." I opened the door and gestured inside. "After you, doctor Watson." He nodded in appreciation and went in, me following close behind.

"You've been a while," Sherlock said as we entered the sitting room. He was looking at the mirror above the mantelpiece which was currently papered with notes and drawings.

"Yeah well you know how it is." John said, his anger not yet reached it's peak. He was still trying to contain it before his gasket really blew. "Custody sergeants don't really like to be hurried, do they? Just formalities." The pacing was a dead giveaway. "Finger prints, charge sheet. And I've got to be in magistrate's court on Tuesday."

"What?" Sherlock was entirely unconcerned for his friend's plight, and I contemplated placing the bucket over his head and then whacking it with a hammer. John was his only friend, it wasn't much to expect some shred of compassion.

I promptly ignored them both, instead gathering/stealing some items I thought might be useful for my flat. Suddenly Sherlock appeared next to me, withdrawing the items and thrusting a coat into my hands. "Hey, I was doing something you know!"

"You can shop later," he said, shoving me out the door along with John. "And give me that." He took my bucket and tossed it aside.

"Hey, that's my bucket thank you very much. Buckets are cool." I was going to reclaim it when he kicked it further away.

"No, you have to go to with John to Scotland Yard and get the journalist's diary." He helped me into the coat, which I allowed reluctantly. "If he goes by himself he's bound to screw something up. I need you there to make sure he doesn't." John gave his friend a dirty look. "I'll go to Van Coon's office and speak with his PA. If we retrace their steps, somewhere they'll coincide." He walked off, putting on his gloves as he went.

I looked at John in confusion, pointing after him. "I know, you get used to it." He got us a cab and we slid inside, me still incredibly irritated.

"John, you know how I told you earlier not to hold onto the paint?" I said, looking at him sideways. "It would be best if in your future you try not to make sarcastic comments of any kind whatsoever. It would be highly beneficial to your health." After this I fell silent, looking out the window as we drove off.

He looked at me expectantly, but I said nothing. "You gonna tell me why?"

"No."

"Of course. Why did I expect anything more?" It seemed his frustration had leaked out and now encompassed me as well. "You know, that's the problem with people like you and Sherlock. You never condescend to consider the feelings of others."

My head ticked robotically around to stare at him. He seemed woefully ignorant of this fact, so I "condescended" to enlighten him. "People like Sherlock and I?" My voice was a thicket of brambles and nettles. He looked at me casually, then did a fearful double take. "He and I are nothing alike. We resemble each other so little that it pains him to be in my company. Why do you suppose he made you that cheap excuse and had me come with you? It's because he didn't want me coming with him and polluting the air with my stupidity." John seemed to press himself further and further away from me, my fury reaching radioactive amounts. "So before you class me with his arrogance and conceit, consider that I would rather walk around Buckingham Palace bellowing out the lyrics to 'Stayin Alive' wearing nothing but a sheet, then
deign to pass him his coffee."

At this John blanched, and neither of us spoke a word the whole ride to Scotland Yard. I returned to the water cooler the moment the opportunity presented itself, thoroughly put out by John to do anything else. I sipped at the tepid water until Donovan returned, this time with Anderson and a few other colleagues.

"Hi, I'm Sally from earlier. What did you say your name was again?" She feigned politeness, but I could tell all of them were only here to see if the rumors she had most likely been perpetuating were true. That someone had indeed gotten off with Sherlock Holmes. But she was unlucky. Because right now, I wasn't going to take her shit.

"I didn't," I said, glaring at them all in turn. "I'm sorry, but I don't feel much like getting stared at by you lot. If you want to gawk at me, please do it from a distance that doesn't make it obvious. Makes it seem less creepy that way." When they didn't move, I closed my eyes in frustration. "Alright, I'll say it once but I won't say it again. His bed is supremely comfortable, and I'm sure you don't need me to imagine exactly how that heightens the experience. I've never spent time with him like I had anyone else. Nobody can even compare to the vigor with which we battled. And yes, it's big." I held the cup aloft emptied the water onto the floor in front of them defiantly, watching as the liquid speckled their shoes. Granted that wasn't the most mature of actions, but there was no mud handy. I balanced the cup on Anderson's head. "Satisfied?"

I walked away in disgust. It amazed me that people really did that sort of thing.

"Freak," she called after me. Last straw.

I turned heel but did not approach. "Better then being an adulterer. Would you like some scarlet to go with that A?" Both her and Anderson pursed their lips. "Don't worry though. I think you two deserve each other." I traced an outline of a heart over the left side of my chest in mock approval. They shifted uncomfortably, their co-workers
oblivious to the stab I just made to the two.

Turning back I saw John waiting for me, and I smiled implicitly. It was hard to stay angry at him. I clapped him on the back. "Have I ever told you how nice you are?"

He looked at me with uncertainty. "No, but we haven't known each other long so that's hardly surprising."

"John Watson, you are the nicest person to see after one has just had to deal with a violent bout of pettiness and idiocy. Being in your company, I know I can expect neither." I looked at him seriously for a moment. "Please forgive my outburst earlier. It was unprofessional and totally uncalled for." I smiled jovially.

"Uh, sure." He seemed reassured but was still confused. "Don't mention it." We made our way outside and climbed into a cab.

"Piccadilly, please." I instructed the driver.

"How did you know it was... never mind." He seemed resigned to my odd ability to know what to say or do before he could. I felt a little bad, because I only knew that since I also knew how this episode went. "By the way, I saw you were talking to some people when we were there." It was a statement he made, which had an implied question I chose not to answer. "Well?"

"Well what John?" I asked with a laugh. "It was an office. There are people. I was having a drink and they wanted to chat. Are you telling me you read some kind of deep meaning into it?"

"Not deep per se, no." He looked at me knowingly. "But one of them was the same one who you talked you earlier when we were here with Sherlock. Not to mention she absolutely despises him. I just figured your conversion might have been interesting, that's all." He was trying to pry without sounding like he was trying to pry. John did always have a knack for the subtle that his friend could never possess.

"Well, I didn't really say much." I was trying to dodge the subject. Albeit it was very half-hearted dodge.

"As you walked away she called you a freak," John said. "If I was being mean, which I'm not, I would mention that's usually what she calls Sherlock." He eyed me, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

My eyes narrowed, and he seemed apprehensive for a moment. A smile split across my face, and I punched him in the arm. "Alright, you got me." He relaxed visibly. This was why Sherlock liked John. He was ever so easy to read. There was something inherently unassuming about his nature, a quiet yet blatant sign of trustworthiness and loyalty. "Although I didn't really say much, I implied the hell out of several statements."

He looked at me with an eyebrow raised. "And what does that mean?"

"Well," I said, feigning a tone of uncertainty. "I can't be quite sure, but I think Sergeant Donovan assumed that Sherlock and I had an encounter of a distinctly romantic variety." He took one look at me and we both burst out into giggles. "But I think you know how unlikely that is," I said, out of breath from the laughter. I took to looking out the window again.

"Maybe not that unlikely," he muttered to himself, watching as my eyes surveyed our surroundings.

"Hmm?" I had only been half listening to him, and didn't quite catch what he said.

"I said we're almost at Piccadilly."

Hehe, Benedict Cumberbatch in a sheet.

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