This ended up being a longer chapter than the first one, and I hope it reads okay, also I couldn't resist putting in the Mean Girls reference halfway through - for the record I don't own Mean Girls either! Enjoy :)

I finally finished unpacking about a week or so after meeting Sherlock and John for the first time. Since then I'd been busy with work and our contact had been kept to a bare minimum.

I generally saw John heading out to work at around eight, and returning home at around six-ish (usually accompanied with a takeaway which he'd clearly picked up on his way home, I vaguely marvelled at how a doctor could eat so much junk food before lecturing patients on the importance of nutrition) and I saw Mrs Hudson almost every day in passing when she scuttled about the building tidying things up. Too often for a mere landlady her feet seemed to carry her upstairs to where Johnlock lived (a cute little name I had attached to the couple who swore they were not "together" but may as well have been) but I'd long since discovered there to be nothing more to this than an interfering landlady who took it upon herself to bring them cups of tea and clean their rooms up a bit. It was sweet really, and a little touching when her desire to clean for people was extended to me; but whenever she had tried come into my flat to tidy up or make me something to eat, I had politely declined even allowing her inside my flat.

"You're my landlady, not my maid; it would be cruel of me to expect that." I told her firmly the first time she asked if I would like some supper being made. I had heard her use those words on Sherlock before when he began to ask for things.

Which brings me to the elusive Mr Holmes. I hadn't seen him once since we met, I'd been busy and he had still not left his flat. Hence, our paths did not cross until one and a half weeks had passed since my meeting him.

It was exactly 12:32 and I was just returning into the building from emptying my rubbish into the bins outside. I had seen the net curtains of his window twitch slightly when I was outside, and was half expecting to bump into him at some point. Upon entering the building I discovered it was to be sooner than I had previously thought.

As I stepped fully inside and shut the large black door behind me with a gentle click I turned around to face him.

He was no longer in pyjamas, and he had clearly taken a shower at last. His stance was rigid and alert, but I gathered that was typical of him. His eyes followed me as I continued to move towards my own door, until he finally made a slight inclination of his head in my direction.

"Carrie."

"Mr Holmes." I replied nodding once as well, all the while continuing to move towards my door, but was stopped by him stepping in front of me.

"I wondered if I could borrow a cup of sugar? We have run out."

Ignoring his request I gently nudged him to the side and opened my door.

"Nobody asks for a cup of sugar these days Sherlock, and anyway, John always goes to the shop for you on his way back. Ask him to pick you some up." I said before going back inside and shutting my door.

"But I need some now!" he called angrily through the door, I made a mental note of his impeccable acting skills and then returned to the pan of soup I had been preparing before I left it to simmer whilst emptying the bin.

Bloody British and their tea. I chuckled to myself as I served myself a large helping and listened to his footsteps retreating upstairs too loud and quick to be the normal satisfied pace of a content man.

I knew exactly what he had been hoping to accomplish, a chance to snoop around my flat and gauge my career, habits and any other information he could find. He was intrigued, that much was apparent. And I didn't have to think too long or hard to guess why.

Johns comment when I proved Sherlock wrong proved that being wrong was not a principal Sherlock understood or enjoyed. The fact I had humiliated him and refused to explain the "real me" at the end of it had clearly driven him crazy.

Enough so that he had dragged himself into to the shower, got dressed and came down here with some made up story of needing sugar in order to get maybe... Thirty to forty seconds max in my flat? He must be really desperate.

And cocky. Cocky to think that would be all the time he would need. Smiling thoughtfully I began to eat my dinner and filed that information away for later.

That afternoon marked the beginning of a three-month war, or rather assault as it was entirely one sided, on Sherlock trying to gain entrance to my flat. With each passing day his excuses and stories became more elaborate.

Six weeks in on a Tuesday was my favourite. He had knocked on my door at three in the morning declaring he thought that he had heard a disturbance and wished to check I was safe. I jokingly fluttered and gushed to him about how I flattered I was that he cared (at which point he had flinched slightly, feeding me another piece of information; he did not like or understand attachment to humans) but was also certain it was his mind playing trick on him and he must be mistaken and was in need of a good night's rest. He didn't try again for two days, and I figured he was sulking once more about being told he was wrong.

In all honesty I was rather enjoying the little battle which had began between us, finally there was somebody to match my stubborn nature. He was determined to see my flat, I was determined for him not to; for no reason other than I was often busy with work and didn't want him snooping and getting under my feet whilst I tried to do my tasks. Also, I'd be lying if I did not admit I relished holding some power over Sherlock.

Over the past few weeks I had been able to piece together more and more of his character from his various plights. Since I knew all of them were false claims I was able to deduce that his idea of the reasons people normally gave for needing to talk to somebody were slightly off, this gleaned from his acted out requests for things which people simply did not ask for in real life. This told me he was not familiar with the real way in which people interacted and explained his previous long stay at home week in his pyjamas. I also gathered that he was not used to being told no or that he was wrong. Hence why my case had presented a challenge to him.

On the 3rd of October he asked me what day it was. ("It's October 3rd")

Finally on Monday the 13th October when he asked if he could borrow a book, I decided to humour him a little and shoved my old battered copy of my sister's keeper in their mailbox with a note attached saying "A personal favourite of mine- return when finished."

He didn't bother me the following day, but the day after that he knocked and simply held up the book.

"Boring." He declared with a smirk, this time not waiting for me to even say anything he proceeded to walk briskly into my flat. "It was obvious from the beginning that the younger sister would die and the cancer patient would receive the kidney, from the prologue all the way through to the fact they achieved medical emancipation. Books like this require a tragic "unexpected" twist to sell." He made quotation marks with his finger around the words unexpected, before looking at the large bookshelf in front of him and carefully slotting the book into the only available space (the one where it was originally from).

He seemed focused on the books in front of him, but I wasn't fooled. His first chance inside my flat... His clear blue eyes were no doubt taking in every single nook and cranny of the room and deducing as much as he could.

I was grateful that yesterday had been my cleaning day and that he had not stumbled in yesterday when my work was spread out everywhere. An old client had turned up unexpectedly with an interesting bag of donated blood which matched the type we were searching for. Half an hour or so into my investigations however and it became clear this finding was a dead end. I'd asked him to return it to the blood bank at once and apologise for any inconvenience, however the idiot had tripped and the blood had splattered all over my floor. It had taken copious amounts of bleach to scrub the tiles clean, and even more amounts of air freshener to clear out the lingering smell of the bleach afterwards. No doubt this would have raised questions with Sherlock, so I had hurriedly got to work cleaning it, as I fully expected him to do what he had just done when returning the book (that is march in without permission).

I watched him just as carefully as he was no doubt watching my reaction to him looking around. His eyes roamed my bookshelf and after a while he turned back to me.

"Didn't have you pegged as the type for such trashy reads." He taunted a smirk on his oddly shaped lips.

"I do not read trash." I had wanted to sound fierce; however I merely sounded like a toddler in a bad mood as I finished the statement by folding my arms and glaring up at him.

Pointing back at my shelf he began to list off several titles.

"The time travellers' wife, switched, torn, ascends, if you find me, candor, shiver, linger and lament... Need I say more?" he paused briefly, perhaps waiting to see if I would ask him to elaborate. No such luck, I was never going to hand him that satisfaction.

"Fancy a cup of tea?" I asked instead, catching him entirely off guard, though he did his best to hide it.

"Love one." He promptly responded instead, walking over to the pictures on my wall as he did so.

Rolling my eyes I set about pouring him a cup and adding in four sugars I stirred it a little before handing him the cup and taking a sip of my own.

"Four sugars?" He questioned as he raised the cup to his lips.

Nodding once I took another gulp of my tea before replying.

"Heard you calling it down to Mrs Hudson once."

A very pregnant pause filled the room, and seemed to stretch on forever until finally he broke it,

"How... Observant." He declared, eyeing me funny before turning to the pictures once more.

"That was my sister." I told him, even though he could probably see that already from the resemblance.

"Was?"

"February 18th drunk driver." Was all I said, still staring at the picture myself. It had been taken a year before the accident, and we were at a party together. I was holding a cocktail glass that was half empty up to the camera, my posture and unlevel gaze showing how drunk I was, even without the fact the caption on the photo frame was "Friends that get drunk together stay together!" It was one of these cheesy friendship frames you can buy from gift shops, and it made no sense because drinking together in no way guarantee you will stay together, but it was novelty item Jenny had given me for my birthday and I had put it pride of place amongst my other family photographs.

"Are you crying?" Sherlock blurted out suddenly, sounding worried. If it was anybody else I would assume they were showing affection and caring whether I was upset. This idea (though pleasant) did not fit Sherlock's personality, and instead I laughed and shook my head.

"No. Just lost in thought. See..." I struggled to think of how to explain it to him. While I thought, I took a seat on my sofa, and inwardly smiled at how cautiously he followed me and took a seat as well. He sat on the complete opposite end of the sofa, and though he leaned back and attempted to appear relaxed, he looked like a man in a lingerie part of the shop: eager to look around but also apprehensive about being in a woman's world.

"I like to figure things out. It's a part of my job in fact. People come to me with problems and I like to solve them. There is nearly always a thread you can follow and that thread leads you to the answer. It's simple if you look at it logically."

"Nearly always?" He prompted, leaning forward keenly as though fascinated by what I was saying. I almost wanted to laugh at his eagerness, but forced myself to swallow the bubble of hysteria and carry on with my explanation.

"Yes. You are a smart man Mr Holmes, you are probably figuring out right now what my job is."

"Detective?" he guessed, staring right back at me.

"Why should I tell you?"

"That's what I do as well." He answered quickly, practically jumping out of his seat with excitement all of the sudden.

"I had a sneaking suspicion but wasn't sure." I admitted, watching him bemusedly as he clasped his hands together. "I gather you avoid the limelight too then? Otherwise I would have heard of you."

"Now that's a long story-" I began, but was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Excuse me." I said frowning, not having expected visitors. I quickly crossed my room to open my door to a middle ages man standing leaning against the frame and out of breath. It was Paul, one of my more frequent clients.

"Athena we've got another one." He wheezed, clearly having just run here from the crime scene itself.

"Athena? Goddess of intelligence, battle strategy and wisdom?" Sherlock asked appearing beside me and staring at me, laughter in his eyes.

Ignoring him I reached for my coat and gestured for him to get out of my apartment.

To his credit this time he complied and stepped out hastily as I shut the door behind us.

"Where was it found?" I asked Paul urgently, and as he gave the address John ran down the stairs accompanied by Lestrade. I knew him from his face in the papers for solving countless crimes. Judging from his presence and the fact when he saw Sherlock he appeared to relax, I figured these cases that had been solved had more to do with Sherlock than himself.

"Sherlock we've another one." He said the exact same words Paul had, albeit with more dignity as he was clearly fitter and not out of breath from travelling here.