When I got to the flat on Baker Street I just brought my clothes. The box of clothing was rather large and I couldn't really open the door.

I knocked on the door and an old woman answered. "Hello?"

"Oh uh, hello ma'am. I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes, am I at the right place?"

"Oh yes, dear, he's upstairs," she stepped aside to let me in and closed the door. "I'm Mrs Hudson, you must be John."

"Uh yeah," I said as I tried to get a better grip on the large box. "I'm John Watson. Nice to meet you ma'am."

"Oh that box must be heavy. Sherlock will show you to your room. He's right up stairs, either door. They both belong to you two now."

I walked up the steps and saw an open door. "Sherlock?" I asked as I put the box down. "It's John," I said as I looked at my hands that were rather tender now.

There were gallons of paint piled in one corner and tons of paintings on the ground. There was a white curtain draped like you would see in studios when taking family photos. There was a table with a clay sculpture that was unfinished. Near the window was a music stand and sheet music and a violin near.

I walked over to a painting that was on the ground. It wasn't finished and the paint was smudged as if he didn't like it, but it was a little shop that was near my book store and people standing near.

There were foot steps from the hallway behind me. "Oh don't look at that one," Sherlock said as he cleaned his hands with a towel. There was paint all over his bare tattooed torso. A cluster of honeycombs laid on his right shoulder and arm, there were antlers that lined perfectly with his V line. There were F hole like a violin on his back that toned him even more.

"I'm sorry," I blushed as I tried not to stare. "This is really good though."

"It's sloppy," Sherlock insisted. Sherlock looked around and noticed his mess. "Sorry about," he motioned to the entire living room, "the... Uh clutter." He tossed the towel on the ground then pulled up his skinny jeans.

"An artist at work," I said, "I understand. I used to paint a lot too."

"Now you write, I see," he said as he picked up my box and headed to my room.

I began to follow, "Yeah how could you tell?"

"Your hands," he started as he opened the door that would be my new room, "Delicate as a painter but you don't take care of them which would either make you a writer, a musician, or a sculptor. Your fingers have no rough patches that would have if you played and your fingernails are too long to sculpt without a problem, so you must be a writer."

He placed the box down and ran his fingers through his hair.

"That's... Brilliant," I said not being able to think of another word.

Sherlock half smiled, "We can talk about the modeling shoot over dinner tomorrow."

-JW