A/N: Sorry for the short chapters. I just like having them broken up by scene.
The script is, for the most part, taken directly from the episode. I don't own this beacuse if I did I wouldn't be typing this.
John walked uncomfortably down the street. Baker Street to be exact. It was six fifty seven. He promised to meet Holmes at seven. Nineteen, twenty, twenty- one. 221b's door was situated next a little place called Speedy's Sandwich Bar and Café. It was a quiet, clean street.
Perfect for writing. John thought appreciatively. He noticed as the cab drove him there that a block away was a Chinese place and on the opposite corner was a 24 hour supermarket. Not far to walk. Good for late nights. But where was Holmes?
"Hello, John." Holmes emerged from his dark sports car. Speak of the devil. "Do you like it so far?"
"Yes. It is nice, Mr. Holmes." John added emphasis on "nice".
"Call me Sherlock." John nodded. John followed Sherlock as he strode up to the door and knocked.
"Mrs. Hudson offered me a special rate. I did her a favor a few years back. Her husband was an un-hired cameraman."
"You helped him get hired?"
"No. I ensured he wouldn't." Holmes gave him a tight, little smile. John knew the expression on his face was priceless.
A little old lady opened the door. Upon seeing the tall gentleman, she exclaimed, "Sherlock!" and gave him a quick hug.
Sherlock introduced them, "Mrs. Hudson. John Watson."
Mrs. Hudson ushered them upstairs.
All John could say was messy. With a capital M. No make that all CAPS. Papers littered a desk and formed piles on the floor. Books were everywhere. John thought he recognized the shape of an armchair but he couldn't be sure. A chemistry set took over the kitchen table. He wasn't sure what was in those tubes but it fizzed. It fizzed. Sherlock seemed perfectly okay with it all and meandered around the piles. John could make out there was a fireplace. He wondered if it worked. And if it could help them get rid of the papers.
"What do you think?" Sherlock queried.
"It's nice." John replied.
"Yes, I think so." Sherlock said making his way back to John. "My thoughts exactly."
"Well, if we throw out all the rubbish in here."
"I went ahead and moved in."
They interrupted each other.
"So this is all your stuff?"
"Obviously, I can straighten things up a bit."
Sherlock was on his feet. He moved a few piles to the already over-crowded desk. The rest was on top of a precarious pile of books. Sherlock then proceeded to take a few loos leaves and place them on the mantle. He then stabbed them with a jackknife. He muttered to himself, "this here" and "that there" as he worked.
John surveyed the newly uncovered chairs. His eyes traveled up to the other end of the mantle.
"It's a real skull?" Sherlock looked in John's direction.
"A friend of mine." That tight little smile emerged as he said darkly, "Well, I say friend."
John felt he was definitely out of his comfort zone. The skull cinched it. But, for some reason, he liked it.
"What do you think, Mr. Watson?" Mrs. Hudson had just entered the room.
"There's another room upstairs, if you'll be needing it." John's eye brows drew together. He knew what it sounded like but…
"Well, of course we'll be needing two." He felt his head make that little twitch he did whenever he felt confused. Was she insinuating…
Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened. "There are all sorts around here! Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones." She looked away. If he could read minds, John knew she thought he was in the closet. He wasn't in the closet. He wasn't even gay! John did a double take anyway.
"Sherlock, the mess you made." Mrs. Hudson began tidying up the floor space. And then headed off to the kitchen. John tried to get over the fact that for once in his life someone thought he was gay. He then pushed back the idea that Sherlock might be.
"I looked you up on the internet last night."
"Anything interesting?"
"I saw your website. 'The Science of Deduction'."
"What do you think?"
"Quite amusing, really."
"Amusing?" A look of mixed annoyance took over Sherlock's face.
"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and a retired plumber by his left hand." John said trying to prove his point. He wasn't the only one who thought that was crazy right?
"Yes and can read your publishing status by your face and your hands and your brother's drinking habits by your mobile phone."
Mrs. Hudson muttered to herself in the back ground. John felt his ears getting very hot.
"How?"
"You read the article. You tell me."
"That was absurd."
"But, I know his drinking habits. I even know he left his wife."
Mrs. Hudson held up what looked like a script. "What about this one, Sherlock? It looks right up your street. It's going to be rewritten from the looks of this fax."
John heard a car pull up the street. Sherlock peeked out of the window.
"Yes. I know." John balked when he saw the title.
"May I just ask, what is your street?" John felt nothing but confusion.
"It's been re-written again."
A grave and greyed fellow walked into the room. Definitely confusion.
"Where this time?" Sherlock asked.
"Brixton. Laurenston Gardens. Will you come?" The man had a pleading look in his eye.
"Who is on lighting?"
"Anderson." Sherlock's face showed a sudden change from cheer to hate.
"Anderson won't work with me."
"He doesn't have to work with you. He just has to light the set."
"But, he sets it into my eyes."
"You have to cry. Of course it will be in your eyes. Will you come?" The man looked tired and exasperated.
Sherlock paused for a second.
"Fine. But, not in the company car. I'll follow soon"
The man took it and left. John looked on during the whole proceeding. Then Sherlock jumped. He literally jumped. His arms waved close to his body as he twirled.
"It's Christmas! Finally! A good script. It can't be a good writer's week if there isn't anything interesting on the telly." Sherlock grabbed his coat and was off to his room. John was puzzled.
"John, have a cup of tea. Mrs. Hudson, I'm going to be back late. Might need some food."
A distant, "not your housekeeper" rang out.
"Something cold will do."
Mrs. Hudson was back and standing by his chair.
"My husband used to be like that. Always running around. But, you're the sitting down type, I can tell. I'll go make you that cuppa."
"Thank you," John felt that if he was being ditched it wouldn't be too bad.
"And, some biscuits if you don't mind."
A distant, "Not your housekeeper." rang out.
Very puzzling, the whole Sherlock idea. Eh, it must have been an actor's thing. He picked up the entertainment magazine and flipped in a few pages. There was the face of the grave man. Greg Lestrade, director. He was working on a project, a romance drama. Guest starring, Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock was back. He lifted a scarf from the hat stand.
"You are a writer. Any good?" Sherlock asked.
"Very good," John replied a bit offended that Sherlock thought otherwise.
"You've seen manuscripts get torn then? Obliterated completely?"
"Yes, far too much for one lifetime." John thought of all of his own rejected manuscripts.
"Want to see some more?" John couldn't stop himself after that.
"God, yes."
Sherlock and john ran out of the flat. John felt something rising in him. Excitement?
"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson, but well skip that cuppa. Off out."
"Sherlock. You shouldn't be so happy. A man's going to be fired. It's just not decent." The elderly woman appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
"Forget decent. The game is on!" Sherlock burst through the door in a flurry.
John followed Sherlock into the street and almost slammed into him when Sherlock stopped to disarm his car. John climbed into the passenger's side. The sound of the car's engine revving fired him up even more. Finally something interesting!