Emma awoke in a cold sweat on every inch of her skin. As she did almost every night she'd lived in London; half a year now.

Breathing harshly, she rubbed her face and sighed. She'd fallen asleep mid-day, she's never done that before. The clock read six in the afternoon; the sun should be setting about now.

The perfect time of day. She jumped up and ran in search for a blank canvas, easel, and paints. Finally finding them, she opened the back window, stood on the sill and began to ascend up three feet of wall before she was on the roof. Emma was not a dainty woman who feared of such small things like heights. But show her a spider, and that was a completely different story.

Her feet landed on the surface of the roof and she smiled at her triumph as if it was a mountain she'd just climbed.

The sun was setting, just like she predicted. Beautiful yellow glow as the horizon line ate up the sun. Setting up the easel, colours were soon captivating the entire canvas. Emma admired the work of art in front of her, as she silently watched the rest of the golden sun disappear.

Just as the darkness was slowly coming upon her, and the fog was claiming the air around her, she suddenly heard stumbling and then a gun shot from the apartment beneath her. She jumped in surprise.

"What in the world...?" Wonder overcame her and she slowly began to ease her way down to her window, gliding through the dark room. She stumbled over a few books and crashed into the floor, scraping the skin off her chin.

"...ow." She slowly picked herself and stumbled out into the hall way where there were a few candles lit. Another gun shot riddled the air and Emma jumped. She grabbed her satchel and rushed down the stairs and out the door.

Through her intense curiosity she completely forgot about the biting pain in her chin and she waltzed up the steps of 221B.

Knock, knock, knock.

No answer.

"Hello?" Her voice rang in the silence, and another gun shot rumbled in the apartment. Jesus, what the hell is going on?

Despite the voice in the back of her mind, Emma's hand reached for the gold handle and turned.

It was unlocked, and the door opened with a click. Looking around in paranoia, once, then twice. The peace of the night was nice, but the noise of stumbling up the stairs made her turn her head and Emma felt her legs shoot into the similar abode and up the stairs.

The apartment was just like hers only things were set in opposite ways. The stairs did not creak as her slipper covered feet jumped up them quickly. And the voice in the back of her mind told her that this was not something she should be doing, but she was worried about her neighbors, it could be some deranged, psycho murderer for all she knew.

She came up to the door where most the noise was leaking from and leaned her ear against it, placing her hands on either side of the door frame.

"Holmes!" She heard, it sounded like an aggravated and angry version of the lovely doctor she'd met earlier in the year. "What in bloody hell is wrong with you?!"

She strained her ears more, trying to hear the response but it was too quiet to understand. Emma leaned closer her full body weight on the door, and the old wood squeaked under the burden.

Everything was quiet and Emma held her breath.

Unexpectedly the door flew open and Emma lost her balance, and fell to the floor at the feet of Dr. Watson.

She looked up and laughed a little, waving, "Hey..."

"Miss Gitali, what are you doing here?" Watson held out a hand and helped her up. "And what happened to your chin?"

"I heard gunshots from my apartment, and some stumbling, you'd be surprised how thin these walls are actually," she spoke calmly, "I just wanted to come over and see if everything was alright. And I stumbled a bit myself on the way over, I'm quite fine though." As she spoke she looked around the room she now stood in with potent curiosity, making her words come out slowly.

The room she stood in seemed a lot like her own, only with all the colour whatsoever drained out from it's very core. A great deal of books and random clutter littered the floor, shelves, and desks. As her eyes traveled throughout the room, she recognized several trinkets with Indian culture characteristics, this peeked her curiosity even more. But suddenly her eyes landed on a man with a dark head of hair, sitting to the far north of the room with a smoking gun in his hand and a cloud of smoke around him.

Sherlock Holmes.

"Yes, well, we are terribly sorry to have disturbed you, Miss Gita--"

"Oh, please, call me Emma."

"--Emma. I'm afraid it was caused by my slightly deranged room mate, he's in one of his...'moods'." Emma nodded, feeling Sherlock's eyes on her. They made her uncomfortable, and she didn't relish because she was in his line of view, no matter his handsome face or not.

Emma heard Sherlock stand up from his chair and walked over to the two of them. "Dearest Watson, don't you have a fiance thatneed be attended to?"

Emma looked at Watson, seeing him roll his eyes she laughed.

But he nodded none the less, "Yes, I do. I will see you tomorrow Holmes." Watson tipped his hat to Emma, "Good evening, Miss Emma."

The doctor cascaded down the stairs and out the door into the night.

Emma looked back to Sherlock who was standing about a yard from her, "Well, I guess since everything's fine here, I'll just be on my...way."

She turned to leave.

"Close the door. Don't leave just yet." Emma stopped with her back turned to him. And she turned around leisurely.

She stood in his room.

Emma stood in his room.

Emma stood in Sherlock Holmes' room.

He studied her as she conversed with Watson. She wasn't a very tall woman, he noted, but she didn't match the height of a child either. Her eyes were the most brilliant shade of green even in the darkened light. It was a nice colour. And though, where his eyes traveled seemingly was deemed as inappropriate, but it was difficult to help so.

Emma was a small woman, in all parts. Her hands were small, her arms were thin and slender, legs, torso...breasts...all small. Very petite.

Sherlock could tell that his eyes on her were making her uncomfortable, making him feel somewhat powerful that he could make her feel an emotion without even saying one word. Not one...word.

And for some reason, having Watson there was making him uncomfortable, but he easily got rid of him.

Just as Emma was about to walk out of the door, Sherlock spoke up, "Close the door. Don't leave just yet." And she turned around slowly, though some imaginary wind caught the hem of her dress, making it spin around her knees.

Her eyes looked upon him, and he smiled. Her eyes wondered around his room and she started to walk around, touching the tops of random books; brushing off the dust. She picked up one that intrigued her and started to flip through it. Holmes watched her, not particularly wanting to say something, but wanting at the same time.

"You play, Sherlock Holmes?" She looked over at him, smiling, "The violin?"

"That I do."

"Very well too, you'd be surprised how thin these wall are...I hear you sometimes at night..." She looked down, and if you looked closely (which Sherlock always did) you could see a small rose colour rising to her cheeks, "It calms me. Even inspires me, the peculiar notes."

"Inspires you?" She did intrigue him, Emma did indeed.

"To paint, to draw, to even create my own music. My piano hasn't arrived from India yet, but it should be here soon."

"I never much took to the piano when I was younger."

"Oh, I just adore the sound of the piano." She continued to look around. She walked all over the room, admiring all of his little nothings and experiments.

"You do have the curiosity of a child, Emma Gitali." She turned to face him quickly.

"Sorry, it's just...I am quite fond of this room, reminds me of my own in certain ways. Less colourful, though with the same clutter-ness." She smirked and sat down in a chair, followed by Sherlock who sat in a chair next to her.

"I'd offer you tea but I'm afraid the nanny has poisoned it...again." Emma looked at him curiously, but didn't mention it.

"Oh, well it's alright then." Sherlock noticed she didn't cross her legs like a normal woman would, and she didn't cross her hands on her lap either, merely just sat there, looking at him. "Why did you want me to stay?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, and he set his ankle on his left knee. "I wanted to ask you something, something that is of great interest of me." She looked at him, edging him to go on. "You said you hear me playing violin at night," Emma nodded, "Well I hear you at night some- well every night. I hear you crying."

He looked at Emma and could tell she was surprised, and scared, though she tried to hide it. She was good at that. Hiding.

"Why are you so saddened by night, and during the day you hide it? In fact, you hide it so well that you hide it too well, and I can see right through it." Emma looked away from his gaze, rapping her arms around her stomach. That was a sign that she was uncomfortable with the situation. "I do not mean to discomfort you, Miss Gitali, I was mer-"

"No, it's fine, Sherlock. I only cry at night because I let myself remember..." Sherlock's thought train stopped.

"Remember what, exactly?" He knew he was prying, but he wanted to know.

She sighed, "...My family."

Sherlock was a bit taken back by this, but persisted on, "What happened to them?"

Emma started playing with her fingers, nervous habit. "I don't know."

She doesn't know? How could she not know what happened to them?

"You don't know? You shed tears for something, and you don't even know if you should? Where's the sense in that?" Emma looked up suddenly, Sherlock could practically feel the red hot anger radiating off of her.

"I cry because I think of all the possible things that could have happened to them, I would think you, of all minds in England, would understand that." Sherlock put his hands up, in defeat. "I can't help myself from thinking of what had happened to my little girl..." Emma stopped before she said anything more, for she'd said enough.

"Wait, what?" This girl was full of surprises that he did not understand, "How old are you, exactly?"

Emma turned her gaze towards him, "Now, is that a proper question to ask a lady?" When Sherlock didn't answer her question and only stared at her with intense eyes, she laughed slightly. "I'm twenty-seven. Meribelle, my little girl, was born when I was twenty-one. Very young to have a child, too young in fact. I know."

Sherlock observed her, she spoke with such pride when she spoke of this. Despite his skill-full intellect and cunning mind, he would never have guessed Emma Gitali to have been a mother, for she was much like a child herself; her curious eyes and silly words. And then a thought crossed him.

"And the father?"

Emma didn't answer for a moment and then, she stood. Walked to the far north side of his room, to a desk with a few books and random papers scattered around a lone picture frame.

She picked it up, admiring the beauty of the woman in the picture.

"She's very beautiful. Who is she?" Sherlock quickly stood and walked over to her, ripping the frame from her hands and placing it face down on the desk.

"She's...none of your concern."

Emma laughed a little, standing close to Sherlock, looking him in the eyes, "If she is to none of my concern, why should my life be of any concern to you?"

He looked into her eyes, and stood there for a second without saying a word.

"You have the most...interesting shade of brown in your eyes. Almost amber, but hints of beige." Sherlock looked away and walked over to a shelf, lighting a match and he lit the tobacco in his pipe.

"You know, that nasty stuff is killing you." Sherlock rolled his eyes, though she couldn't see him, "The smoke stays in your lungs and slowly eats them away until you have nothing left to breathe with."

Sherlock snorted, "What an attractive statement."

Emma laughed, "I only speak the truth, Sherlock Holmes." She set the frame back up and then walked slowly to where she'd set down her satchel, reached into it, and pulled out a piece of charcoal and her sketchbook. She flipped through until she landed on a blank page, a plain white blank page. She looked up at Sherlock once more and began to draw.

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