Hello there, my beautiful readers, here's a fifth chapter for you, and I promise that a plot will soon be established. And I want to thank my loyal reviewer, Deathcab4kimmie, it is a delight to know that I get a review from you and I do a little dance to myself when I see that email. Thank you.

Enjoy and review? That'd be wonderful.

Emma had left sometime during the night, Sherlock didn't notice, her footsteps were like a mouse. That morning, Sherlock and Watson were having breakfast down in the study. Holmes was making a house out of waffles, an architectural breakthrough, when Ms. Hudson came into the room with a pot of tea and the mail in her hands.

"Only two letters today, Mr. Holmes. One has no return address." She said at she gave the letters to Holmes, poring tea into each man's cup. Holmes grabbed the one that didn't have a return address and threw the other one on the table.

It was a medium sized envelope, but it was a deep red colour and written in golden ink on it's cover was, 'Sherlock Holmes'.

He opened it slowly, carefully. He pulled out a letter and read it.

'My dear neighbor,

You are a perfect medium in order to create a beautiful portrait. Thank you for letting me use you as a model.

Truly,

your dear neighbor.'

He unfolded a piece of parchment, and looked upon the drawing. It was almost like he was looking into a mirror, looking at the portrait Emma had sketched of him the night before.

"What is it?" Watson asked, picking up the letter and reading it. He raised an eyebrow.

"I knew she was drawing, but I didn't think she'd be drawing a portrait of myself." Sherlock set the paper down and Watson took a glance at it.

"Hmm," he wondered out loud, "Maybe she fancies you, Holmes."

Holmes shook his head, "I believe you are mistaken, Watson, I highly doubt that is the case."

Watson rolled his eyes and picked up the other letter, "Is it so hard to believe that there might be someone out there interested in you, Holmes?"

There was a long pause, "Yes."

Watson started reading the letter, realizing that it was actually an invitation. "How about you go over and invite Miss Emma to the Masquerade Ball tomorrow." He tossed the letter over to Holmes, who watched it fall in his lap.

"A ball? Why ever would we be invited to a ball?" He picked it up and started reading it. "This invitation is for you, Watson."

Watson shrugged, "Doesn't mean I can't bring guests. Now, I really think you should consider asking Miss Gitali."

Sherlock looked over at him, "You ask her."

Watson leaned back in his chair, staring at Holmes with intent in his eyes. Holmes stared back.

Alright, Holmes thought, let the commencement of the staring contest begin.

A few seconds later, Watson blinked, his face straight, "Go ask her."

Sherlock stood, grabbing the sketch and replied, "If you want her to come so bad, you ask her." And he walked out of the room. Watson stood as well, and followed him.

"I intended on bringing my fiancee, Holmes, not my neighbor." He followed him up the stairs and stood in the doorway of Holmes' room. "But if you want me to ask her...I mean, she is kind of pretty..."

Holmes laughed, "Don't think that that trick will work on me. You, of all people, should know that."

Watson saw Sherlock place the sketch and the note Emma had given him on his desk, set them in front of the picture of Irene Adler. Watson smirked, knowingly.

"Let me know what she says when you ask her, I'll be in my room." And with that, he left Holmes to his thoughts.

Holmes looked into space for a moment, then turned to look out the window. The busy street below.

"Masquerade?" He pondered the thought. Then his thoughts turned to Emma, and his face eased. And he considered it.

She probably wouldn't want to go, let alone with a man like him. She did draw a portrait of him, though. But that doesn't mean she's interested in him.

He sighed, it was going to be a long afternoon of arguments with himself.

A few hours later, Sherlock lay on the floor, face down. Trying to stimulate his nerves. He flipped himself over, staring at the ceiling. He sighed, a grumble in his throat.

Again he sighed, "What's the harm?" The voice in his head said to him. And he considered it. The more he thought, the more he considered it.

Holmes stood, looked once around him and walked down the stairs and slammed the door behind him.

He knocked twice. Waited approximately thirty seconds for the sound of foot steps anywhere near the door, and when he had heard none, he knocked once more. He heard no sign of his knock to be answered, so he turned on his heel, set to leave back to his abode.

But then, in the midst of his thoughts thinking that all he was doing was making a fool out of himself, another thought strayed to his mind.

Emma was an easily trusting girl enough not to lock her door.

Sherlock turned around, glancing around him once and walked into Emma's apartment with ease.

And he was greeted by a strong smell of incense and bizarre colours that filled the walls as if they were thrown on there in such hurry. Rich oranges and Indian blues acquainted the walls, red draperies hung over the windows with stitched flowers all over them. A strong psychedelic vibe, the colours and patterns everywhere, like he was taking walk into one of his dreams.

There were hundreds of canvases that were placed randomly all around, leaving hardly enough room to walk down the hall way. As Sherlock walked, he came to a sudden halt when he stood in front of two vases sitting in the middle of the hall way.

One, filled with beautiful tropical flowers that he knew could be found no where near London.

And the other, held lifeless, dead, graying flowers that hung pathetically over the edge of the vase.

How odd, they sat right next to each other. He stepped over them quickly and began to ascend down the hallway once more. But then he stopped again, at a table sitting off to the side.

An orange, eye-catching box sat over the very edge, about to topple over on the floor. Sherlock pushed it onto the table with lite force and something else caught his eye.

A picture frame, sitting plainly on the surface of the table. He picked it up and examined it.

A picture of a man. An African man, hair in dreaded locks that hung loosely over his forehead. Dark intense eyes that held a lot of truth as he looked to whoever it was taking the photograph. This was clearly the man that was the father to Emma's aforementioned daughter as he looked upon the next photograph and saw the resemblance.

Sherlock set the frame down and picked up another one, it was one of Emma holding a little girl in her arms as the child made a funny face. This was the daughter, Meribelle, and the mother, Emma. Sherlock's eyes lingered on the face of his neighbor. She was younger and her hair was longer, but still the same Emma. Though there was something lacking in comparison to the Emma in the photograph, and the one who inhabited this house.

The Emma in the photograph held a strong sensation of...happiness. Or that what it seemed like. And why wouldn't she be? She had a beautiful daughter, a man to father her child, living out in the world where she belongs. And the contrast between the two is clearly shown in Sherlock's eyes for he knew that the Emma now was not the Emma in the picture, any longer.

After a moment longer examining the picture, he set it down and walked around the odd styled apartment a little longer, his eyes wondering and catching on certain things he'd only imagined in his dreams.

He then stood at the base of the stairs, contemplating whether or not to walk up them. Well, Emma certainly didn't have any trouble with it yesterday.

He slowly ascended up the stairs, and once he reached the top his eyes wondered to a door that was halfway open and a slightly large sound could be heard from inside. Sherlock knocked on the door once, but had no patience as he opened the door and stuck his head in. He was greeted by a gust of fresh air and light, for all the windows were open letting the Spring sun in.

Emma sat at a chair that was fairly low to the ground, with her hands rapped around a spinning glob of red clay. Her hands covered in dried clay, the residue almost reached her elbows.

She lifted her head at the sound of the door and Sherlock's footsteps. When her cool green eyes landed on him, a smiled erupted across her face, wrinkling a small blotch of clay on her cheek.

"Hello, Sherlock." She kept her hands on the spinning clay, dividing her attention between the two. "Did you get my drawing?"

He nodded, "Yes, it was a pleasant surprise, thank you."

She smiled again, lifting one hand from the clay, grabbed a sponge and dipped it in a water bowl that was next to her feet, bringing it back to the clay. Her hands started to slowly form a small vase.

"I enjoyed drawing you. You have such strong features, I couldn't help myself." She looked up at him, "You can have a seat if you like, I think there should be a chair behind me if you want to pull it out."

Holmes spotted the chair and pulled it out so he sat directly in front of her.

"I came by to regretfully ask you if you wanted to attend a Masquerade Ball with Watson, Mary, and...I...Watson has this uncanny plan of getting the two of us together, ask me not, I do not know." Sherlock told her, picking his words carefully as he let his eyes wonder around Emma's room, much like she did when she was in his own room.

Emma continued to sculpt the pot in front of her, but with a pondering look upon her face. "A...Masquerade ?"

"Yes."

She thought longer, "Okay. Sure." She smiled again, and Holmes couldn't help but smile a little, though he'd never admit to it. "When is it?"

"Uh, tomorrow, if I am not mistaken."

"Oh, well then it sounds fantastic. I think I have the perfect dress for it as well. I'll, say, meet you around five or so tomorrow afternoon?" Emma stood slowly from her chair as the potting wheel slowed to a stop. And on top sat a beautiful vase that she'd made, and in merely minutes, is what surprised Holmes the most.

She wiped her hands on the apron she wore and gave him a small smile.

"Sounds great, Miss Gitali. And if I may ask, what is the colour of dress you will be wearing tomorrow?" Holmes asked, watching her intently.

"I believe it is gold. If I may ask, why do you ask?"

"Best not ruin something for the greater of finding out later." He tipped his hat to her, "Good afternoon, Emma, I shall see you tomorrow," and he walked out the door, down the steps, careful of anything he might trip on and stopped at the front door. He turned and looked back up to the room and saw Emma leaning on the doorway, smiling down at him. He gave her a small smile and made his was out the door and to his own apartment without a word to spare. Though, he silently thought to himself, what exactly was he getting himself into?

Later that day, Emma looked at the dress that sat on her bed. She shifted her weight back and forth upon her feet, contemplating on whether or not she should choose this dress. It was a plain gold dress, floral imprinted. But she felt it needed more. Something more...

"Colour! Needs a knew colour!" She exclaimed. "But what colour?" She asked no one in particular.

Green? No.

Black? No way.

Brown? N-...yes!

Emma smiled, but realised she didn't have any fabric laying around. Which honestly surprised her, with all the junk she owned. She'd have to go into town and find a tailor of some sort. Emma found some money and with her satchel at her side she set off into town.

An hour of searching the desolate at heart, city of London, she'd finally found the absolute perfect shade of brown fabric needed to complete her dress. She smiled to herself as she walked down the cobble stone streets when Emma suddenly felt wet droplets fall on her cheek.

She looked up at the sky, lifting her hand to catch the raindrops in her palm. She smiled as thunder softly clapped around her and a sudden symphony of of raindrops began to poor down.

Emma laughed and she held up both hands, twirling around in the cleansing natural shower. She always loved the rain, always made her joyous. She danced her way all the way down to Baker street when in mid spin, she backed into an unknown thing.

"Oh, I'm sorry." She apologized as she turned around, but no one was there. She felt a sharp sting on the back of her right arm, she tried to rub it out as she walked the rest of the way to her house, soaking wet from the rain.

Unbeknownst to Emma, a man watched her from across the street as she stepped into her apartment. He smiled a sickly smile before he set off down the alley way and vanished in the darkening night, as if the rain were his trap door.

Plot is beginning to establish :)

And concerning Emma's apartment, I picture the inside of 221A to resemble Lionel Sweeney's apartment from the movie Fur. If you haven't seen it I extremely recommend it, it is fantastic. Probably one of my all time favourite movies. Also, Robert Downey Jr. portrays a finominal character.

Thank you for reading, and...review?