Part two! Weeeeeeeeee :) Many thanks to reviewers and subscribers! If you have any suggestions/requests for future or current stories please let me know via email...ta.
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I own nothing...still.
Clara was much more of a sister than Harry had ever been. Kind, caring, womanly. She was the sort of person whom you imagined would cook muffins on you're birthday, offer out affectionate hugs and giggle hysterically at everything. Her temporary flat however, was cold and quite scarce in comparison his residence at 221B, and indeed Clara's personality. At home, useless yet sentimental crap littered everywhere in sight.
"Just popping upstairs," he'd said.
"There isn't one." was the reply.
"This isn't Baker Street" he'd reminded himself. After an awkward silence he'd excused himself from the empty living room (Clara was busy cooking tea) and made his way to the spare room. He took out his suitcase and rooted to the very bottom, where a purple shirt was lying, crumpled.
It smelt like rosin, coffee, freshly cut grass, mint and parchment; all the things he associated with his flatmate. No. Friend?
"Only one more day John. One day."
More?