Chapter 3
There was a moment of awkward silence before I burst into fits of hysterical laughter. I caught a glimpse of Sherlock's expression before I had to double over to gain oxygen; he looked confused and partly injured as he adjusted his sarong self-consciously.
"And who might you be?" Sherlock asked once my laughter had died down to a quiet chuckle. I wiped my eyes and still grinning, answered.
"Ha-ha, sorry it's just you don't really ― you don't look how I expected you too." I dissolved into more uncontrollable giggling while Mrs Hudson led a regal looking man to the door.
"Ahem, I'm so sorry," I managed to splutter. "My name's is Rosabeth, but I prefer Beth." I held out my hand and after a brief pause he shook it.
"I take you already know who I am." Sherlock replied whilst looking me up and down.
Then it was my turn to shuffle uncomfortably. "Yes, I've heard of you, but it is an honour to finally meet you in person."
"An honour? Well that's a first. Usually people describe finally meeting me as more of a hindrance."
I shook my head vigorously, splattering everything within a ten centimetre radius with water from my hair. "I've been looking forward to this moment for quite a while." I assured him.
"I know. About two years by the look of you; long hair that hasn't been cut for some time; thin body from malnutrition rather than the vanity expected of a teenager; tense stance that is unconscious given by the fact you immediately loosened, and the way you stand with your back to the wall and face the exit suggests you are uneasy about being outnumbered. Not your typical teenager all-in-all." He concluded.
I tried to look nonchalant by failed spectacularly. "Wow that was … really something." I admitted nervously, letting my hair flop down to cover my face as I stared at my bare feet.
If he saw all that at first glance, I needed to distract him before he could deduce anything else about me. Luckily I didn't have to do the distracting.
"Sherlock, what do you want me to do with this chicken?" a male voice called from upstairs.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and beckoned for me to follow him, calling back: "Stick it in the fridge; we can have it for dinner."
"I am not eating this!" the voice cried in indignation.
I smiled as we reached the top of the stairs and walked into the cluttered apartment.