Author's Note: I asked for the rights to Sherlock for Christmas, but all I got was this lousy lump of coal. Emily Barber and the plot are mine!

The Man with Two Names
By the Salt Monster

Ch.2
The kitchen

I returned from the store a few hours later, trying to carry several large shopping bags up the stairs to the kitchen. After a few minutes of struggle, I succeeded in getting through the door, only to find all the tables covered with test tubes, vials of chemicals, and plastic piping. I groaned and sat the groceries on the floor.

"Mr. Holmes?" I called, opening the sliding door separating the kitchen from his apartment. "Anyone home?" No answer. I poked my head out of the door to look around. He was lying down on the only cleared off couch, his hands in a prayer position under his chin and his eyes closed.

"Mr. Holmes," I repeated. He didn't move. Cursing myself internally, I climbed through the piles of books and papers until I was standing at the foot of the couch.

"Mr. Holmes!" I yelled. His eyes slowly opened and glared at me.

"What do you want?" he asked coldly. I nearly lost my nerve. Nearly.

"I want you to clean off the table in the kitchen," I said politely.

"The table?"

"Yeah, the table. It's a mess." I was starting to get impatient.

"Ooh, very stubborn and bossy," he muttered softly. "Are you sure you're not an only child?"

"The table, Mr. Holmes!"

"Ah, but with two older brothers…I guess someone has to take charge," he continued, showing no signs of leaving the couch.

"You're not going to get up, are you?" I sighed, deciding that it was a lost cause.

"Nope."

"You're not the only one using this kitchen, you know," I reminded him as I picked my way back through the mess. He didn't reply. I sighed and decided just to put the groceries away. The table could wait another day. I grabbed the two cartons of milk in one of the bags, and opened the refrigerator…

And screamed as loud as I could.

As I stumbled backwards, away from the fridge, I tripped on my groceries that were still on the floor, dropped the milk cartons, and fell. Instinctively, I grabbed the tablecloth to catch me, but instead pulled it, and all of the test tubes and vials and tubing along with it, to the floor with a loud crash.

I was soaked with milk and what smelled like raspberry soda. I slowly got to my feet and after making sure nothing was broken, stormed out of the kitchen and into Sherlock's apartment.

"You're insane!" I shrieked, pointing an accusing finger at him. He lazily opened one eye at me, but then closed it again.

"You're the one wearing milk and raspberry soda," he pointed out.

"THERE'S A HEAD IN THE FRIDGE!" I screamed. "A HUMAN HEAD!" He didn't reply, just sighed. "What the hell is that for?" He still didn't answer me. I stood there, actually shaking with rage as the sound of heavy footfalls found its way up the stairs to the kitchen.

"Oh, dear, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson's voice came from the kitchen. Sherlock sat straight up as Mrs. Hudson came into the room. She paused when she saw me, glaring daggers at Holmes and soaking wet.

"Oh, Sherlock, look at the mess you've made in the kitchen!" she said, scolding him like he was a small child. "Your experiment all over the floor, too. Such a shame…" I stared at her, my jaw slack.

"There's a head in the fridge, Mrs. Hudson," I spluttered.

"Yes, yes," she said quickly and turned back to Sherlock. "You should have known better than to keep that head in there, Sherlock. You knew we had company coming."

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," he said, as sweet as pie to her. "I'll clean it up, don't worry."

"Make sure you do." She turned back to me. "Emily, dear, why don't you go have a nice hot bath, you look like you've just seen a ghost."

"Nope, only a severed head on a plate in my refrigerator," I muttered, attempting a small smile. As soon as Mrs. Hudson was gone, I went back to staring at Sherlock Holmes, who had returned to his position on the couch.

"I thought you said you were going to clean up," I said.

"I will," he answered. There was a long stretch of silence.

"When?" I asked.

"Later." With both hands on my hips, I strode over to where he was and stood over him.

"I think now," I said tersely. He opened his eyes.

"You know I think you're more like an oldest child. Bossy, always wanting your way…" he muttered, though I could have sworn I saw the corners of his mouth twitch.

"Oh, shut up and help me clean," I snapped and walked away. To my surprise, he followed me into the kitchen. I snatched a towel off a peg on the cabinet and started wiping the table down while he started picking up the test tubes.

"What sort of experiment were you doing that required raspberry soda?" I asked, genuinely interested.

"One that I would have rather kept intact," he drawled. I sighed, agitated by his habit of not answering my questions.

After the table was dry, I bent down to examine the state of my groceries. The eggs were broken, the bread squashed, the package of instant coffee ripped open, and the fruit I had bought was badly bruised. I groaned and held my head in my hands. There went my grocery budget for the week.

"Don't worry," Holmes said. I glanced up and saw that he was looking at me. "You can take my card and get some more. Sorry." At least he was apologizing, though he certainly didn't look sorry. In fact, it really didn't look like he had any emotions at all.

"It's fine. Besides, it's too late. The store's closed now."

I gathered up the ruined groceries and threw them in the trash, nearly slipping on the milk that flooded the floor. Not that it would have mattered very much, as I was already covered in it.

"I'll get the rest," Holmes said. I nodded and threw the damp towel in the sink. "Oh, and you might want to use the shower upstairs. Yours has mold all over it." I nodded, but then did a double-take.

"You went into my apartment?" I asked, confused. He shrugged.

"Forgive me if I didn't believe all of what you said about yourself, Miss Barber. One can't be too careful."

"You went into my apartment?"

"Your plane ticket says you flew out of LaGuardia. You are from New York."

"I only went to college there! I don't have the accent or anything. And how did you find the ticket; it was in my-,"

"You're a teacher," he told me, looking me square in the eyes. "Tell me you're a teacher. An art teacher, maybe, but you must be a teacher."

"I'm an artist!" I insisted.

"No, you're not. A science teacher? Maths?"

"No!" I cried. "I really am!"

"No, no, you're all wrong!" he said impatiently. "The make-up, the hair: it's too professional." He waved a hand, gesturing to me and started pacing, milk causing his shoes to squeak as he walked.

"Yeah, well that's what happens when you're a professional artist," I snapped at him, causing a break in his pacing.

"Who are you, then?" he asked. He leaned across the table until we were the same height. The low hanging kitchen light made it seem like a police interrogation. I took a deep breath to calm myself before answering.

"I'm Emily Barber," I said calmly. He glared at me and resumed pacing.

"You're not right, you don't make any sense!" he continued. I sighed and stared up at the ceiling as he continued pacing.

"It's okay; I'm an artist," I said simply. He stopped pacing altogether. I tore my gaze away from the peeling paint on the ceiling, and down to where he was staring blankly into nowhere. His breathing was shallow and his eyes were glassy, scaring me a bit. "Everything all right?" I asked warily, placing a hand on his shoulder. He jerked away from me.

"Yes, it's…it's just fine," he said, though he didn't sound convinced himself. He let out a small shudder and turned back to me. "You're right," he said, back to his cold self. I raised an eyebrow. "You don't conform to the rules of society. It's your job as a…artist," he said, visibly struggling with himself to get the last word out. I gave a small smile as he returned to mopping up the floor, his little rampage over. "I can't believe I didn't see it before-so obvious…"

"Now you're talking sense…sorta," I said. "That still doesn't make up for you breaking into my apartment, though."

"'Breaking in,'" he scoffed, casting me a bemused look. "You left your window unlocked."

I rolled my eyes, but couldn't suppress a small smile as I left the kitchen.

-nananananananana Sherlock!-

About half an hour later, I was back, rummaging through the cabinets to try and find food. Sherlock was sitting at the table and looking through a microscope at a Petri dish of a mysterious substance, the previous interrogation forgotten. The mess had been cleaned up, as promised, though the floor was still a little sticky from the soda.

"Where's all the food?" I muttered to myself as I opened yet another empty cabinet.

"Is there nothing in the refrigerator?" Sherlock asked distractedly, shifting the microscope slightly. I gave him a withering look just as he glanced up from his work. "Oh, right," he said quietly. "The head."

"Well, what do you usually have?" I asked him, leaning on the table.

"I try not to eat if I can help it," he told me. I snorted.

"You're kidding, right?"

"The digestion slows down my thought process—does this look like a crescent to you?" He passed me the microscope. I was taken aback, but took it and looked through it.

"It looks like an indecipherable blob," I said honestly.

"Very good," he said with a flicker of a smile.

"What did you say you do, again?" I asked, continuing my search for food.

"I'm a consulting detective."

"Uh huh…and what exactly does a consulting detective do?"

He took out his mobile phone and started texting. I was afraid he wasn't going to answer my question, but a few minutes later he put his phone away. "When the police are in over their heads, which is four times out of five, they call me." As if on cue, his cell phone rang and he was out of the room, talking quickly.

I sat down at the table and rubbed my eyes, feeling utterly exhausted. I was pretty sure this qualified as an interesting first day. A moldy room, gunshots, an odd neighbor, a head in the fridge, a break-in, and a "consulting detective" (whatever that was)… Pretty sure that was more than just "interesting," but I'd take my chances.

I was falling asleep on the table when Sherlock came back in the kitchen, his phone still in his hand, but with a trench coat and a blue scarf on.

"I was wondering," he said slowly, "are you doing anything tonight, Miss Barber?" I sighed.

"If you're asking me out on a date, I'm not interested," I said, my voice muffled by my arms. He blinked.

"No, as a matter of fact, I was just called about a new case. Even if you're not a science teacher, I could always use an extra set of eyes, you know. Of course, if you don't want to, it's understandable, but—,"

"Now hold on a moment," I said, interrupting him and propping my head up with my elbow. "This new case… is it interesting?"

"It should be. There seem to be a few…interesting… components involved, yes."

"Is it dangerous?" I asked, trying not to sound too eager. He actually smiled at me.

"Always."

I grinned and dashed for my room to grab my coat and hat. On to a new adventure.

Author's Note: Sort of a longer chapter. Let me know what you think! Suggestions are always welcome! (Oh yeah, and thanks to iDestiny for the review and amazing suggestions!)

~Salty