Author's Note: Hello everyone! Thank you for the reviews I love reading them. Especially since this is my first story. Here's the next chapter. Sorry I took so long I was doing things today and didn't get home until late. Enjoy!
Sherlock paced around the small sitting room. The place was a mess. Late night casework. She was going to be here any minute and any normal person would've tidied up. John had texted him that morning to remind him of today's event.
Remember she's coming today. Be nice. -JW
He scoffed, he was fine, as long as she didn't irritate him.
"Oh hello dear, you must be Samantha," a pause "Oh, Sam alright dear, he's just upstairs, I'm sorry I wasn't here when you first came, my hip..."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, Mrs. Hudson and her formalities. Her unnecessary personal, formalities.
He heard footsteps, She's wearing the trainers again, he noticed. He faced the window, and heard the door open.
"Sherlock, your new flat mate's here."
Looks like Mrs. Hudson's going to take care of the talking. He turned to face her and the young woman who stood beside her dwarfed by the box she was carrying.
"Very good your room is that way." He said quickly nodding in the direction of John's old bedroom. She left the room and Mrs. Hudson immediately started.
"Gosh she's a pretty one isn't she? Where'd you find her dear? I'd never guessed you'd-"
Sherlock cut her off, "I didn't, John did. I just agreed."
She didn't stop, "And what about the no talking? The poor dear, she must have been through something. She's rather small too isn't she I wonder..."
"Mrs. Hudson, I'm sure she would appreciate you not speculating about her when she's not even a room away, and I suggest you leave now before you make things worse." He snapped coldly.
"Alright dearie," she said cautiously "I'll let you two get to know each other." she began her walk down the stairs and called back "She's got two more boxes to go mind you!"
Sherlock stared out the window another minute before surprising himself for second time in the past few weeks, and heading down the stairs and out the door to the cab to retrieve the two other boxes.
When he was climbing the stairs with the second box he examined the it and tried to deduce what was inside. Maybe giving insight into his silent flat mate. Solid feeling, but there were multiple things in the box. Books most likely, either she's extremely well-read or wants to be viewed as extremely well-read. He then remembered that the box before had felt the same as well. No, she's most likely read them. No one trying fake being well read would pack up two box fulls of books just to prove a point. You could do that just as easily by putting a Hemingway paperback in your back pocket when in actuality you don't even know why that supposedly makes you intelligent in the first place.
He dropped the box with a grunt at the top of the stairs to catch his breath and noticed a figure out of the corner of his eye. She was standing there, just inside the flat, watching him. She gave a sweet smile. Probably the only "Thank You" she can get across. And he gave a nod in return. Then picked up the box and headed into her room.
When he emerged. she had moved to the window looking out at the view of Baker Street and the people down below. Sherlock remained still, hoping to examine her without her noticing. Her gaze moved from the window to his violin on the cluttered desk next to it, she seemed to study it closely but not once reached out to touch one string.
Clear respect for personal space, and belongings.
He held his breath when she moved from the window to the fireplace where she studied Billy, his skull, resting in his usual place on the mantle. A smile of amusement from her, when she saw the pile of bills stabbed with a knife in the wood. He kept watching as she glanced at the yellow spray painted smiley face on the wall and the worn out sofa below it. She gave a curious look at the bullet holes in the wall but other than that did not react at all.
She doesn't find that strange? Or questionable?
When she knelt down to study the stacks of books next to the armchair by the fire she noticed him. He heard a small gasp escape her lips.
He pretended to ignore it and walk past her as she stood,
"I should probably tell the worst things about me. Flat mates should always know the worst of one another."
He turned back to meet her eyes, they were hesitant, listening.
"I like to play the violin at any and all times of the night, I keep body parts in the fridge, sometimes I don't talk for days on end, does that bother you?"
She made a face at "don't talk for days on end..." Obviously she's not bothered.
"Alright but anything else?"
She suddenly turned on her heel and left the room to return with notebook paper and a pen. She scribbled furiously for a moment then handed him the book.
Violin: Don't mind as long as you're not horrendous!
Body Parts in the Fridge: As a long as it's legal, and where else would you put them?
Talking for days on end: Look at who you're talking to. (No pun intended.)
He stared a minute then looked back up.
"Right, then. I'll leave you alone to get settled. I have work to do anyway."
She gave a quick smile and went back into her room.
A few hours later he heard her emerge, he heard a yawn. She entered the kitchen where he'd been pouring over a case file for hours. Grim pictures and court transcripts littered the table. She came around behind him, looking over his shoulder.
"I can clear some of this if you want."
She jumped a little, he'd startled her.
"Sorry." he said blandly.
She shook her head and crossed over to the fridge and opened it. Sherlock held his breath in anticipation for the impending reaction. She'd said, well wrote, that she'd be fine with the pieces of anatomy kept in the kitchen, but it's hard to suppress a true reaction. He waited. He listened. Nothing. He looked up and saw her staring into the fridge, her nose was squinched not in disgust but in confusion. She turned and gave a blank look. Sherlock then realized why.
"There's no food is there?"
A few hours earlier.
Samantha sprawled herself out on the newly made bed. It was larger than the one at her sister's, which was just a bit larger than a twin. But this was nice. So much space!
The room was also bigger than the one at her sister's, one window with a small writer's desk beneath it, two completely empty bookshelves which for Sam was extremely promising, and blank walls. All she'd done so far was unpack her bed sheets and pillows. She'd planned to start on the bookshelves next but the bed had looked so inviting. She napped a few hours and woke to darkness outside her window. Groggily she looked around the room trying to decide what to do next. Suddenly her stomach made a sickening noise. Food would be good about now. She checked her mobile, just after seven. She opened her door and poked her head out. Silence. Had he left? The description in the advertisement had said that he was... what was it called? Nothing Sam had ever heard of. A detective of some kind, but he didn't look like a policeman. Probably freelance, she thought, like me. Although I don't think I've heard of a freelance detective. As she thought this she rounded the corner to find him sitting at the table in the kitchen. Photographs and papers strewn everywhere. She moved quietly behind him trying to get a better look at a particularly grim set of photos on his left.
"I can clear some of this if you want." he said.
Sam jumped, living in silence a lot of the time made noise seem so surprising.
"Sorry."
God, she really had to get that under control, she didn't want to be afraid of this guy, or make him feel like her sister. Always careful not to startle her fragile sister.
She wanted to show him something in her face that meant "It's okay." but couldn't think of anything. He wasn't looking anyway. Why was she here again? Food, right. She crossed behind him to the fridge and opened it. She was immediately hit with some kind of odor that reminded her of dissection day in school. Inside were plastic bags with what looked like... thumbs? In the dimly lit fridge everything looked shadowy, but Sam was pretty sure she saw a human nose. She looked deeper, more bags. She kneeled down to the produce drawers, empty. She'd have to go to the shop. She turned back to the skinny man sitting behind her, not sure what her purpose was or how to communicate her dilemma, or if she even should. He was watching her.
"There's no food is there?"
They'd ordered take away. Chinese, from a place a block over. He had to do the order, not being able to use a phone and all.
Sam sat on the couch with a container of chow mien and a fork, bent over the coffee table. He'd set himself up in the armchair near the window staring at the blaring telly in front of them. He'd already changed into his pajamas and dressing gown and had his knees drawn up to his chest, like a large child. He'd eaten very little focusing on the show in front of him, a trivia programme, distracting him, until he gave up on the food completely.
"No! You idiot the summer solstice is in June! You'd know if you'd ever left your basement!"
Sam raised an eyebrow and smiled, she'd seen guys get excited over football tournaments this way but never some trivia programme. She would try to answer some of the questions on her own sometimes, there was usually one category she knew pretty well. This man seemed to have knowledge on many things though. When she'd examined his books earlier she'd noticed some strange volumes in the stacks on the floor. "How to Kill a Man with Household Appliances", "Bullet and Firearm History of the Edwardian Time Period", "5,000 Molds That Can Kill", among others. Sam wasn't exactly sure when any of that information would come in handy, But maybe that's why he studies it, she thought scooping more chow mien into her mouth, you never know when you'll need it. She stole a look at his face illuminated in the blue light of the television. He was rather angular looking, everything was pointy and jagged, and everything contradicted itself. Jet black hair, pale skin, skinny body, but a deep voice, and his blue eyes contrasted everything else, serving as the only bit of color on his face. She wondered how she looked to him. He seemed to basically deconstruct everyone in a way when he met them, look inside, then put them back together again.
What had he said about her?
Early onset anxiety disorder. Selective mutism.
Well, he was right about that much. But not everything.