Author's Note: Hello friends! I got out of school early today because of snow! So that means an even faster update! Enjoy!

When Sam woke the next morning it took her a minute to remember last night's events. She remembered take away, and the telly, she vaguely remembered falling asleep but that was on the sofa, and now she was in her bed. Only one possible answer. She grinned to herself, he wasn't so awful. She swung her legs out of bed and walked to her desk and sat down. And looked out the tiny window. He really wasn't what people built him up to be. She'd found that a lot of people, as well as other things, turned out that way. Her first year of high school, the teachers at the lower school made the upper school sound so scary and hostile.

"No one will help you up there!"

"You're going to have to fend for yourself!"

"They won't tolerate this behavior when you reach the upper school!"

But she'd found people not to be so cruel, not unbelievably cruel anyway, and her teachers seemed kind enough to offer help, and behavior really didn't change at all. Everything gets its build up, but it never is what you imagine. When she'd been given the description for Sherlock at the interview she'd expected an eccentric, rude, mad scientist. And the way Dr. Watson talked about him made him seem like a complete tosser. He'd recounted an incident involving, what was it? Harpooning a dead pig, then going on the tube covered in its blood? It seemed like they were intentionally trying to scare her off. Also the fact that she didn't interview directly through him was odd. He'd been a mystery from the very beginning, but she was unsure whether or not to be afraid. She knew what to be afraid of, and this wasn't it, he was strange but, she didn't think he was dangerous.

She got up and went into the hallway turning the corner to go into Sherlock's room to grab some clothes to throw at him, she opened his practically empty drawer and examined its contents. She sighed, Not hard to pick out clothes for a man who owns four shirts. She pulled out a dark purple one on the left, and then went below to grab one of the five identical black dress trousers and a his jacket. Shen went into the kitchen and threw the clothes in his face, as usual and then went to make herself some toast.

"You're heading out today I assume?"

She started a little, then cringed at her own reaction. She turned to face him, he was peering at her over his newspaper. She nodded. It was Monday, she'd be heading out to the therapist's office in an hour. Sherlock returned to his newspaper and Sam to her toast.
When she'd showered and dressed and grabbed her bag to head out she stopped in the sitting room and saw Sherlock examining another case file. At least he's dressed. She continued to make her way out the door but just before she crossed the threshold she heard,

"Hope you make some progress today."

"And this man, he's kind to you?"

Sam nodded, playing with the notepad and pencil in her hand. Her therapist, Sheryl, leaned back in her armchair her pencil poised over her own notepad.

"You told me he was strange care to elaborate."

Sam began scribbling on the notepad,

He's a consulting detective, only one in the world apparently. He likes to play the violin, and he does chemistry experiments in the kitchen.

Sheryl nodded as she read, "And do you two have some form of communication? Does he talk to you?"

Sam wrote,

I helped him with an experiment once, just writing things down, he talks to me but usually it's just questions. Only when he has to.

"Is he aware of your...current issues?"

He has his assumptions, I sort of just left it to his imagination.

Sam thought a moment before continuing.

He sort of figures people out for a living. He thinks he already knows why I'm this way.

"He thinks? So he's wrong."

Sam didn't know what to say.

Does he need to know?

"That's your decision, this is your private issue that you're working through. However knowing what happened to you might create a better relationship between you two."

We just live together, I help pay the rent. And keep him in check.

"Yes, you mentioned 'taking care of him' what does that mean exactly?"

His friend found me, he used to live him and basically told me to make sure he eats, showers, gets dressed, that sort of thing.

"Is your new flat mate clinically depressed?"

Sam was taken aback, Sherlock Holmes clinically depressed? His brain was the highest functioning thing she'd ever witnessed, he clearly was devoted to his work the only time he ever showed any lack of interest was when he wasn't working.

I don't think so.

Sheryl's forehead crinkled in concern, "You might want to contact this friend of his and find out why he's asking you to do these things. Living in an environment with a person with clinical depression may not be healthy for someone in your situation at the moment."

I have his contact info, I'll ask.

They wrapped up and scheduled for next week, and Sam stepped out of the office on to the London streets deep in thought. He was strange, but was he depressed? She'd never seen him smile really, but then again they didn't spend much time together, what was he like at work? A detective job had the potential to be full of adventure. She'd be bored all the time too if she spent half her life chasing down criminal masterminds. A job like that could easily dull everything around you.

When she returned to Baker Street, Sherlock was out as well as Mrs. Hudson, so Sam was able to head straight upstairs. She dropped her bag in her room and sat at the desk. She opened her laptop to a search engine and typed in,

Sherlock Holmes-consulting detective.

John was especially giddy walking down the streets today. Grinning ear to ear like he had a secret. He could tell Sherlock was getting annoyed casting questioning glances his way every so often as they walked.

"You've got questions, what?"

John didn't hesitate, "Did you take care of that problem you told me about?"

Sherlock didn't answer, staring straight ahead he sighed. But John was persistent,

"What did you end up doing?"

He was blunt, "I took her back to her room."

"Did you wake her?"

Sherlock was becoming thoroughly annoyed at a rapid pace.

"No I just carried her and put on the bed and left."

John kept grinning, he was done.

"Why is this making you happy?"

He chuckled, "Sherlock Holmes, gentlemen. It suits you."

The detective rolled his eyes and walked ahead.

There were tears in her eyes. Dear God, she was crying! This had to be a trick, how had she missed this? From the looks of the news headlines it had probably been from three years ago. That was when she'd still been in hospital, they tried to keep media out of their lives, thinking it would excite them too much. She re-read the headline.

Suicide of Fake Genius!

Shuddering she clicked back to the results page. The next link was an amateur video clip, Sam clicked on it. She saw a shaky shot of St. Bart's hospital and a shadowy figure on top of the building. She couldn't hear anything over the wind in the camera's mic. After a few minutes the figure threw something on the ground and spread his arms...and jumped.

Even though she didn't see the figure hit the ground, Sam winced when she knew the figure had made impact. People had begun crowding the scene when the video ended. She kept scrolling through the page results, a lump in her throat, all of these photos were paparazzi shots of Sherlock some with Dr. Watson, a lot of them involved a hat. Extraordinary cases and gruesome murders, Dr. Watson's blog, which Sam began devouring as fast as her eyes could move across the page. When she'd finished that she moved on to the next link, another article.

Resurrection of Sherlock Holmes! How He Did It.

She devoured that too. Reading it like some anticipated best seller, and when she had finished, she hit print.

Sherlock looked up to the sound of a small packet of paper being dropped on the kitchen table. He read the headline.

"I see you've done your research."

He looked up at her, her arms were crossed, her eyes were puffy, she'd been crying. She leaned forward and tapped the cover page and raised her eyebrows expectantly.

He leaned back in his chair and ran his hands through his mop of black curls.

"It was something I had to do, it was something that was essential to everyone's well being that I did it."

She scribbled on a piece of scrap paper on the table.

Explain, now.

"You've clearly read everything, what's left to explain? Where were you during all of it? From what I understand it was front page news."

She gave an exasperated sigh, but didn't answer.

"You don't pay attention to media?"

She shook her head.

"Then what?"

She shook her head again and then turned to leave.

Almost as if he were in the room himself Sherlock could hear John's voice in his head.

Not good? "Bit not good, yeah."

He got up and went after her.

Opening the door to her room he saw her sitting at her desk, but her laptop was closed and her head was in her hands. He hung in the doorway for a moment, not knowing what to say, until she sighed and turned to face him.

"I'm uh...I'm sorry."

She looked confused. He continued.

"I shouldn't have tried to pry."

He turned to leave but she stood to stop him and grabbed a notebook.

Don't be sorry. I think we need to get to know one another better is all.

Just as he was about to answer the phone rang. He ran to the kitchen to grab it.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock, it's Lestrade we got an odd one for you to look at. Can you come?"

"Of course, I'll be there in fifteen."

He hung up grabbed his coat and scarf, putting them on as he walked back to his flat mate's room and stood in the doorway. She was looking out the window.

"Samantha?"

She turned.

"Grab your coat."