The teakettle whistled shrilly as John watched Mrs Hudson putter around, opening and closing cupboards, pulling out cups and milk. It was warm in the flat, a welcome change from the chilly outdoors, and he removed his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. Alberta-Jane held the salt shaker in her hand, examining the object with great interest. Her eyes held an intensity one rarely saw, and John watched attentively as the girl counted the holes in the tiny ceramic object. She was a rather cute child, he thought to himself, taking in the freckles that dotted her nose and cheeks.

"You take milk in your tea, don't you, John?" Mrs Hudson inquired, poking her head out of the door that lead to the kitchen.

"Ah, um, yes," John responded, startled by the woman's sudden appearance. Alberta-Jane looked up as well, her eyes sparkling. "Thank you."

"Aunt Martha!" the girl pushed the shakers to the side forcefully and slid off her chair, dashing towards the woman. "Can I make him the tea? Please? I would be super duper careful!"

"No," Mrs Hudson sighed, brushing the child's bangs out of her eyes and giving a tired smile. "I don't want a repeat of last time."

"Last time?" John asked, watching Alberta-Jane dart around her aunt and tug at her dress incessantly. She was desperate to make the tea, it seemed, and he had a feeling she wasn't going to give up any time soon.

"A few months ago I was visiting her mother and put a kettle on to make some tea. I left it on the stove to chat while it boiled and the next thing we knew, Alberta-Jane was crying," she shook her head at the memory. "She spilled the water all over her arm."

"I have a cool scar now!" Alberta-Jane called out, letting go of Mrs Hudson's leg and running back to John, rolling up her left sleeve as she did so. With immense pride, she thrust out her arm and displayed a large patch of pink skin, making John wince instinctively. It spanned from her wrist to the crook of her elbow, bright and smooth. "My mum says all scars tell a story!"

John was about to respond when he felt a gentle buzz at his thigh, accompanied by the familiar sound of an arriving text. He didn't have to pull it out to know who it was- he didn't have much of a social life. With a quiet sigh, he pulled out his mobile and opened the message. It was exactly who he expected.

Come to the flat. New case.

SH

"I'm sorry to cut this short, but duty calls," he said, pushing back his chair and standing up. To be quite honest, he had been craving a case for the past couple days.

"You're… leaving?" the little girl asked, looking up at him sadly. "But… you didn't even have tea…"

"I'm afraid so," he told her. Without warning, Alberta-Jane's face began to turn red as her expression fell.

Oh, no, John thought to himself, watching in silent horror as tears began to well up in the child's brown eyes. She was absolutely distraught at this turn of events.

"How about this?" he blurted out, desperate to alter the course of this trainwreck about to happen. "I'll come over for tea another day, alright? And… I'll, um, bring biscuits!"

"Tomorrow?" Alberta-Jane sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "Will you promise to visit tomorrow?"

"I promise," John nodded, relieved. "Tomorrow."

"Okay," the girl brightened up exponentially, her face returning to its normal joyful expression. "Maybe Aunt Martha will let me make you tea, then!"

"I'm looking forward to it," he responded before turning to Mrs Hudson. "I'm so sorry I have to run, but you know how Sherlock is."

"Of course, dear," Mrs Hudson said, smiling at him as he turned to exit the flat. "We'll see you tomorrow."

He gave a quick nod and left, closing the door firmly but quietly behind him. The idea of having a child at Baker Street, no matter how brief the period, made him feel rather uneasy. John wasn't actually sure how Sherlock reacted to children in general, let alone one as over-the-top and enthusiastic as Alberta-Jane, and he could feel the vague sensation of dread building in his stomach at the idea of breaking the news to his flatmate. As he plodded up the stairs, his shoes clunking heavily against the wood, he found himself wondering about the case. He didn't like to say he was "addicted" to it all, but he couldn't exactly say his fixation and desire for such things was truly normal. Pulling his keys from his pocket, he moved to unlock the door, but it swung open before he could make contact.

"What took you so long?" Sherlock asked, standing in the doorway with his usual apathetic expression. With a sigh and a quick roll of his eyes, John pushed past him and removed his coat before heading over to his armchair and settling into it.

"It doesn't matter right now," he told his friend, watching as the lanky, pale man began to pace around the room. "Tell me the details."

"A woman came in, talking about an armchair," Sherlock informed him, his voice low and hurried, as it always was when he was considering such things. His grey eyes flashed in the light, an eager hunger shining in them as he spoke. "Normally, I wouldn't take such a dull case, but she said something that intrigued me."

"What?"

"She believes the chair is haunted," Sherlock said, spinning around with a flourish, his expression full of a strange type of glee. "She claims it moves at night and makes sounds."

"You'd know better than anyone that this woman is mad," John pointed out, peering at his friend in suspicion. "You can't be serious."

"As improbable as it is, I couldn't help but think of a newspaper headline from a few years ago," Sherlock told him, plucking his mobile phone from where it sat on the table and scrolling downwards until he found his target. He tossed it in John's direction without a second, and the second man fumbled to catch it in the air, almost dropping it on the floor as he attempted to grasp it firmly. "'Family Finds Intruder Living in House'."

"I remember this," John commented, skimming the article briefly before looking back up at Sherlock. "A man was living in the crawl space of their attic, right?"

"Correct."

"Are you implying someone is living in her house, right under her nose, and comes out every night simply to move this chair and distress this woman?"

"No," Sherlock shook his head, smiling in an almost mischievous manner. "I'm implying someone might be living in that chair."

Alberta-Jane liked the man. The nice one with the dusty brown hair who gave her real smiles, instead of those stupid fake ones people like Albert gave her. She bet he would call her by her good name, not the stupid one that all the other kids made fun of. She decided to tell him her name was AJ when she saw him next.

"Aunt Martha," she trotted into the kitchen, where the woman was chopping up vegetables for dinner. AJ had a feeling it was a casserole. Aunt Martha seemed to love casserole. "I forgot the man's name."

"John," her aunt replied, not looking away from her cutting board. "His name is John Watson. He lives upstairs with his…"

She paused for a moment, considering what words to choose, before looking down at AJ and smiling.

"His 'special friend'," she told the child. "They live together in 221B. Very nice gentlemen."

"Who's his special friend?" AJ inquired, standing on her tiptoes to get a better view of what her aunt was doing. The methodical cutting of the knife was soothing.

Chop, chop, chop, chop, it went up and down, over and over, making a little song of its own. AJ had noticed that everything had a song, but when she spoke to people about it they always laughed. She supposed they couldn't hear the songs, and she felt bad for them.

Chop, chop, chop, chop, went the knife.

"Sherlock Holmes," went her aunt, her words syncing up with the beat of the cutting board.

"Sherlock?" AJ asked, looking away from the shining tool and back up at her aunt. "That's a funny name."

"I suppose so."

"But I won't say that to him," AJ stated, reaching for one of the carrot rounds that had already felt the sharp edge of the knife. Aunt Martha didn't stop her, and she popped one into her mouth happily. "People make fun of my name an' I don't like it, so I bet he wouldn't like it either."

"That's very thoughtful of you dear," Aunt Martha commented. "Turn on the radio, will you? There's going to be a segment about gender roles in British society."

AJ didn't know what that meant, but she did as her aunt said, heading over to the radio and flicking the switch. She sat there for a moment, enjoying the slight crackle and the smooth sound of the newscaster's voice. She wondered how people got that kind of soothing voice. One of her theories is that they drank maple syrup before they went to work, but she had tried that before and it only gave her a tummy ache.

It had been a long day, what with her running away from that stupid Arnold, but she wasn't tired quite yet. Glancing up, she could see that Aunt Martha was occupied with her cooking.

I won't bother her, AJ resolved, standing up and heading towards the door to the flat. I want to go meet John's 'special friend'. We'll have lots of fun.

Of course, you always needed to bring a present when you went to somebody else's house. One of her rocks would do just fine, she decided, heading over to her bag and beginning to fish around inside.

"This one is good," she said to herself, clutching a round stone in her tiny fist. John would love it! And the Sherlock guy, too!

Smiling to herself, she exited the flat and closed the door behind her.