BBC Sherlock: A Good Neighbor

In a very short period of time, 221 Baker Street would become both famous and infamous as would the name Sherlock Holmes. But, at this time, he was just an intelligent man who helped the police on occasion and was looking for someone to split the rent with. Olivia was not that someone. Olivia wasn’t going to become that someone. In fact, the name of Mr. Holmes was not to cross her keyboard until weeks later and her lips in months.

Right now she was far too focused on carrying a particularly heavy box into the apartment that she could now call her own. Flat. She mentally corrects herself as if her entire dialect might change at that single thought. Everything was happening at such a speed, it sent her mind reeling. She full intended to adapt to her new environment in a week’s time. After all, the decision to move to London had been contemplate, questioned, and finalized within a few hours. Adaption was her specialty.


Olivia sets the box at her feet, swinging the door that allowed her access to a hallway that lead to her apartment and a stairway that lead to her neighbor’s. She lets out a small huff, sitting on the box and pulling out her phone for just long enough to take a picture and give it an exciting caption of "Looks a little rundown but there is potential". Crossing her legs as she types away on her phone, she lifts her gaze to the ajar door and down the hall. This was her home. In a city she doesn't know. In a country she’s never visited previously. Perhaps her spontaneity was a little too spontaneous, even for her.


She quickly got back to her feet as the realization of it all began to sink in. She picks up the box and steps inside her new apartment. It needed paint and carpet and curtains and furniture and much more. But, for now, a box in the center of the floor would have to satiate. It was one of many to come, which were left out in the street because her taxi driver was far too impatient to wait long off for her to lug them all inside. Today was already looking to be one of those days...

Sherlock Holmes was bored. He was always bored. He tended to work for hours on end until he got exactly what he wanted; the solution. Solution to what, that is? Murder. He was a consulting detective for a police department that was typically incapable of solving complicated homicides. Complicated as in any occurrence than someone leaving a note, or the murderer being found at the crime scene with the body there as well. Unfortunately, the city of London had been relatively nice lately as no one had been murdering each other. Leaving Sherlock with nothing to do except lay on his couch or pester Lestrade for information on any case that they hadn't been able to solve. He was so bored he had even been asking about break-ins or burglaries--these cases were so simple and menial that it became evident that Sherlock was in desperate need of a case. Before he snapped and did something regrettable.


Thankfully he had something of decent importance for that Tuesday morning in which would be of some occupation of his mind. Unpacking his semi-new flat, or at least the rooms that were his to be furnished, which meant nearly all of them. He had a very specific way in which he needed everything to be set up or else he was in complete chaos. Or at least he felt as if everything was in chaos. He set about to setting up his own room, which no one was allowed in. Ever. Once he had completed the task, he stepped out of his room, the dusty floorboard creaking slightly under his foot, his hand closed around the brass knob as he pulled the door tight behind him. His eyes floating about the rest of the flat. There were still a few boxes that needed unpacking, one in the kitchen and two in the sitting area. Starting on the kitchen as he put away the plates with as much diligence that he could muster for the task before he occupied himself with wiping down the counters. Sherlock opened the door to the ice box, looking over the frozen contents before deciding that was one thing he didn't need to tidy up. His experiments need a cool area to set before--anyways... He made his was back into the living room, not noticing his door was ajar or the stranger that was moving into the other unoccupied flat.


Sherlock had spent a good part of the hour organizing his bookcase that needed to be in the correct order which allowed him to breath slightly easier. They weren't alphabetical as most were, his were organized from when he read them the first time, with a shelf for books he liked to refer to often. Once those few tasks were done, he got rid of the boxes, going down the stairs as he dumped them in the trash bin out in the back where the alley way was before returning to his open apartment. His hands folded across his chest as he inspected everything. That was it, he had even unpacked everything. What else could he do while waiting to get a call from Lestrade? His finger twitched. A nicotine patch would do the trick, he shook his head as he frowned. His deep British accent ringing through the halls as he moved down the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson? Have you heard about anyone interested in sharing the flat with me?" He asked, much louder than necessary, Mrs Hudson always seemed to be listening in on whatever he seemed to be doing.


Pushing his way into her flat as he began arguing on who he should allow to be his flatmate. She was nearly insisting on a woman, he was firm about it being someone with intelligence, but either way she had no new leads for him to pursue. Perhaps he should get his address book for someone who might known of a person who needed a place. Pulling out his mobile as he walked up the stairs slowly, his eyes occupied with the small screen.

As the bottom of the box hit the ground which caused a small flurry of dust to curl up around the cardboard, a man's voice rung out throughout the buildings. It was a deep, bassy voice thick with an accent that was clearly English. It was the kind of voice that could do terrible, terrible things to a girl if the right words were spoken. The thought of her voice, of her accent being the out of place was odd to her. She spins once around the apartment, flat - damn it - before heading back out to pass the stairs which the man was ascending, stomping actually. She raises her gaze to him at the sound with half a mind to tell him to tread lighter than an elephant, if he would be so kind.


She was quite taken aback by the mop of messy ebony curls and pale complexion which came together in an all too attractive combination for her to maintain her composure. There was something strangely familiar about him but she couldn't place the familiarity nor did she notice it at first. How could a man that looked like that have any trouble with finding a roommate. After shutting her mouth with she realized had been hanging open slightly, she leans against the wall, not so gracefully, staring at the now unoccupied stairs. Of course, the combination of events wouldn't be recognized by her ego as attraction so her mind settled on the idea that she was just trying to place the familiarity in his features.


She inhales deeply, the sound of her breath breaking to obnoxious silence as she decides she'll figure it out later. She walks out the door to collect another box. She could only pack her clothing, trinkets, ad other miscellaneous things. Furniture would have costed more to be shipped here than it would have cost to buy so she figured she would just purchase all new things. The only issue with that was getting them to Baker Street, let alone into the apartment. Maybe that could be her excuse to call upon her neighbor. Then, she could get a better look at his face... for, uh, science. But, all that persuasion would come another time and until then, she would sleep on a bed of blankets.


The process of carrying boxes in was tedious but it didn't take too long. Within the hour, she had a moderately sized cardboard tower in the center of what was to become her living room. She shut the door leading out to the street and decides to once again examine her new home. It was in dire need of some TLC, new wallpaper, new paint, new curtains, new everything but it was decent enough to survive in for a few days. Because of the state of it, she got to rent the place for dirt cheap despite its incredible location. The shouting and stomping of the tenant in 221B was obnoxious but bearable - she hoped that would improve. The actual structure of the place was in fine condition, just the aesthetics were unappealing. She lets out a sigh, dropping to the floor beside her cardboard castle. There was much more to accomplish today but she was already so drained from the combination of carrying and traveling.

Sherlock didn't notice the girl with her unhinged jaw staring at him. He didn't even notice that there was a new tenant in the unoccupied flat below his own. Despite the fact that Mrs. Hudson had reminded him to stop his shouting because it would disturb the new girl. His thumbs clicked furiously at the screen as he walked back into his flat, dropping onto the couch as he groaned to himself. This was going to be tiresome.


Within a few days he had spoken to three people. All of which he rejected because they were all too painfully boring. So, upon meeting John Watson, he offered to show him the apartment. Meaning around four in the afternoon there was the sound of two pairs of footsteps and a cane above Olivia's apartment. Though John Watson certainly walked lighter than Sherlock, his 'limp' made him more noticeable. Sherlock found himself growing nervous, he rather liked John so far, he wasn't boring and he offered some insight to potentially working along side Sherlock. He was fiddling with items he never had thought he would need to, he rather wanted Watson to rent with him. When John finally agreed, he felt himself feel almost lighter because of it. Sherlock Holmes was about to open his mouth when his phone buzzed in his pocket, his hand flying to his pocket as he read over the text message from Lestrade.


Sherlock was pounding down the stairs within the minute, shouting at John to come with him. This was a frequent occurrence within the building of 221 Baker Street. Part of the reason no one was living in the flat below his own--because he was such a pain to deal with. Sherlock finally had his case he had been dying for. Now he would have all of his problems solved, he had a flat-mate and now he had a case. Even better was it was a real interesting one because of who had died.


John Watson and Sherlock Holmes returned to the apartment around three in the morning after a ruthless night of fighting crime, and when they came pounding back up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat to shout at them to be quiet. All and all, if Sherlock was awake, the rest of the building was as well.

The floor between the flats - Aha! - was incredibly, obnoxiously thin as it seemed. Although not thin enough to make voices more than a murmur of noise, footsteps seemed to be ever present. For some odd reason, she found the noises soothing as she began to unpack her things. Some words may their way through the filter of the floor, leaving her pondering the connection between 'suicides' and 'Christmas,' but soon after that building fell silent. After all the excitement of the day, the silence was rather unwelcome. Silence left her with nothing but her thoughts and her thoughts prompted her to pull out her laptop and blog yet again.


She didn't quite like the term 'blogging.' It felt too causal and too trivial. She wanted to be writing hard-hitting news. There was nothing significant to be found in today's events. Her past pieces were things she was interested in, things that people wanted to read. Now, she was reduced to writing about her feelings and noisy tenants. It was pathetic. She rises to her feet, using the boxes as support. Having grown bored of unpacking boxes, she decides to go pick up some paint. There was still a decent amount of sunlight left in the day and painting meant she wouldn't have to do it later.




By the time noisy man number one and noisy man number two had returned, Olivia had painted three and a half walls of her living room. She is asleep and slumped over a box, paintbrush in hand and splattered in paint. The noise the the two made on their way wakes her with a start, nearly throwing her into a panic as she didn't quite recall where she was at first. She groggily gets to her feet and heads to the bathroom to clean up, idly listening to whatever chatter she can make out from the pair above her. After splashing some water on her face to wake herself up a bit more, she realizes the time. She should be asleep. Those bumbling idiots had woken her at a perfectly reasonable time to be asleep. But, for some reason, she couldn't do anything but laugh. She was looking for some excitement, after all, right? Something out of the routine? That was exactly what she had gotten.

John seemed to settle in well with Sherlock. They spent much of their days working together or having tea together, and Sherlock added him to his list of friends. All four of them. John moved in and after a few days of living with Sherlock, he had debunked that John did not in fact have a limp, John debunked his roommate had violent mood swings. Which he slowly learned to handle by asking Sherlock questions without answers which gave Sherlock something to do when Lestrade was either ignoring Sherlock, or didn't have any really stumping cases. To help with rent and such, John got a job, in order to pay bills. Since Sherlock's work wasn't constant, they did in fact need a constant way to pay for rent and food. Whenever Sherlock did get paid in large sums, he always gave it over to John to handle, which is why John was so easy going about rent and money.


When John realized that he could start a blog based on their cases--as long as it didn't reveal too much police information--he did just that. Beginning to update his blog with Sherlock Shenanigans whenever something of interest came up, and before long Sherlock was famously infamous. Unknown to him until Lestrade mentioned something about it, and Sherlock was paying partial attention to the conversation. Not that Sherlock cared or minded, he really didn't have an opinion on the matter, just as long as John continued helping him with the cases and Lestrade kept giving him the cases.


On March 28th, the building across the street blew up, and knocked the windows out of 221 Baker Street, Sherlock had been in the apartment. His only injury was a knot on the top of his head from smashing his head into the corner of the small coffee table. The windows were replaced within two days after the bomb, and Sherlock was quickly occupied by a case. Sherlock was particularly intolerable during that case in which he only had a few hours to solve the case. Running around the flat researching, running down the stairs, running up the stairs, playing the Violin during 4 AM to think easier. Truly, he had gotten on everyone's last nerve, but he did save the lives of many people, all of which allowed for him to be the insufferable twat he always was. A few days after the bomb incident, there was another one involving John around mid-night with a certain pain-in-the-arse James Moriarty. The next morning around 6 AM, Sherlock and John trudged into their flat, and got some much needed sleep.


Just after Christmas time, an attractive woman (Irene Adler) begins showing up at Sherlock's flat for a few days before disappearing again. When Mrs. Hudson questioned him about the woman, he told her she was one of the few woman that caught his attention, but she was unable to hold it for very long. Unknown to Sherlock why Mrs. Hudson was asking, was in fact for the occupant of 221 C Baker Street.


In fact, a few weeks prior, John had mentioned the woman living there. "Sherlock, do you know if Ms. Moore has been around lately?" He asked one afternoon with nothing in particular happening.


Sherlock stared incredulously at his flatmate. "Who?"


"Ms. Moore? The woman who lives below us?" John said growing confused. "You don't know her?"


"A woman lives in 221 C?" Sherlock asked, growing surprised.


"How could you not notice, you notice everything!" John said throwing up his hands. "She's been here since I've been here."


Sherlock stared at his friend for a few minutes. "I thought that woman was Mrs. Hudson's daughter."


"Mrs. Hudson doesn't have children, Sherlock." And that was where their conversation ended, as Mrs. Hudson made an appearance asking for Sherlock's help with some menial task.


Currently, Sherlock was pressing the buzzer to the flat building. He had forgotten his key, and Mrs. Hudson was out. He prayed that the woman John had mentioned was there because John was still asleep, and unlikely John would wake up. Sherlock was in desperate need of a shower, he was drenched in blood--pig's blood, and holding a harpoon. His hairs fell loosely in his face, which had a few smears of blood, and when he saw a shape appear in front of the glass, his lips twisted into a smile. Probably his most charming smile to be honest. Mainly because he didn't want her to slam the door before he could jam either his foot or his harpoon into the door so he could get inside.

Explosions, gunshots, boredom, shouting, finding out her neighbor was the Sherlock Holmes. If she was looking for spontaneity, she most certainly got it. The events nearer to her first day at Baker Street had been dull at best and mainly consisted of her sprucing up 221C to the best of her ability and of her limited budget. If she had the chance, she would've informed her past self that shouting, late nights, and the occasional drugs bust was nothing compared to the events of the future. Having been so obsessed with getting 221C up to snuff, she didn't spend much time outside of Baker Street which caused her to indirectly experience many of Sherlock's quirks. (Cute Violin Blog Post)


It took her far too long to realize that she was housing with the Sherlock Holmes and that thoroughly upset her. To her, there were two incredibly important points to make; why didn't she notice him and, more importantly, why didn't he notice her. Yes, of course she noticed him, his presence, his shouting, his... features. But, she hadn't noticed who he was. He was quite nearly the reason she moved to London. The most questionable portion of her lack of recognition is that she accepted the explosions, gunshots, boredom, shouting, and occasional drugs bust. There were a little alarming a first but she soon shrugged them off much sooner than any sane person would.


Then, there was his lack of acknowledgment. She wasn't quite certain he even knew of her existence. The fact that she could have gone unnoticed by Sherlock Holmes made her shudder. Was she that insignificant that she could just be ignored? That she could just fade into the background? At first, she had thought that was impossible. She had to have some significance. But, as she began to question the idea more and more, it occurred to her that she just may indeed be that insignificant. After all, she had no friends, no family nearby. She rarely left 221C. She had spent Christmas alone with a bowl of popcorn and some cookies. It was beginning to seem not at all far-fetched.


She was just beginning to scan over some of her old blog posts as the buzzer to her flat began to buzz incessantly. When Baker Street grew quiet, she often turned to her blog posts. That was something about Sherlock that just had gotten her... addicted. Not that she would ever admit it to herself. With a mug of tea in hand - she had been trying ever so hard to assimilate - , she gets up and exits her now furnished, painted, and completed flat to answer the door. She swings the door open, not bothering to look through the peep hole. She assumed it was a mailman or someone nonthreatening due to the fact that no one ever visited her.


If she had taken a sip of her tea, she would have choked. She nearly dropped the mug because not only was it him, he was in such a state. "Oh my god." Despite having been in London for a small bit over a year, her accent was still unwavering and incredibly out of place. Had it been in any other situation she would have felt a small bit self-conscious because of it but she was far too focused on trying to keep her composure. She knew Sherlock was an odd, perhaps less than entirely sane person, but not insane enough to do this. But, what was this exactly? She couldn't force out any other words as she tried to conjure a logical explanation.

Sherlock was still bitter that no cabby would stop for him. They stopped for him when he just had the harpoon. But suddenly when covered in blood no one would take him. He had to take the most disgraceful forms of transportation. People smelled, and were rude. And overall, he was bitter. When the door knob twisted, he stepped back slightly, and smiled more. Taking in the woman as he watched her reaction. His mind quickly flying into a state of analysis. American accent. Slightly messy appearance. Suggesting lack of employment. Drinking tea. Been here long enough to get semi-adjusted. Living in small run down apartment. Decently poor. Her lack of color in her face suggested she spent most of her time inside. No fur on her pants. No pets. Perhaps allergic or can't afford one. Looking at her clothing, it was probably the latter. Shaking his head to pull himself out of his thought process when her jaw unhinged at his current attire.


A smirk grew on his pink lips, and he stepped up, his hand catching the door as he moved the harpoon to fit through the door way. "Hello, Ms. Moore. Nice to see you as well." He stated, thankful he was able to remember her name, thanks to John. She had lived here long enough for it to be expected he know who was living close to him. A low deep chuckle left his lips as he watched her slight horror at his state before glancing at her for real this time. Really taking a moment to take her in. She was rather pretty, despite her messy attire from it being on the early side of the morning. "Excuse my appearance if you would so kindly do. I've been on a case...and it got a little mess." He said gesturing to his white shirt that was streaked with blood and his own face. The harpoon was almost worse, blood had ran down it in a sort of unnerving manner, but he hadn't noticed. Sherlock never cared for what he looked like. Actually, that was wrong. Sherlock very much enjoyed looking presentable, but he didn't care what others opinions were of him. He was confident in his looks and his skill set. His eyes he knew were very unique for they lacked any pigment at all. They were a misty grey colour, and he very much enjoyed people getting lost in them. As it gave him more time to look them over or analyze them. Looking them over was only for the select few, such as Ms. Moore who he believed deserved more than a few quick deductions.


"Do not be alarmed. Simply pig's blood." He said reaching out to extend his hand to her. "Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. I don't believe we've ever been properly introduced." Sherlock said, putting on a genuine smile for her.

She had found a brief moment to recollect herself as she stepped back for him to enter. Looking him and the harpoon up and down a couple of times, she was trying to make sure she was indeed actually seeing him standing in front of her. Covered in blood. Holding a harpoon. She nods slowly, swallowing thickly before she decides to open her mouth to say anything after his introduction. "You know the worst part about this is that I'm not concerned about the blood. It's the harpoon that concerns me. It seems highly unnecessary."


She lowers her gaze to his hand before lifting it back to misty eyes, crossing her arms over her chest and gripping her mug a litter tighter. "I'm going to have to take a rain check on that handshake until you get yourself cleaned up." A small smirk tugs at the corner of her lips as she added teasingly, "What? You can't deduce my name, Mr. Holmes?" If there was only one thing she was certain of about Sherlock, it was that he didn't know her name. The small hesitation before he said it, the flick of his eyes as he tried to recall it. Journalism had helped her recognize those that are lying and to help her make a strong bluff.


As soon as the words left her lips, she made the alarming realization that he was covered in pig's blood, more specifically that she was chatting with him casually while he was covered in pig's blood. Is that what one year at Baker Street, does to you? Make all this normal? She glances back toward her flat, chuckling softly as she massages her temples with her free hand. "This is insane. How have I stayed here this long? And why do I want to stay?" She turns to head back to 221C, figuring that was the extent of Sherlock's attention span - at least, it seemed so from all the conversations she had overheard.

He watched her curiously for a moment as his eyes narrowed at her before resting the harpoon against the wall and watching her. She was a little ball of attitude. Perhaps it was a good thing that they hadn't met before now. He had a tendency to put people in their place, despite the fact that he typically over stepped his own. Watching a smirk grow on her lips as she crossed her arms and he watched her before rolling his eyes at her. A thought he swallowed and would deny ever thinking was based on her previous home, and he figured it would be better not to anger his neighbor. For now at least. "Consider the rain check cancelled." He said as he retracted his hand.


His eyes watched her very closely at the comment of deductions. She was such a simple girl. She was borderline boring. "You know. The only person who seems to phrase it the same way as that, is my roommate. Who writes a blog. A rather famous blog. Seems your arrogance is misplaced, because, you, Ms. Moore. Are a Sherlock Holmes fan." He stated as he picked up his harpoon again and took to the stairs. Shame. She could've been intriguing if she hadn't let slip she knew more about him than strangers meeting for the first time. "Good-bye Olivia." He said as he climbed the stairs and opened the door to his flat. Shutting it before she could respond, he really hated it when people tried to get the last word in with him.


Sherlock then spent the better half of the morning showering and explaining why he had arrived covered in blood to John before having to re-explain why he was covered in blood to Mrs. Hudson who was wondering why there was blood on the wall and blood on his door knob and blood in odd places. It was draining trying to explain a simply obvious story to everyone around him.

John's blog. Of course, everyone knew John's blog. Her smirk only widens as he continues to talk. Most people would be offended by the way he spoke. Olivia wasn't most people. She hears the door slam and shouts after him anyway. "Shallow analysis. I'm disappointed, Sherlock." Another chuckle escapes her lips as she starts back toward her flat. Was it really that easy to make him angry? Of course, she didn't think she was clever suggesting for him to deduce her name. It was sorely overplayed and that was the point of saying it.


She slips back into 221C, scanning her old posts again before writing a new one. Sherlock Holmes was an intriguing man, yes, but she wasn't a 'Sherlock Holmes fan.' If his deduction was that she read John's blog, she was thoroughly disappointed. She didn't expect things to go off without a hitch. Actually, she expected things to go exactly as they occurred. She had hoped that they wouldn't, not that she could ever in a million years place why she thought Sherlock Holmes would suddenly change his entire personality upon meeting her.


She listens to the murmur of activity in 221B before deciding that she should probably begin looking for an actual job. Her blog had reached the point that she received a small amount of money from advertisers but it was hardly enough to live off of. Skimming through wanted ads proved to be as disappointing, if not worse, than Sherlock's voiced deductions. Most were for dull, repetitive and/or short-term jobs. None of which she needed. She was far better off blogging form the shadows of her flat than delving into something that might make her die of boredom.

Sherlock was too absorbed in talking with John to hear any sort of remark, and before long, he was bored, John was gone, and Mrs. Hudson was out of the building. Finding the stereo system John had purchased and turning it on as he turned it all the way up and began playing a rap song he thoroughly disliked much too loud. It caused the windows to rattle, and his cup of tea to shake as he sat, cross legged on the floor staring at a map he had hanging on his walls. Turning his head sideways to look at it more before glancing at the stereo as he frowned. This type of music was rather annoying, though since he had a strong dislike for it, he was able to block it out much easier. Allowing his focus to rise as he glared now at the map. John had given him a question, since he had been so bored before leaving him. And he wanted an answer to it now.


Sherlock continued the horrid music for a good two hours before anyone interrupted his thinking, what was worse, unknown to him. Was that the CD only had one song on it, meaning for the last two hours at least, the same loud shitty rap song had been playing. Not that rap was bad, but this one was. Point of advice for rappers is to never try and be philosophical. Shaking his head annoyed as he laid back, John had hidden Sherlock's gun. Sherlock had been searching for it the other day because he was bored and was trying to test a theory. Unfortunately for Sherlock, John had grown very good at hiding things from Sherlock. Except his nicotine patches, at the thought of them, Sherlock bounced up, taking large pounding steps in excitement as he headed to his hiding spot. Slapping on one patch before beginning to focus in on the map that was now hanging upside down. Nicotine, in Sherlock's opinion, helped him think better, as he had had some rather clever epiphanies while abusing the substance.

Two hours. Over two hours of that obnoxious music she had endured. After the first ten minutes, she was annoyed. After the first thirty, she had begun to block it out. After the first hour and a half, she was once again annoyed. At this point, she was done with it. She throws open the door to 221C and heads up the stairs to 221B, raising a hand to pound on the door. "Sherlock, turn off that atrocious music! For Christ's sake!" She doubts he could hear her over the blaring music but that wasn't going to discourage any time soon. Her throat feeling raw from shouting and her hand in pain from pounding seemed far better than the alternative of hearing that music any longer.


After a good ten minutes of her pounding on his door to no avail, she slumps against the wall outside of the door to 221B. As much as she hated the music and as much as she hated the constant shouting or police or gunshots or whatever, she still hadn't the inkling of a thought to leave. Sherlock Holmes, to the outsider, was a terrible man. He had no manners and a huge ego. However, that was definitely something attractive about him and not just in the sense of aesthetics. She would never in her lifetime admit to herself that she was indeed attracted to him in this manner because her own ego would never allow it. She rises to her feet, deciding to give up on the hope of him ridding Baker Street of the offending noise - it certainly wasn't music -, and retreats back toward 221C.


She takes each step slowly and heavily, feeling a little defeated after today's events. Things get so much easier when she just kept to herself in her little flat, typing away on her blog. Never in a million years would she have thought that she feel so desperate to impress a sociopath. But, every one of these thoughts that would cause her ego to take a blow were ebbed away by thoughts of some other perfectly logical explanation. Perhaps she was just tired. Perhaps she was lonely. Sherlock meant nothing to her, she knew nothing about him. All of these faux explanations were a followed by a pang of doubt that she couldn't quite place in her quiet little mind.

Sherlock started at the woman pounding against his door as he eventually, got up after ten minutes and shut it off. Heading to the door as he opened it and saw her taking a few steps down the stairs as he raised an eye brow at her. "You called?" He asked, wondering why she gave up so quickly to her quest to get him to shut off his rude music. He was wearing a simple pair of black dress pants, and a white and blue thin stripped shirt that made him look taller. Although he was rather thin, he was only six feet tall, so looking taller wasn't all the on the bad side for him. Or at least that's what Mrs. Hudson had told him about half a year ago when he told her he was going shopping and would need help with picking out what look bests. She just told him, and then the young woman in the store was who really helped him. So in all honesty he did look very attractive in his outfit choices.


Sherlock moved over when John came in, who was muttering something about a rude patient as he went to his room and slammed the door. Holmes chuckled at his friend before pulling his thoughts back to the woman who had slumped shoulders--almost in defeat. What was she defeated about? That he wouldn't turn off his music? Surely she wasn't so upset about that. At least he prayed, her presence below his apartment seemed to slip his mind when he was thinking. In fact, nearly everyone slipped his mind when he was focusing on something.

"I called? If that's what you want to call it." She perks up at bit at the sound of his voice, but she tried not to perk up too much. The last thing she needed was for him to think that she was more than just a Sherlock Holmes fan. And, she wasn't. She wasn't even a fan of him, just a tolerater. She turns around to look up at him from about mid-way down the steps as John brushes past. Starting out a cordial greeting, she's cut off by the slam of he door to 221B which leaves her and Sherlock alone in the now awkwardly silent passage between the flats and the outside world. She lets out a soft sigh, refocusing her attention on the slender and moderately tall man at the top of the stairs.


He already had a solid seven inches on her and her lower vantage point made his presence that much taller. She had to look up at him like a child would look up to an adult, his presence looming over her. "Please, for the love of all good things on this forsaken plant, never play that noise ever again. I can tolerate the violin. I can tolerate the incessant shouting. But, that..." She points to the door of 221B as if it were still emitting the wretched racket. "That is where I draw the line. Let alone, two hours of it." She shakes her head with a sigh. Just think about it, she could feel a throbbing headache returning.

Sherlock was pushed out of the door way by John and the door slammed. Sherlock turned and stared that the door for a few minutes as he furrowed his eye brows. Trying to remember if it was what he had done as he moved to open it. It was locked. John had locked him out of his own flat. Turning to look at the woman for a moment before turning back to the door and sighing annoyed as he moved to sit on the stares and rested his head against the wall as he listened to her comment about calling or something along those lines as he nodded softly.


He listened to her complaints about the music as he nodded in agreement. "I agree. That song is wretched, but that also makes it easy to block out." He said beginning to contemplate why. Perhaps that was part of the reason why Sherlock had to focus very carefully when people spoke to him, otherwise his thoughts would completely consume him. "I apologize, I forget that a person lives beneath me. It's been so long since someone has lived there before. Despite the fact that you've been here for a while." He murmured as his stormy eyes looked down into her own brown ones for a moment, not analyzing her, just looking at her. He didn't feel the need to figure out everything he needed to about her. He felt calm and sensible around her. It was an odd feeling. Perhaps it was the first time he felt a sense of normality around someone. Where he didn't feel so superior. He was certain he'd spend an hour or two thinking it through. It was somewhat similar to how he felt about Watson. "Wait...you listen to me playing the Violin at 3 AM?"

She watches Sherlock try the door to his flat to no avail. He was locked out and she was forced to keep talking to him. Well, not really. She could retreat back to her flat at any time, but she felt some tinge of obligation to not leave him alone - despite that being probably what he wanted. Now, at the realization that Sherlock Holmes had even thought to say that he apologizes, she had to find out if this was some strange facade in order to impress John or something to that effect or if she really was... special. The latter almost made her laugh so she could only imagine what Sherlock would say to her if she voiced her thoughts.


But, now was the time for bigger and better things, mainly the current conversation. She soon realizes that she perhaps shouldn't have mentioned anything about the violin. To lie or not to lie, that was the question. Really it wasn't much of a question. If she decides to lie, he would see right through her. She begins shaking her head before slowly transitioning to a nod with an awkward chuckle. "Um, yeah. Sometimes I just happen to be awake." Truth. Just not the whole truth. Half-truths are surely enough to satiate, right? Because there was no way she would ever boost his ego by telling him that some nights she stayed up just to hear him play.

He watched her fingers twitch at his question. She was hiding something from him. His lips turned upwards in a smirk at the comment about waking up and hearing it as his mind began to fly. When he heard the door knob turning, and he looked back at the door to see Watson standing there apologizing to Olivia as Sherlock pushed himself to stand. "I'll try to play more quieter as to let you sleep." He said to her as he went back inside his flat. Beginning to pester John about his foul mood.


"John was it really necessary that you kick me out of the flat with no explanation for a whole five minutes."


"I'm sorry Sherlock I had a bad day and needed a few minutes alone without you pestering me."


"Really? You could've been more polite." He stated as he went to shut the door. "Good bye Olivia." He asked smiling at her warmly before shutting the door and going back to pestering John.

"Hi, John." She gives him a small wave and a polite smile. She and John had chatted a few times in the past, mostly complaining about Sherlock's more annoying tendencies. "Don't worry about it. We all have some bad days." She turns her attention back to Sherlock. "And, if you playing the violin as loudly as possible at ungodly hours is the alternative to ever hearing that atrocious rap again, I'd much rather take that." Turning and starting down the stairs at he sight of the pair retreating back into 221B, she's stopped by Sherlock's voice yet again. She doesn't turn around in an effort to mask the mild heat that had appeared in her cheeks that she had no reasoning for. "Goodbye, Sherlock."


She hears the door shut and returns back to 221C. Having not gotten a proper analysis of her entire life yet, she was mildly disappointed. But, with the progression of just normal conversation, she hadn't nearly forgotten who he was. Perhaps he wasn't nearly as bad as everyone made him out to be. In fact, she was almost comfortable with using the word kind to describe him in their recent exchange and that was just plain strange. She returns to her job hunt, hoping that something new has come up.

Sherlock watched the woman before smirking slightly at the color tinting her cheeks as she shut the door. Perhaps Sherlock wasn't quite as bad as everyone made him out to be. But then again, Sherlock was, well, Sherlock.


"SHERLOCK." Shouting began around two in the morning from John as Sherlock looked up at his friend. "Sherlock you aren't allowed to test the explosiveness of ANY chemical in the flat!"


"Now John, come on. Nothing will explode, it'd just an experiment." Sherlock said, attempting to reason with him.


"SHERLOCK IT'S A DAMN EXPERIMENT. YOU'RE TESTING TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS. NO EXPLOSIONS AT TWO IN THE MORNING." John roared and when Sherlock began to protest, John grew violent. Except a violent John wasn't really violent. "Take your DAMNED experiments to the field Sherlock!" John shouted, as Sherlock was twice in one day, kicked out from his own flat. Sherlock pouted as he began banging on the door, surely waking all tenants on Baker Street. "JOHN. YOU CAN'T KEEP KICKING ME OUT!"

Olivia was awake at the first 'sh' of Sherlock. She gets up, meandering around her apartment as the argument continued. She slips out into the hall, wearing an over-sized men's shirt as her pajamas that covered just above her mid-thigh and her hair clearly signifying that she just had woken. It was just beyond the brink of the on-purpose kind of messy look but not too far that it was horrifying. She hadn't really considered her appearance as she was more focused on the shouting at two in the morning. "I swear, the two of you will be the death of me." Sherlock seemed all too focused on pounding on the door so slides off her slipper and throws it at his back.


"Hey. Hey. Hello? Remember me, the person who lives beneath you? Do you just not sleep ever? I mean, why are you up at two in the morning any way?" She crosses her arms over her chest, shaking her head disapprovingly. It only lasted a minute or two before she nearly doubled over in laughter. The was really the only thing you could do in situations like this. It was just absolutely ridiculous. She was standing outside her flat in her pajamas, missing a slipper, at two in the morning because John and Sherlock were arguing because she decided it was a lovely time to experiment with mild explosives.

Sherlock refused to give up so easily as he pounded on the door. But John also was very stubborn with Sherlock was trying to make explosions. "Dammit John." He said gritting his teeth while he bent down to pick up the slipper and tossed it back down the stairs. He walked with purpose down the stair case and moved to Olivia. Putting her slipper onto her foot quickly before taking her hand and leading her back outside. He was fuming. "I don't sleep when there's work to be done." Sherlock stated matter o' factually. He lead her down the alley way, picked her up at one point to get her through a small area she wouldn't be able to get through on her own. And finally, they reached the back of the flat.


Sherlock began digging around and eventually pulled up a ladder from between the wall of the building and the shrubs. It was wooden, rotting, and was missing a rung, but it was tall enough that Sherlock could get in to his flat and through his own bedroom. He set it up, instructing Olivia to hold the ladder as he climbed up it. Jostling the window open before climbing back down. "Up you go." He said holding the ladder now for her as he gestured for her to climb. He didn't want her to climb up the ladder without someone holding it. She might fall and hurt herself and Sherlock was oddly concerned with the possibility of that occurring.

Spontaneity! Adventure! Being dragged through an alley way by Sherlock Holmes...? Olivia's thought process were nearly that and after her foot hit he pavement, she was suddenly very aware of her outfit. She wasn't so much as self-conscious but more realizing how cold her exposed legs were. Holding the ladder for him? Sure, that was all fine and dandy. But, then he came back down. That was where the issues began. "Up I go? Oh, no. No, no, no. You see, there's two major issues with that. The first being that I feel that the ladder is in no state to be trusted. The second being that I lack proper climbing attire. You know, like a harness and safety rope and maybe pants and eight thousand cushions covering the ground for when - not if - I fall."


Olivia wouldn't say that she's scared of heights. She just didn't take to kindly to them. Anything above a step ladder's height was enough to make her feel nauseous and dizzy. If she were properly secured and didn't look down and had someone's hand to hold, she could definitely make it a solid five feet off the ground. And, that was good enough for her. There was a reason gravity pulled you down and Olivia felt that no one should fight the laws of nature. Otherwise, Mother Nature might kick your ass.

Sherlock's eyes trailed down her frame now. Inspecting her outfit before shrugging. "You'll be fine. You have to go up. The ladder was able to hold my weight fine, and you're much lighter than me. I wont look at your panties if that's what you're embarrassed with. And no. You won't fall, and even if you did, I would catch you." He said with such confidence that it would be hard not to believe him.


To proof a point that she would be climbing the ladder, he put his hands around her waist. Leaning down close, almost like he was going to kiss her, but instead, he had tugged off his own shirt, leaving him bare, and wrapped it around her legs almost in a type of diaper before putting his hands on her waist.


"You don't get a choice in this Olivia." He stated before lifting her up and placing her feet higher than the missing rung as he stepped up, resting his hands on either side of her as he gestured for her to climb.


"It's certainly stable, you won't fall. I can't see your under garments. Climb." He said as he again gestured for her to climb. She wasn't going to get out of this.

Her eyes widen as he removes his shirt. Tonight was a strange, strange night. Not that she was arguing against the view. He was more muscular than she would have thought from his lanky appearance. She was going to protest his shirt diaper but she became far more concerned about being displaced from the ground - the wonderful, solid ground - and onto the ladder. It creaks under the weight which only causes her to panic more. "Sherlock, no. I... You don't understand. Let me down."


She tries to keep her voice calm, figuring phobias were not something Sherlock was sympathetic toward. Turning to face him, she looks for some form of escape route. The proximity between them didn't even register in her mind. Any other time she would have been as red as a tomato if she was this close to anyone, let alone Sherlock. She was able to contain herself since she wasn't too far off the ground but if he forced her to go too much higher, she wouldn't be able to stay rational for long.