Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

6 days ago…  - Before the events of A Study in Pink -

The cabbie was long gone. With her umbrella askew, hair wild, and eyes bright, she pulled her white trench coat tighter, smoothed her beige scarf, and reached for the doorknob of 221B.  

The heavy drizzle of London rain, damper in the air than she expected— her hair was already frizzing—and the street smelled of car exhaust and something that might’ve once been fish meshed with the scent of rain. Oh petrichor, and that intuitive sense all southerners are born with to smell or sense the looming rain that she was used to back home in America.

Still, she smiled, too exhausted to exclaim anything under her breath due to the jet lag and the fast cab driver who made her nervous. Because beyond all this, the cool drizzle of the rain was the warmest hug she’s felt in years…

The rain prompted the young woman to hurry through the main door of the building she will now call home for the foreseeable future. While this was her first time viewing the newly renovated, or “finely patched up” flat in person rather than through a virtual video chat, Ms. Lauren LeBlanc held no worry or fear in her bones beyond this. It felt like she was finally coming home to her proper home.  221B Baker Street unexpectedly became her top pick as, the landlady named Mrs. Hudson was the only person willing to work out an offer with her from across the pond on the only other available flat that wasn’t “derelict” beyond comprehension… Or so Lauren thought after hearing the contractors discovered some issues amidst renovations. And the older woman liked her old-fashioned Southern manners over the phone—enough to believe through the phone and email that Ms. Lauren LeBlanc was a genuine and trustworthy person. She knew her parents were smiling down from heaven.

After a few weeks of negotiating a deal on rent and getting permission to renovate—namely to remove the mold of this damp basement flat— Mrs. Hudson was appreciative but even more glad to take the “sweet young American lady” in overall.  Therefore, Mrs. Hudson oversaw the renovations in person and did the final walkthrough, and Lauren footed the hefty $20,000 bill for 10 months of work due to the permits, workers removal of mold, fresh paint, new carpet and flooring, some appliances, electrical wiring, updated bathroom, cleaning of fireplace, and a new boiler. All for one main sitting space, a kitchenette, and one bedroom with a small bathroom.  If it weren’t for the nice renovations to make these spaces appear larger, than she was otherwise the living nursery tale of ‘the old woman living in a shoe.’

If Lauren had anyone from her home state to tell her little, long tale to, she would have explained to them why Mrs. Hudson didn’t pay for the renovations. Mrs. Hudson doesn't have a primary responsibility for maintaining or upkeeping other flats in the building. Her role is specifically to manage the flat tenants occupy. So everything is out of pocket so long as Mrs. Hudson approved. And if Lauren decided not to move to London, then she would’ve still paid for these renovations without a refund, and basically just helped out the old lady she never met by giving her building more value. Thankfully that was not the case.

Lauren moved down the silent hall, her boots clicking upon the creaky wooden floorboards passed the staircase that led up to whoever her new neighbors were.  She had ruled out the first floor atop the stairs because it was so large for just herself despite it needing no renovations. Sure enough, somewhere in the final stages of renovation, Mrs. Hudson sent her a text saying that some people were interested in taking the upstairs flat. So perhaps a newlywedded couple native to London needed the space to live, she reasoned. After all, Lauren was just a transplant who may or not be living here in the next two or so years… There was no telling what life would bring.

With a little smile, she sighed in eagerness and relief as she shifted her suitcase to her other hand as she studied the old brass plate on the faded black door, the only thing that was kept the same: 2 2 1 C. Each faded character is individually placed beside the other since the building was developed. Tiny flecks of older paint clung to the corners of the numbers.

“You must be Ms. Lauren!” Out from the back came an older lady with short graying, dark blonde hair.

“Yes ma’am, I am!  You must be Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yes! The one and only landlady renting flats to people who can afford them in this ‘prime location,’” Mrs. Hudson laughed. Her height stood just a few inches beneath Lauren.

“It’s wonderful to finally see you!” Lauren said, returning the hug. It was like meeting a long-lost grandmother. “Thank you for letting me rent it,” she thanked the woman gratefully. “Well, part me, part my parents help in a way…” She froze as she breached this sore subject aloud, nearly making the inside as gloomy as the outside.

She laughed warmly, “It is no trouble, dear. Welcome to London! I just cannot believe you wanted to leave the States and come here. I know there are a bunch of wonderful businesses in America,” Mrs. Hudson asked curiously as she started unlocking the door for her, her red lips pursed solicitously. 

“That’s a bit of an interesting story…” She answered slowly. “Nothing really appealed to me. Or nothing in my best interest.”

“Oh, long story, it’s alright I understand! You can tell me later. Sure you are dying to see the new space!” Mrs. Hudson unlocked the Yale locks on the door before handing one of the keys to her that was not dangling on a big ring of other ‘dungeon keys.’

“Here is your key, and I have a spare one I always keep in case no one can get to you—“ Lauren smiled at the woman’s thoughtfulness, accepting the key from the old lady with the ends of her fingers, ready to see with her own eyes this ‘basement flat.’

“Oh my goodness, it’s even better than the photos!” Lauren explained with a bright smile, tears pricking her eyes. The old door swung open revealing the opposite of what the door shows. A far cry from the photos she saw in the listing.

The flat itself had been empty for some time — musty, underloved, and painted in a shade of yellow that looked like it had been poured straight from a can labeled Hospital Lighting. And the old wall of outdated wallpaper was all redone. Overall it had charm under all the dust.

With Mrs. Hudson giving Lauren clear rein to clean it up, the first thing Lauren did was hire a pair of local painters— cheerful twins who spoke in overlapping sentences over the virtual chat— and paid a crew to scrub out what the painter called “a regrettable amount of Victorian mold.” As much as Lauren wanted to keep as many original features as she could, the mold and mildew got to most of it. Now it was all new plaster, baseboards, to the crown-molding. The once-yellow walls were now a soft mossy green all throughout.  The white curtain blew back on the one large narrow window, that was floor to ceiling, when the air conditioning kicked on. The view in the one large window was a street view in the back of the building, so the once completely transparent glass was changed to one-way glass. The only other window was a small, true basement window that Lauren was familiar with that can be opened from the inside. This ‘view’ if she stood on her tiptoes was eyelevel with the street. The flat dipped down a tad further the more one goes back.

“It looks wonderful, Lauren! Light and airy. It just needed a little TLC to get rid of that mold on the walls and floors...”

A lot of TLC and a lot out of my savings…  Lauren thinks. U.S. currency to London euros… But it was the cheapest flat she could afford with what money she had from her short modeling career and from her late parents.  She definitely did not wish to live with a stranger! She’d rather have her own place and space. 

Lauren smiled on, “So this flat shouldn’t really exist? For people to use, I mean?”

“Well, yes and no.  You see, people do not normally rent out the ‘basements’ to live in, especially with the mold that’s known to frequently occur if not maintained. It gets damp. In my newlywed days, my first space was a damp basement that was hard to upkeep. But times were different. Now nothing is normal nowadays. Hopefully it won’t be an issue in the future. But now that you are here, I’d like to think this is the first level, the one up there is second floor, and the third is the third!”

Mrs. Hudson continued, “And… this leads to discussing the methods of payment.”

“Yes, would you prefer monthly or…” Lauren walked around the small space as she said this. Taking in the fresh room so much brighter now. The smell of new paint fills her lungs causing her to let out a pleased sigh. And the pristine furniture was practically screaming to be sat on.

“I think monthly would be the best.  And I’d like to give you a discount.”

She turned back to the woman with a gaping mouth.

“Oh—Thank you, but no I can’t accept. Truly that’s kind of you. I’m not in money trouble or anything—“

“No of course not, I know you aren’t, dear. I want to give you a discount because you put so much into cleaning up this place.  It’s more than I could have ever done.”

“I appreciate it Mrs. Hudson, and I thank you.  But it is fine, truly.  People move into new places all the time and pay more only having to pay even more to fix it up. I knew what I was signing up for. This was one of the best options I had and reasonably priced for an American living in London,” Lauren explained.  

“Maybe in America they do, but here not so much. The fact that you are a young woman, about to be working from home like a starving artist and renting out a basement alone—I insist.  I will ask for a thousand less off the original rent rate. I would want the same if I were you back in the younger days, when nothing was easy.”

Ugh the ‘starving artist’ phrase. It isn’t true in her case! But a thousand less on rent!?! That’s more than half of the original rate gone! Lauren’s thoughts overlapped the other.

“Yeah, I’m sure prices for things were much higher then,” Lauren swallowed, looking down in deep thought.  “You really insist that I accept the offer?”

“I do.  And you will come to learn no one can say no to me.  Just say yes, dear. I quite like you,” Mrs. Hudson said stepping closer to the woman with a playful wink, causing her to blink and let out an awkward LeBlanc laugh, hardly expecting her to be this daring of a woman.

“Alright, yes ma’am.  Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Lauren nodded her head favorably, gripping the woman’s hand considerately when she went to shake her hand. 

“Welcome to London!”

As she settled in most of the day with her remaining belongings—as all furniture and of the like was new and purchased from London and brought here, Lauren only had seven boxes to unbox which primarily held clothing.  The only physical piece of furniture that was sent from Louisiana to London was an old cedar chest, a family heirloom filled with personal belongings.

She long since removed her trench coat and clipped up her long, brown hair to not just clean the space up—like mopping & wiping the table of dust should anyone show up unannounced—but she changed into comfier clothes that were less dressy than when she arrived to go grocery shopping. She even got a peek at her new hair salon she would be getting established with this month called Gielly Green. Just up the street and around the corner, a minute away! Already she was assigned to a woman with more availability than other stylists, which is actually a little ‘brow raiser,’ but Lauren was relieved to get squeezed in and excited to figure out the lay of this hair salon in a couple days.

After finally getting home to stay, hours passed as she baked a bourbon pecan pie. Everything was silent and peaceful. The streets weren’t as loud as she thought they’d be from the sitting room. However, once she closed her eyes on the sofa, police sirens blared outside, piercing through the walls briefly before going completely silent. The red and blue lights flickered through the small window on the walls: light green with a gray undertone invoking sensations of a bayou breeze. 

Lauren attempted to nap after this, ignoring the sound of the main door to the building opening and closing with a resounding thud echoing through the hall, and a pair of footsteps came to a standstill in the front.  Then the feet raced up to her front door before Mrs. Hudson voice filled the hall gently:

“Oh, no! I’m afraid I forgot to mention to you. As of today the basement flat is occupied now, Sherlock.”

Sherlock? What kind of a name was that? Lauren thought of the unusual name as she dozed off, her eyes closed.  Also mentally noting that she would look up this name for safety purposes as to who is living here…

“Didn’t have to mention it Mrs. Hudson,” a British man’s deep voice quickly replied, “I could gather from all the work trucks and in-and-out painters, mold remediation specialists frequenting the building the past several months… Frequenting this very flat. What an interesting scent, right here. Practically standing out here with us! American? A woman in her mid to late twenties?”

Now Lauren’s eyes were wide open as she overheard this, and she turned on the couch, remaining still as she could listen to this man accurately assume as to who is living here. Interesting scent? She wasn’t even wearing perfume! Perhaps odor from the airport? No she bathed… Not lingering odor, right? It’s not like she stepped in dog shit.

“I don’t know her age exactly, never got around to asking that yet. But yes she’s American—” Mrs. Hudson’s frail voice trailed off as the footsteps raced back down the hall and to the stairs, feet bounding up like an excited child.  “You should meet her; she’s the sweetest little thing! I love her accent.”

“After I see what happens across the street! Or not at all…” The man’s voice boomed from above. “Keep quiet I’m trying to think!”

“Lauren? Are you decent?” Mrs. Hudson then spoke through the door, knocking gently. Completely ignoring what this crazy man just said.

“Yes ma’am!” Lauren got up with a faint sigh, straightened her clothes, and went to answer the door. She was a little restless from the busy day anyway, and what she just overheard intrigued her. “Who was that?” She found herself asking.

“That would be your new neighbor! At least I hope Sherlock can finally find a flat mate. Poor thing, he’s already moved in for some time but unable to produce a proper rent—and always going places. He lived elsewhere for who knows how long, popping in for a day or two here. His name’s Sherlock Holmes, you’ll be hearing a lot about him.” Mrs. Hudson placed her hand on Lauren’s shoulder, ready to lead her away. “That’s why I’d like to take you upstairs to introduce you to him! He seemed interested just then.”

Lauren nodded, her smile faltering, “I could hear that. How… could he have known a woman was in here? I did not see anyone outside earlier staring at me or… Are there cameras in here?” She gestured out into the hall and the ceiling.

“Oh no, not this old building. That’s just him, dear. He’s too smart for his own good. It’s what he does for a living. There’s no one else like him. Well, you’ll see!”

“You sure I wouldn’t be interrupting anything, Mrs. Hudson? He sounded pre-occupied. I don’t want to deter another potential client from moving in here.”

“Oh no, why could you possibly think this? In fact I think you would convince him to!”

Lauren blinked, her expression blank. “Well let me cut him some pie to bring up.” As she went to cut a piece of pie, she took out her phone to quickly search for his name: Sherlock Holmes. There were countless articles and news stories about him relating to crime and many more articles referring to him as a brilliant but eccentric consultant. Explains a little as to what she just overheard in the hall.

Once she cut a large slice and covered it with saran wrap on a plate, she closed the door behind her and followed a waiting Mrs. Hudson upstairs.

“I have a whole pie for you by the way, I’ll give it to you when we go back down,” Lauren told her as they climbed the steps. “If I’d known there were more people I would’ve baked more.”

“Oh thank you! You didn’t have to Ms. Lauren!”

“Please, you can just call me Lauren, Mrs. Hudson. It’s a family recipe I haven’t baked in years. Reminds me of home,” Mrs. Hudson smiled warmly to her as they ascended the steps. The first thing Lauren noticed was how dark it was up here like the entryway. The wallpaper was gorgeous—like some bamboo stalk, floral motif, leaf pattern. So far her flat felt like it would be the only bright thing in this building…

Behind Mrs. Hudson, Lauren stepped inside what’s considered the ‘first floor’ flat, glancing around at the cluttered space politely and curiously with a small, warm smile. She quickly assessed the room from where she stood with her good, artistic eyes: dark color palette, man-cave style, random skulls, yet welcoming despite tons of paper and books scattered everywhere… Then her gaze landed on his.

His sharp, bright, light blue eyes pierced hers. The tall British man with a head of curly, dark hair—which surprised her, considering most British men at his age start to lose it—and prominent features watched her—holding a violin to his chin like they just interrupted him about to play. He watched her like a hawk. She offered a kind smile full of warmth, before looking between Mrs. Hudson and him.

Unbeknownst to her, Sherlock was unraveling the woman without even being told her life story all in those short seconds.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over her: American. Southern states. Georgia, Alabama… Mississippi… Likely Louisiana by the bourbon pie— Undecided. Mid-to-late twenties, makeup applied just the right amount—not gaudy. Mature. Does not smoke. No pets. Residual posture of modeling— not recently practiced… still carried the echo of that poise— but was dressed in comfortable clothes, joggers and a grey t-shirt—went shopping for said pie ingredients…

“Hello,” Lauren said gently. Feeling that unmistakable Southern drawl of hers curling around the syllables just enough. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

Sherlock blinked once mid deduce. “You are.” He continued his silent musing:

Definitely Gulf Coast. Right-handed, right-hand callus— typing, handling delicate objects? No ring. Single. Thick hair brushed out in sections, looked into a mirror— lived-in. And that look— wistful brown eyes, hiding something. Pain? Or shame?

His expression didn’t change, but his tone softened just enough to be noticed. As the new woman was quietly conversing with Mrs. Hudson, who was clarifying to her his usual behavior.

“Why London?”

Lauren met Sherlock’s gaze directly— an unusual move most strangers didn’t risk so early. She said in a single breath, “Because everything I had in the States either hurt too much or belonged to someone else now.”

Sherlock plucked a single string of his violin, saying nothing else despite his expression appearing frustrated at something. Mrs. Hudson spoke up before he could voice these thoughts.

“Sherlock, this is our new neighbor who took on the basement!” Mrs. Hudson beamed like this was a great thing to boast about here.

“Yes, hi! Um… I’m Lauren LeBlanc,” she started. Lauren was more than aware that they hadn’t introduced themselves yet, and it looked like he knew this too. He just avoided proper introductions. She finished with, “I brought bourbon pecan pie. I bake when I’m nervous, and moving into a new place definitely counts.”

Mrs. Hudson took it with a little laugh and went to put it away for the man. “Told you she was sweet.”

“I see,” Sherlock said, finally lowering his violin. “Flour on your sleeve. Right-handed. Slight burn on the side of your right thumb— oven rack, I’d guess. The trench coat you arrived in nearly skirted the floor outside your door—leather riding boots, crowded airports, American pollen. Dressed fancy for a plane—Old fashioned values, viewing it as a special occasion... Now you wear joggers and a tee for high paced functioning. Practical. Your sneakers are American brand—worn-in, taken care of. So, you’re sentimental, but not careless. You bake when nervous. That tells me you're prone to internalizing stress rather than expressing it openly. Soft-spoken, accent not obnoxious. Louisiana, judging by the vowel shift, the bourbon pie, and your last name of French decent confirmed it. And based on the red marks just visible on your fingertips— gloves, cotton, white, likely archival. Librarian?”

Lauren blinked. Not startled. Just… impressed.

She tilted her head slightly. “Wow, that was… accurate.”

Sherlock looked vaguely pleased. “Naturally.”

“Until the end.”

Sherlock blinked now, mumbling, “Not librarian?”

“I read quite a bit, yes… Though I wore gloves to sort out my vinyl hours ago. For the most part I do paint, picking up a canvas or paintbrush every now and then. When I’m not typing...”

Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat, “Painter!” He exclaimed to himself as he looked up to the ceiling just once in exasperation.

When Lauren kept waiting for him to introduce himself, she finally inquired out of good manners seeing he was in another world or completely thrown off by her sheer presence, “Sherlock, yes? Mrs. Hudson was just telling me about you.”

“How quaint.” Sherlock only replied, not taking his eyes off her, even narrowing them between her and Mrs. Hudson. His brow even furrowed in deep thought, like something was still bugging him.

He wasn’t rude, Lauren thought. He was just dismissive, as if he were focusing on a bigger puzzle. Almost like an impatient kid…

Sherlock leaned against the mantle, fingers steepled, watching her as Mrs. Hudson bustled in the kitchen. “You’ve been here seven hours,” he said abruptly.

Lauren didn’t miss a beat. “Is that a question?”

“Observation,” he replied. “Your hair is still drying from your first errand. You bought a fresh bar of lavender soap from the shop on the corner. The packaging is distinct. You left the receipt in the bin outside. You’ve been relaxed for some time, so when I arrived earlier, figuring out you were here—you clearly got here in the morning. Late flight in America to a new dawn in London.”

She asked curious and slightly concerned, “You’ve been watching me?”

“That’s his way of saying ‘hello,’” Mrs. Hudson said with a cheery smile before proceeding to organize papers for Sherlock.

Sherlock tilted his head. “No, receipt in the bin. Outside. Everything else falls into place! You’re an art historian.”

“Yes..." She blinked in silent astonishment. "Remote, for now. I will be working at the Wallace Collection. Temporarily,” she explained, folding her hands. “Until I find something more permanent. My degree is in International Business and Classical Studies.”

Sherlock’s interest piqued ever so slightly. His lip twitched as if thinking of something that disgusted himself, “International Business? A degree designed to make mediocrity sound worldly. You’ve studied marketing buzzwords in three languages, attended lectures on 'global strategy' by people who’ve never left Surrey—”

“—New Orleans, darlin’,” Lauren interrupted with an amused smile.

“Worse.”

“I’d have to agree with you on that one.”

“Believe me, people from England intervened in your class lecture videos more than once…” Sherlock now flashed a brief, friendly smile towards her, “Still, not entirely useless. You’ve learned how to present vague ideas with confidence—essential for climbing corporate ladders without stepping on anything too dangerous. Just don’t mistake knowing exchange rates for understanding human behavior." Little did he know, some of that would go over her head now. Well goodness, perhaps he does know.

Lauren laughed a little, enjoying this unexpected advice. "Fair enough—some of it is corporate theatre dressed up in a global wardrobe. But I didn't study International Business to collect jargon. I did it to understand how decisions made in one boardroom can ripple across five countries in a week.” Wish she could’ve understood why her modeling agency did her that…

Her expression flickered to one of sadness, but it was gone instantly replaced with her usual, true, warm smile. Though Sherlock didn’t miss this as she continued.

She saw one of his notepads beside her on his kitchen table, “And while you’re decrypting old murder notes in Albanian, I could be decoding supply chain disruptions, government regulations, and consumer behavior across three time zones—without needing a corpse to justify my curiosity." Lauren paused then dryly added, "Also, I could get a company to legally bribe someone. Try doing that with a violin and cheekbones."

“Oh wonderful, she’s sassy, like you,” an unseen Mrs. Hudson commented under her breath from another spot in the room. Lauren blushed.

“You say you could. Why don’t you?” Sherlock asked, now standing with his back to the room, looking at the skull on his mantle.

“It interested me, still does I suppose,” Lauren forced sad memories to the back of her mind tied to this time in her life. “At that point in university I wanted to get out of there. I was already modeling and had a full contract— a career before the degree. After the fact, guess I knew I wouldn’t fully enjoy it.”

“Family pressured you?” Sherlock inquired further.

“No, not at all.” Lauren froze up then. She changed the subject to what she actually does. Like Sherlock needs to know every in and out about her life and work. “Just really self-aware at what I’m capable of doing, and my intuition never lies. Art historian, remember?”

Sherlock smirked once more, “A dissection of cultural delusions masked as enlightenment. You should be bored out of your mind.”

Lauren smiled softly. “Sometimes I am. But I’ve learned that even in the dullest painting, someone left behind something true. Every brushstroke no matter how careless or accidental it actually has a touch of that person’s soul. Paintings are like a mirror. Most people just don’t know how to fully see it.”

Mrs. Hudson raised a brow as she came back to the living room. Even Sherlock went momentarily quiet.

Lauren wanted to change the subject or leave the flat, soon. She had a sudden headache from this unexpected, full-on getting to know conversation. She took a small step closer, peering out into the overcast street to see his view. “I like it here. It’s grey, and busy, and strange. No humidity. But it’s honest. There’s something comforting in that.”

Sherlock spoke carefully now. “You read people.”

Lauren didn’t know why he said this, or what he actually meant. She shrugged, “I'd say I 'people watch' quite a bit. It's a southern... thing... I try to read them.”

“Successfully?”

She gave a knowing smile. Coming closer to liking him—but she did not trust him fully, yet. He knows all about her and she knew little to nothing of him… “I’ll let you decide sugar.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, seeing he was strangely unphased by her southern euphemisms. “So yes, a clean slate. I was a model for a long time, but it got complicated. Now I prefer to work with art instead of being in it.”

Mrs. Hudson was beaming. “She’s at the Wallace Collection this month!”

“Temporary,” Lauren added quickly. “But yes.”

Sherlock’s brow lifted just slightly, making a ‘really?’ face, “You chose Baker Street for that?”

“Honestly?” she said, glancing around. “The flat was small, affordable, and I liked the sound of it. I didn’t know I’d be living under a crime-solver and a landlady who makes the best tea I’ve ever had.”

Mrs. Hudson beamed. “I can’t wait to pair with the pie.”

Sherlock sighed lengthily, stretching dramatically and looking at his watch, “Well, fair warning—it’s not exactly quiet here.”

“I don’t mind a little chaos. I’m from the south after all,” Lauren said with a shrug. “Sometimes it’s the quiet that’s dangerous.”

That caught Sherlock’s attention more than anything. He regarded her with a bit more curiosity now but said nothing.

“Well,” Lauren said, stepping back the door, “I’ll let you get back to whatever very serious things you were doing. Hope you enjoy the pie!”

Sherlock remained silent, reaching for his violin again.

Lauren smiled as she looked away awkwardly, looking to Mrs. Hudson, “I’ll see you later!”

When the young woman left, Mrs. Hudson turned to Sherlock, who was already playing a slow, thoughtful string of notes.

“Talked the poor girl’s ear off!” Mrs. Hudson berated gently.

“Vice-versa.” He said.

“I’ll remember this next time someone new comes in,” she was purposely hinting at him finding a future flat mate to split the rent. “Simple, kind hellos are now nosy investigations. Whatever happened to mystery?” Mrs. Hudson voiced.

Sherlock exhaled as he played lighter, “Mystery isn't some romantic veil draped over the world, Mrs. Hudson. It’s just a temporary gap between ignorance and information. Given enough time, data, and observation— anything can be explained.” He paused playing.

“But people—people are a complication. Not because they’re unknowable. Because they lie. They mask, distort, pretend. They don’t want to be known, not fully. So yes, mystery remains. Not because it’s sacred—but because it’s protected. Guarded. Sometimes by design, sometimes by trauma."

He looked away briefly, glancing down at his feet where his new neighbor was walking around oblivious to the world above her. "And sometimes, because knowing everything… ruins it."

Mrs. Hudson huffed, “You don’t have to see through people all the time. Melodramatic you are. I’m asking did you like her Sherlock? Not like anyone you’re used to from London, is it?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

Sherlock didn’t look up. “She’s observant. Subtle. Speaks less than she knows. Not annoying.”

Mrs. Hudson blinked. “High praise.”

Sherlock let a small smile touch the corner of his mouth. “You’re not wrong.”

When Mrs. Hudson left with joy, going to chatter happily with the new tenant downstairs about local shops and which tea she should try next, Sherlock’s smile fell as he tossed aside his violin to whip out his phone to send a quick text message—not expecting a response.

-New neighbor, American. She’s interesting. Not annoying.

A reply came through exactly a minute later, no less…

-Interesting how? And does it even matter? In speaking of annoyance, I’m quite busy.

Sherlock grumbled under his breath as he punched in a paragraph with more pressure from his thumbs than necessary to avoid having to send another text, and much to the ‘pleasure’ of the receiver:

-Why else would I be telling you – Considering she’s my new neighbor in the old dingy 221C, recently renovated to brand new with a good sum— from all that I gathered, her background may be something to look into. She is like us, brother mine.

But after sending it, Sherlock felt smart as a second wind rushed through him as he added the following text shortly after:

-Clearly not so busy to have to ignore this convo.

The reply was instant:

-I see. Don’t be so hasty, now.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, stuffed his phone in between couch cushions, and smoothly came to a stand. With a bow and violin in hand, he reassumed the position—moving closer to the window—and began playing as he sorted through everything and everything. Even momentarily forgetting the world this one time.

Miles away…

In a quiet office with soft carpeting and no windows, a man reviewed a still image paused on his screen. Old surveillance footage from the airport and also old footage from down one of the nearby streets hours later, replaying on loop beside the still image. 

A freeze-frame.

Lauren, framed in the doorway of 221B Baker Street, her beige, pashmina scarf loose around her neck, eyes sharp. Pale complexion. Her tall, thin frame was clad in a long, pristine white trench coat with its pairing white belt wrapped tightly around her waist— pronouncing her natural hourglass shape. But what really struck the man—on appearance alone— was the woman’s lusciously long, shining, clean hair. The drops of rain clearly made it frizz— didn’t have to zoom in to see this. Thus the natural thickness of her brown hair made known to all who would notice this— though other than this, the woman looked… elegant… Sophisticated for an American transplant, who is here on an HPI visa. Having just arrived in London on an Airbus A321 Long Range…

Supposedly ‘Not annoying.’

The full report already lay closed in the corner of his desk, placed purposely aside until further need.

Should he bother.

The man’s face behind the screen was unreadable, detached; he didn’t breathe nor blink. His elbows propped on the desk; pale hands folded beneath his chin, as if waiting for the image to start moving.  

“Mycroft,” said a voice from the intercom. “Do you want to classify this one?”

Mycroft Holmes steepled his fingers, gaze locked on her image. Completely ignoring the surveillance footage that didn’t impress him. At the moment.

“No,” he said quietly. “I want to watch.”

…

Chapter Text

The next few days…

The first thing Lauren learned about her new flat was that it creaked, even with renovations.  Not just the old-house kind of creaks either— these were specific. The floor above her groaned like it had opinions, especially when her detective neighbor Sherlock Holmes was pacing. Which, as it turned out, was almost constant.  However, despite the quirks and a regular morning alarm to violin music above, basement flat 221C was quickly becoming hers all filled with her final touches.

The soft mossy green walls had various artwork or framed antiques. Lauren had unpacked her books, organized the vinyl records, hung up a very large shadowbox of a family heirloom, until eventually lighting a rosemary candle to kill the last ghost of mildew.  The smell of mildew would always unnerve her. And since her flat had only one large window, she would find herself cleaning the glass whenever she would catch the faintest whiff of it because of the rainy weather, or any dust speckled across it. Also, should anyone stop by, the window view would be clear and immaculate.

One such day—the second day in the flat—she was cleaning it, and she so happened to spot the slight glare of a small, dark, sleek, security styled camera across the street.  It hung beneath a flowerbox with no particular vines or large flowers to try concealing it either.  She eyed it thoughtfully for a minute as cars or a bicyclist rode past in a blur— not helping but noticing it angled towards the building of 221B Baker Street itself, pointing straight on. So what it could actually see could be the entire building or street view. However, it truly reminded her of a traffic camera from back home and figured this was a hidden camera for their police work here because in America, not many places had cameras where they should in order to catch car crashes to suspicious activity.  So, she finished her dusting and pulled the curtains closed—allowing only the sunlight to filter through. Thankful she went with one way glass…

Still, the pacing above never stopped.

And eventually, curiosity would get the best of her.

On her fourth day in London she would find out that 221B Baker Street was, by most London standards, a noise hazard as in: more than a pleasant violin piece or an angry drawing of the bow on the strings as if Sherlock was shredding the strings off in a fit.  Because at precisely 7:02 in the morning, a gunshot rang out—a sharp, unapologetic bang! that cracked through the quiet hum of the early hour and vibrated downward into the floors below. 

Lauren LeBlanc— twenty-nine years young, who recently moved from New Orleans, and still acclimating to the erratic climate of both the weather and her upstairs neighbor— jerked awake in the living room of 221C with a startled gasp.  She wasn’t in her bed, having fallen asleep on her velvet-cushioned settee mid-book and half a mug of chicory coffee. The book, a mystery novel set-in early America, tumbled off her lap as she shot upright, dark hair tangled, eyes wide.

“What in the hell—” she muttered, feet slapping against the hardwood floor as she stood. Even glancing at her front door to be sure it’s locked.

The ceiling above her groaned faintly—floorboards shifting with quick steps, then silence.

Lauren stood there a beat longer in silence, listening. No fire alarm. No screams. No sound from Mrs. Hudson. Nothing to suggest someone had been murdered, yet. Just the telltale smell of gunpowder that drifted in faintly through the ceiling vents.  There’s no way he’s solving a case by firing a gun in his own flat... This early in the morning, she thought. That would be the only reason, right?

“I swear, if he’s got a cannon up there...” With a sigh that was equal parts exasperation and resignation, Lauren padded into the kitchen, flicked on the kettle, and muttered to the walls, “If I’d wanted to be woken up by gunfire, I’d’ve moved to Baton Rouge.”

It was this ‘sunny’ morning with only rain clouds overhead that Lauren was glad to have woken up early enough to finish her work for the day in order to have a full day. She had spent most of the morning absorbed in her work—archiving the museum's latest acquisitions for The Wallace Collection. There was always something soothing about the rhythm of her work: cataloging details, analyzing textures, describing the provenance of various paintings and sculptures. This week’s focus was particularly rewarding. She was working on a series of 18th-century French portraits—stunning pieces of work from the likes of François-Hubert Drouais and Élisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun. The brushstrokes, the subtlety of expression, the way the light fell across the subjects’ faces— it was a language that felt like second nature to Lauren.

Her fingers moved quickly over the laptop keys as she typed up descriptions for each piece, her southern drawl slipping through in the cadence of her thoughts as she spoke aloud, even if her writing remained polished and professional. She was cataloging a portrait of a French noblewoman, her heavy gown draped in delicate folds, the luxurious fabric almost lifelike beneath the skilled touch of the artist. She found herself fascinated by the history it represented, especially the intricacies of class and power woven into these old portraits.

After finishing the last entry, she stretched, then glanced at the clock. The day was still young, and the idea of getting out of the flat for a while was becoming increasingly tempting. The idea of exploring more corners of London—quiet, off-the-beaten-path places—was always on her mind. Lauren primarily wanted to finally check out one of the many coffee shops— searching for a preferred location to find who makes her favorites. A cold coffee of any style, not hot.  She was only capable of making hot drinks at home.

So with this high hope, she stood and grabbed her white trench coat, letting it cascade elegantly over her shoulders.  Her usual style had a distinct air of grace, inspired by the riding-habit fashion she loved. There was something about the structured lines and crisp tailoring that made her feel properly put together, even in a city as chaotic as London.

With her long scarf fluttering in the breeze and her boots clicking softly against the pavement, Lauren stepped outside into the streets. It was when she was passing through a small market corner, she briefly spoke to a stranger who had greeted her with a simple ‘hello, good day!’ He was a middle-aged man in a tweed jacket— who paused in front of a butcher's shop, glancing up at her as she walked by. He heard her uncommon southern drawl.

“Don’t mean to intrude, miss,” he called, his British accent polite but curious. “But, beg your pardon, where's that accent from? You’ve got a most interesting way of speaking.”

Lauren smiled and paused walking, the warmth of her southern hospitality evident in her tone. “I’m from Louisiana. Just moved here not too long ago.”

The man’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. “A Southern lass in London? Well, that’s a rare one, I’ll say. Most folks from across the pond are all over the tourist spots.” He gave her a friendly, almost appreciative glance. “I dare say you’ve got the right idea though—avoiding the crowds. The city’s got its charm, but it takes time to find the quiet bits, doesn’t it?”

Lauren nodded with a small laugh, looking down at the bustling street around them. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do. Get to know the little pockets of it. London’s a lot more... peaceful when you avoid the tourist traps. As is any city in the States as well, at that.”

“Spot on there, love,” the man chuckled, tipping his hat to her. “Anyway, best of luck with the city. You’ve got the right idea, finding your way. A good day to you, miss.”

“You too, thank you,” Lauren replied, a soft smile on her face as the man walked off.

As she turned to continue her stroll, a slight feeling of unease crept over her—just like before. The feeling of eyes on her, not necessarily from the man she’d just spoken to, but from somewhere above. Another camera, she noted, perched on a streetlamp across the way. She couldn’t say for certain if it had moved, but there was something distinctly unsettling about the way it seemed to track her every step. It was a familiar sensation—one she hadn’t quite shaken since she’d arrived in London.

Eventually she found the one coffee shop she had searched directions for on her phone and found out they could only make an iced chai latte.  It would’ve been alright if it were not for the makings, as they were not balanced correctly.

It tasted like a cup of potpourri.  

With a slightly enjoyable cup of coffee gripped in her hand, she winded through the streets at her own pace back to 221B Baker Street, her boots tapping softly on the pavement. As she passed the other shops amongst other people’s flat buildings, the scent of fresh bread and coffee wafted out from cafés, and the soft sounds of conversation rose in the cool autumn air. But more ‘cameras’ caught her attention— a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in the movement of a security camera mounted above one of the storefronts. She had no particular reason to be suspicious, but the camera had definitely moved, following her as she walked.

She paused, raising an eyebrow, knowing she wasn’t just imagining it.  It wasn’t the first time she’d noticed something strange. The day before, another camera had shifted when she walked past it. The hair on the back of her neck had stood up, and for a moment, she considered going in to ask the shopkeeper if they’d had a new camera installed. But as her eyes narrowed, she realized the truth was simpler than that. Someone was watching her. The camera that was positioned across the street beneath the flower box on Baker Street, which did not move, was only more concerning. It was purposely aimed at the building.

Yet at this moment on the sidewalk, all she could do was shrug it off, giving a casual wave to the passerby next to her and continuing on her way, trying to shake the feeling. London was a city of secrets, after all— beyond being run by a Parliament in this constitutional monarchy— but the thought lingered...

Meanwhile, deep within the cold, calculating halls in an office of the British government, Mycroft Holmes watched the screen of his computer with an almost clinical interest. Through a network of private cameras and monitors, he had been keeping an eye on Lauren, ever since she had settled into Baker Street. To his surprise, she was proving to be not some flighty, attention-seeking woman. She was smart, grounded, and her understated presence seemed to offer no obvious threat to his brother, despite her proximity to Sherlock.

Mycroft adjusted the angle as he zoomed in on the feed from the camera Lauren had just passed. His sharp gaze tracked her every movement with a hint of curiosity. What struck him was how effortlessly she blended into the city, and how natural she appeared, despite her status as an outsider.

"Fascinating," Mycroft murmured to himself alone in his office, his fingers gliding over the controls as he switched between different feeds. "Not a threat, but certainly... interesting."

New neighbor, American. She’s interesting. Not annoying.

Sherlock’s old text is a clear memory in his mind’s eye. Mycroft leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. His brother would have likely dismissed her as an enigma he didn’t care to solve, or perhaps as an experiment to be analyzed from a distance if she was not interesting. He was keen on observing Sherlock’s future encounters with Ms. Lauren LeBlanc. But Mycroft himself? Mycroft already saw something more— a puzzle, a challenge, but also something... human. And human, in Mycroft's world, was always predictable. Yet, Ms. Lauren LeBlanc was proving to be unpredictable. And this is what unnerved him while at the same time, frustrated him.  Not a threat, but interesting, enough, to peak his interest. Which no one in this world was able to do— and he had never even met her properly face-to-face, yet.

She is like us, brother mine. One of the final texts from Sherlock in their only recent conversation for a while, carved out a formidable space in his mind— much to his displeasure and zeal for a good challenge. 

Mycroft sighed as he momentarily pulled back from the screen—drumming his fingers atop his desk as he now eyed Ms. Lauren LeBlanc’s still unread full report.  A report that would give him all the answers—confirming  what he is clearly viewing, observing, deducing…  However, her backstory, private affairs, and family members etc. were all elaborately detailed in this report. If this were any other human’s exhaustive list of information, Mycroft would pull and read efficiently, thoroughly without a second thought—

A notification on the screen caught his attention once more—a red light blinking at the corner, detecting more than movement, interaction.

Mycroft watched Ms. LeBlanc continue holding an iced cup of coffee which she clearly did not enjoy—as no further sips were taken. The corner of his lips twitched, bemused, after seeing that she refused to throw it away when she was outside of the coffee shop which she purchased it. Any Londoner would have no further thought or care to making it known they did not like something. But it was this interaction that made him freeze altogether—as his hand rested atop her closed report—and he saw her get approached by a woman walking her dalmatian. Complimenting each other’s outfits, the dog… he deduced. 

This time, it was Ms. LeBlanc’s beaming smile that caught him off guard. It was so bright that the camera recording looked like it shook a little—or a glaring light from the mid-day sun made it overheat. Nevertheless, it was the warmth this woman exuded, as well as her poise, her presentation that caused Mycroft to clench his hand and retract it from the closed report at the corner of his desk.

As abnormal of himself as it was, his ever-racing, planning mind sent an electrifying signal to the pit in his stomach— he knew to wait. He wanted to wait for the right moment.

Lauren arrived safely back at 221B Baker Street.  But before unlocking the door to 221B, Lauren stood outside the building as she chanced one more sip of her chai, hoping that somehow during the brisk walk it would somehow taste better. It didn’t.

Grateful she was wearing sunglasses to hide her disappointed and disgusted eyeroll on this overpriced tea; she tossed the rest of her drink in the outside bin, and casted a brief glance to the ‘traffic camera’ across the street—spotting a faint red light blinking on the side—before she proceeded to go inside with every intention to go speak with her pacing upstairs neighbor. 

First, she returned to her flat to remove her overcoat and touched up her makeup.  Then she thought she heard a knock at the front door… or more like a flurry.

She left her bedroom and went to the door, opening it carefully. There stood a tall, thin Sherlock Holmes in his long, dark coat, curls wild, scarf askew, and expression pinched in annoyance and contemplation.

“Are you baking?” He asked without preamble.

Lauren blinked. “No. Not yet.”

“You will be, though. You developed a routine to bake around this time— at least if you’re not running errands or until you need to attend your position at the Wallace Collection.”

Lauren stared at him. “Have not been called yet, it’s remote, remember?” Then she blinked and smiled at his silence. “Well,” she said slowly, “either you’re very clever or you’ve been watching me. Again. Through windows or cameras in this building that I do not know about.”

He didn’t smile. “I’m upstairs.”

“I know. I heard you shooting the wall.”

“Needed to think.” He said as casually as one would discuss weather.

“Well I bake when I need to think,” she replied smoothly.

He tilted his head. “Bizarre coping mechanism. You’re wasting flour.”

“Better than wasting bullets.”   

Sherlock was scanning her flat from the doorway. She glanced where he was looking, his eyes flicked over a single-family photo on the shelf, her scarlet kitchen towels, the copy of The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson tucked beneath her fine cannisters.

“You’re hiding something,” he said finally, once again as if it were the weather—like he knew exactly what she was ‘hiding’ or rather he also didn’t care in the slightest. To Lauren, she was starting to understand this tone and words held more weight than they implied.

Lauren raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t we all?” she said, voice syrupy sweet.

Sherlock’s mouth twitched just slightly. It felt like she almost missed a joke in another language.

“Well,” Lauren said, wiping her hands on a dish towel, “if you ever get hungry, I make a mean jambalaya and etouffee. Amongst other seafood dishes and dessert. Especially bourbon pecan pie, at the moment.”  

Sherlock frowned. “Why would I expect you to cook all of that just for me?”

“I can tell you don’t cook often. Many men living alone do not have homecooked, hot meals. You’d be surprised how much diet affects one’s mood. Plus I cook a lot already, it’s more than I could handle leftover. Never learned how to cook for less people…” She smiled warmly.

Sherlock noticed her drop in tone, and didn’t reply to what she just said rather, diverted to something she said prior. “Pecan’s spelt with one ‘c’, you know.”

Lauren’s grin widened. “Only if you’re British, sugar. Truly, I’ll stop by and drop off a plate every now and then. And it will not be poisoned. Unless you’re allergic to spice and basic kindness.”

He bit his lip—looking like he was biting back a smirk that subtly flashes in his blue—green eyes, Lauren now noticed in the hallway lighting clashing with her flat’s. Surely they were bright blue the other day, she thought. How interesting…

He eyed her with exaggerated suspicion, “How utterly… domestic.”

“Sue me.” And with that, she closed the door.

Sherlock stared at it a moment longer than he meant to. “She’s going to be trouble,” he muttered. “Trouble.” Sherlock repeated, eyes still on the closed door.  Then he turned away, his black coat flaring behind him, and bound up the stairs two at a time.

Lauren LeBlanc had never believed in perfect days. Maybe it was the humidity in Louisiana, or the fact that anyone claiming to have one was usually selling something. But this morning—this London morning—was, despite itself, shaping up rather nicely.

The air was crisp and clean, not choked with jasmine or freight trains. Her unwashed, un-styled hair this morning was (for once) cooperating with no flyaway strands in a ponytail. And most importantly, she had a hair appointment booked with a salon she’d found through sheer desperation and two glasses of wine.

One option was The Scissor Palace, which was either a miracle or a trap—the name bugged her. Then the other, Gielly Green, which was the one she decided to go with because it is closer. She decided not to second-guess her decision and chose to believe in miracles. For now.

As Lauren stepped out onto Baker Street, she tugged her coat tighter holding a hand up for a cab and watched the gray city shuffle to life around her. Everything in London moved sideways. People flowed like a flock of disapproving birds, never quite looking at someone but always knowing where someone didn’t belong. Perhaps it was like New York City…

And yet, she was beginning to fit. Or at least, she’d figured out how to dress like she did: today a knee-length coat, broken-in leather gloves, knee-high riding boots comfortable enough to walk in that clicked. She didn’t just walk—she moved, chin up like her mother taught her.

And somewhere, behind a darkened pane of glass on a government-owned rooftop, someone was watching.

“Target exiting flat,” came a clipped voice through an unseen earpiece. The response was quick:

“Maintain visual. Do not engage.”

She stepped out the cab onto George St. Gielly Green was wedged between a secondhand bookstore and a high-end pastry shop Lauren hadn’t dared enter yet. The sign was in cursive gold foil, peeling slightly at the edges on a dark black awning. Inside, it smelled like hairspray, old Chanel, and secrets ranging from old to new.

She didn’t blink twice at the lavish look of the salon, but who she was greeted by instantly: a woman with platinum-blonde hair piled high like spun sugar, hoop earrings the size of bracelets, and a voice that slid between Yorkshire and Upper East Side like she’d studied both but committed to neither.

“Well, aren’t you a slice of Southern peach cobbler in a rainstorm!” the woman gasped. “Come in, come in—Lord, don’t drip on my welcome mat, she’s vintage Harrods!” Her voice had a breathy, slightly exaggerated intonation. Though Lauren would soon find that her voice is indeed naturally that way.

Lauren smiled despite herself. “You must be Claudette?”

“In the flesh, love,” Claudette beamed—her cheeks plump as she smiled kindly. “And you must be my mysterious American girl with the hair of a voodoo priestess and the posture of a disgruntled ballet teacher. Come, sit. Sit!”

Lauren obeyed, lightly laughing as she shed her coat and took in the salon. It was chaos—in the best way. Pastel chairs. Velvet throw pillows. A neon sign on the far back wall that read Good Hair, Bad Decisions.

“How was that impression for a Yorkshire accent?” Claudette genuinely asked as she already sifted through Lauren’s hair, toying with it and holding out the length of the brown tresses—assessing what she will be tackling.

“Not that bad, it was one of the better ones I’ve heard so far,” Lauren smiled. “First time I was called a voodoo priestess, actually. That’s pretty funny.”

“Oh you’ll find me saying all sorts of gobbledygook—it’s the fumes,” Claudette began her work after leading her to the basin to wash her hair and massage her scalp. They soon returned to her station where, with theatrical precision, she sectioned off Lauren’s hair while humming what sounded suspiciously like Dolly Parton.

“Tell me everything,” she said as she trimmed finely the ends of her hair, just to even it out before she would de-bulk it. “What’s a Southern lady-belle doin’ all the way up here in the land of drizzle and emotional constipation?”

Lauren blinked. “I—I moved here to reset. Start over.”

“Oh, sweetie, don’t we all,” Claudette said, tugging a comb gently through her roots. Then she whispered in her breathy tone, “What’d he do?”

“Who?”

“The man you’re runnin’ from.”

Lauren hesitated, then smirked. There wasn’t exactly a man, she hadn’t dated anyone in years. But she decided to admit something similar, at least alluding to her reason for leaving home. “Would you believe me if I said he’s a ghost and a modeling lawyer?”

“Oh, honey, especially if he’s a ghost and a modeling lawyer. Those are the worst kind.”

Forty-five minutes later, Lauren looked at herself in the mirror and barely recognized the reflection. Claudette had shaped her long hair like art—sculpted, polished, alive with bounce and attitude. She applied volume without teasing it. Her hair has never been styled this nice since her modelling days.

“There she is,” Claudette declared. “Now you look like a woman who doesn’t take nonsense from anyone, not even the Queen. I don’t get to say that to just anyone.”

Lauren smiled as she stood, grateful and glowing. “You’re a magician.”

“I’m a gossip with scissors,” Claudette said, winking. “And you, sugarplum, are gonna tell me everything next time. Come back in four weeks, bring some of that bourbon, and tell me what that sad little flat of yours looks like.”

Lauren promised she would. “I sure will. Thank you Claudette.”

She left the salon with her head higher and her curls bigger, feeling less tense and even seen for the first time in weeks. Not by a man, not by a detective—just by a woman who gave good hair and better advice.

She passed a parked black car a few blocks down from the salon on the way to hail a cab to Baker Street— and she didn’t notice the suited figure in the backseat of this black car was watching her.

“Any updates for me to be aware of?” A woman had asked him, who was in the front seat with the driver, glancing up after the woman had walked past the car. “A name in the least would be beneficial by now.”

“Her name is Lauren LeBlanc,” said the man in the back, voice low and precise, briefly lowering his phone. His face was cold and detached— light blue eyes that were unfeeling. “Background check incomplete. No obvious threat. No ties to known organizations. But proximity to Sherlock is still a concern.”

The woman in the front nodded. “Do you want her followed, now?” A long pause followed.

Mycroft Holmes stared out the window, his umbrella propped on the floor of the car leaning against his leg. In his lap was a folder— already opened, cover letter already memorized. He did not read the full report of her incomplete background yet. Incomplete as in the names of relatives being left out, for example— for privacy reasons. If she were a bigger threat, then he would have requested a full background check.

“Observe,” his voice clipped. “Discreetly. Upgrade her surveillance to Grade Three Active. If she’s a complication, I’ll simply remove her.”

“And if she’s not?”

Mycroft didn’t answer. His eyes remained on the back of the lady in white walking on, with expressive, chestnut-tinged eyes and a sharper smile than most weapons.

Later that afternoon, having decided to invest in a pair of noise-canceling headphones and after a blissfully quiet hair appointment in Marylebone, Lauren returned to her flat feeling at least marginally more human.  Her dark waves were now professionally tamed, and she had a paper cup of coffee in hand—her second attempt of the day at some kind of normal. As for the coffee, it was better than the previous venture, but nothing ‘mind blowing.’

She opened the locks of the door to 221C, stepped inside, and immediately stopped. Something was wrong.

Not obviously. Nothing was broken, nor nothing was stolen. The front window was still locked, the key still hung where she’d left it. But there was... a presence. A subtle wrongness, the sense that something had been disturbed and put back imperfectly.

Her eyes scanned the room. The bookshelf? Fine. Her laptop on the writing desk? Unmoved. She went to her bedroom—eyed the bed she never laid in just yet. The bed? Untouched. Everything else is in place. The bathroom and shower was all clear.

Lauren returned to the living room, standing right in the frame of her bedroom door. That was when her gaze landed on the far wall—the shadowbox.

Mounted proudly above her vintage settee was the one piece of her family she’d brought across the pond. The wooden frame was a handcrafted display of heirlooms from her mother’s family: a silver riding crop, two antique rosettes from the 1954 Derby, a photograph of her grandfather standing beside a tired, mud-slick Thoroughbred with her young mother and rest of her family. It had been packed carefully and lovingly.

Now the glass was clean but just slightly off, like it had been lifted and reset by hands that didn’t care for precision. And more importantly—

Her eyes narrowed.

The riding crop was gone.

St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Two hours earlier…

Inside the morgue, Sherlock Holmes leaned over a dead body at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. He prodded at the corpse’s ankle with what was, unmistakably, a finely tooled American riding crop—faded black leather, silver tip, slightly shorter than his usual one. He liked the balance, actually. There was more wrist control.

“Sherlock, do you have to poke it like that?” Molly Hooper asked, pulling her gloves on with a sigh.

“I’m examining the tissue density under pressure,” Sherlock replied, flicking the whip neatly under the exposed heel, continuing his study of the formation of bruises after death. “Livor mortis tells us part of the story. The rate of resistance tells us the rest.”

Molly blinked, noticing something different, “Don’t you have your own riding crop? That’s not your usual one.”

Sherlock looked up at her at last for a couple of scarce seconds, rightfully surprised she noticed. “I couldn’t be bothered to go back upstairs.”

“Where’d you get that one?”

He didn’t look up. “Borrowed. From a neighbor.”

Back at 221C, Lauren paced the room once, then again, then reached for her mobile. She stared at it, considered calling the landlady.  Mrs. Hudson, while sweet, can be unhelpfully vague. Then she reconsidered with a sigh.

No. She was going straight to the source. At least who could be the source.

“Come in,” Sherlock said as soon as the light, purposeful knock sounded. He didn’t look up from the microscope.

Lauren opened the door to 221B, stepping cautiously into what looked like the aftermath of a very chaotic mad scientist-themed dinner party. There were eyeballs in a jar on the kitchen counter, now. The skull on the mantle had an unlit cigar dangling out its mouth, and the wallpaper was peppered with fresh bullet holes.

She closed the door behind her with a sharp click—not letting anything distract her.

“Mr. Holmes,” she said. Her voice polite in the way only Southern women mastered when they were furious. “Did you happen to borrow my great-grandfather’s riding whip?”

Sherlock looked up, blinked, then tilted his head. “Oh. You noticed.”

“I sure did.”

“Excellent craftsmanship. American, mid-20th century. Silver inlay, not just decorative—weighted for balance. Wouldn’t have expected that kind of quality from Kentucky.”

Lauren folded her arms. “Louisiana.”

“Really?” He seemed perplexed.

“Yes, made & used primarily there, until it was taken to Kentucky, once. And you broke into my flat.”

Sherlock corrected calmly, “Not broke. Entered.”

“Through a window.”

He sighed, “It was unlocked… Temporarily.”

She walked toward him slowly, boots clicking against the floor. “That shadowbox has been sealed since I was seventeen—”

“—Just a couple of years ago, then?” He interrupted.

“Try twelve, thank you, but flattery will not work on me,” she couldn’t help but let a little warm smile twitch on her lips, before her mouth frowned heavier. “My grandfather gave me that whip when I was little—not for riding, mind you, because Lord knows I never got on a horse in my life—but because it was my mother’s, and her mother’s—all in her side of the family, and I kept it nice, clean, untouched.”

“I didn’t damage it.” He said.

“You took it. And dare I ask why?” Nothing would prepare her for the calm answer he gave.

“To examine a corpse.” Sherlock visibly flinched at the startled, high-pitched gasp that emitted from the usually soft-spoken woman. Her hands flew to her mouth like he slapped her.

“Sherlock!”

He even flinched slightly at the sound of his name. Well, the sound of his name from her, with her surprisingly not annoying accent. She rarely used it, opting for ‘Mr. Holmes’ in a tone that walked the line between sarcastic and respectful. The force of her actual anger now caught him off-guard.

“I left your apartment exactly as I found it,” he said stiffly, brushing dust from his sleeve. “Well, nearly.”

“Nearly?” She stepped closer.

“There was a... minor coffee spill on your rug. It’s been cleaned.”

Lauren numbly sat down in his armchair and stared at him. “You do realize this is not normal behavior, right?” She softly asked.

Sherlock looked almost bemused. “Define normal.”

“In most parts of the world, when someone needs something from a neighbor, they knock. They ask. They don’t crawl through a window like a raccoon with a PhD in anatomy.”

As the short silence stretched on, Sherlock turned fully to face her now, expression unreadable.

“I’ll return the whip. Cleaned and polished. I had no intention of stealing it. I may also compensate for the intrusion, if that’s what you require.”

Lauren gave him a long, flat stare. “I want you to promise not to do it again.”

“Oh… I don’t make promises.”

“Well, I do,” she said, standing up. “And I promise that if you ever break into my flat again, I’ll take your riding crop and use it to break your violin.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. “You’re not joking.”

“Nope.” She popped the ‘p’ with emphasis.

He studied her, intrigued. “You’re not afraid of me,” he said, almost thoughtfully.

Lauren shrugged, walking to the door. “Where I’m from, we don’t scare easy.” As she opened the door, she added over her shoulder: “Next time you want something, Mr. Holmes, try knocking. Or better yet, ask like a normal human being.”

The door shut behind her with the same firm decisiveness she’d entered with. Sherlock stood for a moment, tapping a finger to his lip.

“Fascinating,” he murmured. He glanced at the blood-stained riding crop resting against the wall by his couch. He almost smiled. “This may get interesting.”

The next two days passed in relative silence—well, relative in the context of Baker Street. There was still the usual cluttered chaos above her head, occasional thumps, violin strings tuning themselves into haunting melodies at 2 a.m., and what Lauren could only describe as ‘a suspicious bubbling noise’ around breakfast time.

But no gunshots. No unexpected visitors. No more missing heirlooms. Sherlock Holmes, it seemed, had taken the warning seriously.

So Lauren did what she always did when life settled just enough to be unsettling—she baked. The scent of white-chocolate bread pudding filled the small flat, blending with the musty smell of London rain. She didn’t bake often—too many memories of her mother’s kitchen, flour-dusted counters, and strong opinions about caramel glaze. But today it felt right.

Right until someone knocked though, not at the door to her flat, but at the window. The smaller ‘basement’ window with a small curtain situated above it. Today it happened to be slid to the side so she can see the sidewalk view.  But Lauren froze, with a dish towel in one hand, spatula in the other. Slowly, she turned.

Sherlock Holmes was crouched just outside her window, coat flapping like a dark flag in the wind, hair wind-swept and expression entirely too casual for someone surveying the outside of a Georgian townhouse.

She flung open the window with narrowed eyes. “Seriously?”

“This time I knocked,” he said, mildly.

“You knocked on my window.”

“I thought it best to avoid the door. You seem... territorial about entrances.”

She stared.

Sherlock merely peered over her shoulder, nostrils flaring slightly. “Is that bourbon?”

Lauren blinked. “You came to borrow-steal again?”

“I came to investigate. And return something of yours.”

She carefully opened the window wider with a resigned sigh and stepped aside. “Don’t touch anything this time.”

Sherlock climbed in without hesitation, leaping down like a rat jumping into the sewer grate, before glancing around the flat as if cataloging every object and deviation from his last mental map. He walked past her with casual entitlement, picking up a tiny ceramic figurine of a pelican, squinting at it, then setting it down.

Lauren crossed her arms. “What, exactly, are you investigating?”

“You.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Sherlock turned to her, all intense gaze and furrowed focus. “You’re anomalous.”

This made her pause for breath, her mind even coming to a stop. “Excuse me?”

“You keep bourbon next to Earl Grey. You sleep on your vintage settee even though your bedroom—with a new mattress—is larger. Your riding crop is heirloom quality, used by everyone in your family, yet you’ve never ridden a horse. You talk to your walls— in waking life and sleeping—”

“—How do you know I talk in my sleep?” She interrupted breathlessly.

“Walls are thin, and your voice carries—as any American.” He answered before continuing his deduction, “You dress like a sophisticated academian, or former model,” Sherlock gestured to her coffee table books of fashion and art, “but keep a tactical flashlight on your key ring.” He paused. “You moved here from Louisiana a few days ago with no solid career, no extended family, and your degree from Loyola—your sweatshirt is in the back of your closet, implying it’s of sentimental value and never wear it, plus it wouldn’t go with your existing polished appearance. Your accent is inconsistent, as it’s more prominent when passionate, worked up, or upset—other than that you have a regular American inflection. And you haven’t once asked me what I do.”

Lauren’s jaw dropped slightly, mildly offended. “You are insane.”

Sherlock looked faintly pleased. “Not clinically.”

Lauren sighed, rubbing her temple. “Okay, fine, you got me— I’m a complex person. But have you considered just asking someone questions like a normal human being instead of breaking in and verbally pummeling them?”

He ignored the rhetorical. “Why did you choose London?”

Her face cooled, and he noticed. She turned back to the oven, pulling the bread pudding out with a practiced grace. “Because it’s not Louisiana.”

“Not quite an answer.”

She let the silence settle like powdered sugar. Then, without turning around, she said without giving everything away, “I needed distance. And fog. And somewhere people wouldn’t ask me about horse farms or debutante balls or what it’s like living in a town with one stoplight.”

“You dislike your roots.”

“No. I respect them,” she said evenly, this making her turn to make eye contact with him, “but I’m not beholden to them.”

He tilted his head. “And your mother?” He had looked at the shadowbox.

“Dead.”

Sherlock blinked. “Oh.”

Lauren glanced over. “Don’t get weepy. She was terrifying—in a good way. Taught me how to shoot before I could spell my name. We’re all better off now that she’s haunting something.”

An unexpected silence settled after she said this, and somehow a weight seemed to lift from her chest—like how her hair appointment made her feel. Then he broke the silence:

“I like your honesty,” Sherlock said, almost reluctantly.

Lauren huffed. “You like puzzles, clearly, and I’m a new box you haven’t opened yet. Despite me being an open book, at least I always thought.”

He didn’t deny it. He was walking around the room again, touching less this time, observing more. Then he paused by the side table, where he took out from his coat the restored riding crop—cleaned, polished, and wrapped in linen—placing it down.  She didn’t move to go beside him to see it.

“I do regret taking it,” he said. “I should’ve asked.”

Lauren looked up, surprised. “That sounded dangerously close to an apology, Mr. Holmes.”

“I’m capable,” Sherlock muttered, almost to himself. “When properly motivated. And please don’t call me Mr. Holmes, sounds archaic from how you pronounce it.”

Lauren snorted, sliding the bread pudding onto the counter. “Tea or bourbon?”

He hesitated. “Both.”

She raised a brow.

“For contrast,” he added.

She poured the tea, added a splash of bourbon to his cup, and handed it to him like it was an experiment. They stood there for a beat, sipping in silence, and he sampled the white-chocolate bread pudding with slight delight.

Outside, the rain picked up. Inside, it was warm.

“So,” Lauren said, leaning back against the counter. “Now that you’ve done your deduction dance, you got what you wanted?”

“Not entirely.”

She sighed. “What now?”

“You still haven’t asked what I do. Are you not curious?”

“Of course I am. But I know what you do. You’re the world’s most exhausting flatmate neighbor.”

He actually smiled, crooked and real making her heart warm.

“I searched you on my phone before going up to meet you my first day here. Consulting detective,” she added, mimicking his voice with exaggerated drama, “Only one in the world. Lives above my head. Shoots walls when bored. Plays mostly pleasant violin solos as a wake-up alarm.”

He added, “You forgot ‘borrows family heirlooms without permission.’”

“Temporarily.”

They sipped again.

Lauren watched him for a moment. He was impossibly strange, brilliant in a way that irritated her deeply. But also... sincere, in that dry, prickly sort of way only British men and porcupines seemed to master.

“Tell me something,” she said suddenly. He looked up. “Why do you shoot the wall?”

Sherlock glanced toward the floorboards, as if he could see through to the bullet-riddled wallpaper. “Patterns calm me. So do variables. Chaos is loud, but in a bullet’s path, everything makes sense for a moment.”

Lauren nodded, considering that.

“I read trashy mystery novels,” she offered with a gentle shrug. “Same reason.”

He smiled again, barely. From that day onward, Sherlock knocked. Not always at the door, but it was a start.

The following evening, the sound of an old, creaky door echoed up from the basement flat as Sherlock Holmes stepped into the dimly lit space, his footsteps muffled by the plush carpet that lined the floor. He had not knocked, nor had he been invited in. But, as always, he was driven by his own peculiar sense of propriety—or lack thereof.

The 221C flat smelled faintly of something unfamiliar. A bit earthy, a bit rich. It tickled his senses, drawing him in like the scent of a rare specimen. He raised an eyebrow, his eyes scanning the room.

Lauren was sitting by the window, one leg crossed over the other as she sipped from a chipped mug. Her hair, dark and loose around her shoulders, caught the light of the late afternoon sun as she glanced up, her smile warm but cautious, as if she had been expecting him, in a way.

“Sherlock,” she greeted him, her southern drawl as smooth as molasses but carrying a sharpness that only made it more captivating. “What brings you down to my humble abode?”

Sherlock, never one for small talk, cut straight to the point. “Borrowed Mrs. Hudson’s key, and I owe you an apology.”

Lauren blinked in surprise, her smile faltered. “You do?” She set her coffee mug down on the table, leaning back in her chair as she gave him a once-over. “What for? You already returned my riding crop.”

“I did,” Sherlock agreed, a brief flicker of satisfaction in his eyes, “but I did more than that. I invaded your privacy, made a mess of your morning, and ruined your coffee.”

She raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in her eyes. “That was a lot of damage for a single visit. You sure you’re not just looking for an excuse to come see me again?” Her voice was teasing, but the way her lips curled hinted at a deeper warmth, the sort of sweetness that could only come from someone who had truly lived.

Sherlock blinked, not used to having his motives questioned so freely. But then again, he hadn’t anticipated this particular brand of charm. “I assure you,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, “I have no interest in...‘coming to see you,’ as you put it. I was merely conducting a survey of your habits.”

Lauren snorted, her fingers tapping the rim of her mug with a rhythmic precision. “Uh-huh. Anomalous. A survey, huh? On a woman you just met?” She tilted her head slightly, a smirk playing at her lips. “Tell me, Sherlock, do your ‘surveys’ usually start with breaking and entering?”

He opened his mouth to respond but stopped, his attention diverted as he noticed the faint aroma wafting from her mug. He hadn’t been able to identify it at first, but now, standing closer, the smell was unmistakable. Chicory. A trace of something dark, bitter, and earthy.

He leaned forward slightly—closing the door behind him, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied the drink in her hand. “Chicory coffee?” he asked, voice even but with an undercurrent of intrigue.

Lauren’s smile softened, her eyes lighting up as she reached for the mug. “Mmhm, that's right. From back home. It’s a bit of a southern tradition. You won’t find anything like it around here.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his lips pressing into a thin line. “The bitterness could work in my favor. Heightens my senses.” He considered it for a moment before adding with a trace of surprise, “Interesting choice. I didn’t expect you to have such...well, an acquired taste. Save for the bourbon in your pie— you clearly do not drink it.”

“Right… Well, honey, I’m from Louisiana. Everything down there’s got a little bite to it. Not just the coffee.” She gave him a sly, almost challenging look. “You might find it...helps you think more clearly. Or maybe just helps you feel something for once.”

Sherlock didn’t respond immediately, but his sharp eyes flicked down to her, narrowing ever so slightly. “Feelings are overrated,” he muttered under his breath, but even as he said it, the intensity of the aroma seemed to stir something in him—something he couldn't easily ignore.

Lauren laughed softly, a rich, melodic sound that seemed to fill the room, warming the space despite the coolness of Sherlock’s usual demeanor. “That’s what they all say. But even you can’t deny the power of a good cup of coffee.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched in something approaching a smile, though he quickly masked it. “I suppose you’re right. Though, I won’t be starting a collection of your travel mugs anytime soon.”

“No need to,” Lauren quipped, picking up her mug and sipping with a satisfied sigh. “I’ve got enough of ‘em to go ‘round. So long as you keep your distance from my riding crop. It’s a family heirloom, after all.”

Sherlock nodded, his expression serious, though the faintest hint of appreciation flickered in his eyes. “Understood. It won’t happen again.”

“Thank you for cleaning it.” She smiled softly, her gaze lingering on him for a moment before she spoke again, voice lighter, but still warm. "Do you... know by any chance that if the cameras on the street can follow someone around?"

"Have you noticed them move?" Sherlock asked, his voice impassive. 

"Yes, as I walk. Ever since I moved here they follow my every step, it seems. Is that normal?" She asked with mild concern. 

Sherlock hummed once, "Yes and no. Chances are the camera is following traffic flow or focusing on another person you happen to be around..." He paused, his tone having a sudden edge to it as if he were annoyed by something beyond his control. "I wouldn't worry yourself over it— there are far better things to observe. As I myself have had instances where it appeared to be following me."

“Well, that’s a relief..." Lauren sighed with a smile. "Also, I’d hate to have to break out the southern hospitality...and my mama’s old recipe for gumbo.”

Sherlock straightened slightly at the mention of food, his gaze sharpening. “Gumbo?” he asked, tone carefully neutral, but there was an unmistakable curiosity in his voice. “What do you put in it?”

Lauren’s grin widened as she set the mug down on the table. “A bit of this, a bit of that. Mostly...well, that’s a secret. But I’ll tell you this: it packs a punch. Something tells me you'd be in for a shock.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked upward just enough for Lauren to catch the brief flicker of a smile before he wiped it away, as though the concept of a ‘shock’ was something he could easily outwit.

“You know,” he said, adjusting his coat, “I think I’ll take a rain check on the gumbo. But your coffee—well, that’s something I may revisit.”

Lauren watched him with amusement as he turned toward the door. “Of course, Sherlock,” she said, her tone teasing but warm.

Sherlock paused just before the door, the corners of his mouth turning upward slightly. “I’ll make sure to knock, next time,” he replied, and with that, he was gone.

Lauren shook her head, a soft chuckle escaping her lips as she turned back to her window. In her own way, she had seemed to have made her mark on the infamous Sherlock Holmes.

The walls of Lauren's flat, though modest and tucked beneath 221B Baker Street, had become a quiet refuge for her in the week since she'd moved to London. She had a routine now—something she could rely on amidst the unknowns of a new city. Mornings spent sorting through art history archives, hours spent hunched over a laptop, cataloguing and analyzing pieces for The Wallace Collection—a museum she’d never actually visited yet but had come to feel an odd connection with. It was a comforting distraction, one that allowed her to forget, at least momentarily, the fact that she was in a foreign city far away from her home in Louisiana.

But as familiar as the routine had become, London itself was still an enigma. She made it a point to explore little corners of the city each day—not the tourist attractions, but the quieter, more unexpected places where locals seemed to hide away. Her favorite time was early in the morning, when the streets were still sleepy, and the city hadn't quite come to life.

No matter how, by the end of her first week in London, she did not plan on feeling settled and finally feeling at home. Well, accepting her new home.

At the end of her first week, Lauren was sitting by the window again when Sherlock arrived the second proper time. This time, however, she’d done something a little different: she had brewed a fresh pot of chicory coffee, the rich, earthy aroma already filling the small, cozy flat. She had unlocked her door—having received a text that he was on his way— and didn’t even need to glance from her book to know that Sherlock was standing in the doorway, his sharp eyes already dissecting every detail of the room. As if he were trying to spot anything new.

“I see you’ve made yourself at home,” he remarked, his voice smooth and steady, though there was an edge of curiosity in it.

Lauren smiled, setting her book aside as she rose to her feet. “You know me—can’t resist a good cup of coffee,” she teased, walking toward the counter where the coffee pot sat. She poured him a mug, holding it out in her usual no-nonsense way. “Figured I’d give you another chance to taste my family’s secret weapon.”

Sherlock took the mug from her with a slight furrow in his brow. He looked at the dark liquid inside as though it were some sort of exotic specimen, one he hadn’t quite figured out yet. He didn’t usually entertain these sorts of things, but there was something about Lauren's steady confidence—her quiet, unassuming warmth—that made him curious. And curiosity, for all his aloofness, was something Sherlock could never ignore.

He took a tentative sip. His eyes immediately narrowed, processing the unfamiliar bitterness that first hit his tongue. It was robust, sharp, almost... aggressive, in a way that made his taste buds sit up and take notice. Then there was the aftertaste, a faintly smoky, woody flavor that lingered in the back of his throat.

“Well?” Lauren asked, her voice light but expectant.

Sherlock studied the mug, his lips pressed together in deep thought. “It’s… an assault on the senses,” he finally declared, his usual bluntness taking over. “But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s not unpleasant.”

Lauren couldn’t help but laugh, leaning back against the counter. “An assault? You make it sound like I’m serving you a weapon.”

He glanced up at her, his expression almost impassive, though his eyes were twinkling ever so slightly. “In a way, it’s effective. You’ve made me more aware than I was moments ago.” He took another sip, still analyzing. “The bitterness might be an acquired taste, but it has a certain... complexity. It reminds me of the way people are. Layers. Not all pleasant, but worth the exploration.”

Lauren couldn’t hold back a grin. “I do declare, Sherlock Holmes, you’ve got a way with words.” She gestured toward the chair across from her. “Why don’t you sit? I’ve got plenty more where that came from.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “As long as it doesn’t involve bourbon,” he muttered under his breath, sitting down slowly.

“You know, bourbon pecan pie is an entirely different thing,” Lauren replied with a wink. “Maybe I’ll bring you some next time. If you’re lucky.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking her over as though she’d just presented him with a new puzzle to solve. “I’m not sure luck has much to do with it. I’d be more interested in knowing how you manage to make your pies so... memorable. Even if you don’t add bourbon.”

Lauren laughed, shaking her head. “You’re something else, Sherlock.”

Sherlock didn’t offer a response right away, instead taking another careful sip of his coffee. His eyes lingered on her for a moment longer than usual, his mind working behind those sharp features of his.

“So,” she said, breaking the silence with a shift in tone. “Firing pistols when you’re bored.” She raised an eyebrow playfully, her Southern charm evident in her voice. “Is that a common pastime for the residents of Baker Street? I mean, I’m all for a good hobby, but British citizens are allowed to own firearms, aren’t they?”

Sherlock blinked, caught slightly off guard. The question wasn’t exactly what he expected, and for a moment, he looked at her with the hint of a smile creeping onto his face. It was rare for someone to turn his own quirks back on him with such ease.

“Well, I don’t usually have time for boredom,” Sherlock replied, his voice smooth but carrying an edge of amusement. “But, yes, we’re allowed to own guns. It’s a privilege not a right, sad, I know. But I make do. I do occasionally fire a few rounds when the mood strikes… I have an understanding with Mrs. Hudson and the police.”

Lauren grinned, leaning back in her chair. “How very dramatic. But answer me this: don’t you have any hobbies that don’t involve making a racket?”

Sherlock let out a low laugh—an actual laugh, not just a huff of irritation or a dry chuckle. It caught Lauren a bit off guard. She hadn’t expected him to find it funny. But then again, she had learned quickly that with Sherlock Holmes, humor often showed up in the least expected places.

“You know,” he said, still amused, “I never thought I’d meet someone who could make a gun enthusiast sound like a hobbyist. You’re far too good at disarming me.”

Lauren laughed, shaking her head. “Well, you know, a little southern hospitality never hurt nobody.”

Sherlock’s gaze softened, just a fraction, before he shifted his focus back to her—sharp and calculating. “You know, you’re not like most people I encounter.”

Lauren raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Oh, really? In what way? Other than the obvious, being an American in London, a southerner amongst British accents.”

He leaned forward slightly, tapping his fingers on the armrest of the chair. “You didn’t react the way I thought you would when we first met. You didn’t give me the typical ‘shocked’ look or fawn over my genius. Instead, you treated me like a person. Most people either try too hard or run in the other direction. You... just were.”

There was a quiet intensity in Sherlock’s voice, and for a moment, Lauren was surprised by the rare honesty in his words. The compliment—though Sherlock would never call it that—felt almost like an admission, a small crack in his otherwise impenetrable shell.

“Well, Mr.—Sherlock,” she said softly correcting herself, leaning in a little as if sharing a secret, “you’re more than just a genius. You’re a human being, just like the rest of us— all made to have our own meaning and purpose. And last time I checked humans like a good cup of coffee just as much as anyone.”

Sherlock paused, and for a second, it seemed like he might say something else. But instead, he simply took another sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Well then,” he said, with a faint, almost imperceptible smile—secretly confirming something, “it seems I’ve found the perfect brew to keep me on my toes. Perhaps I’ll have another visit soon.”

Lauren’s smile was knowing, almost fond, as she stood up. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Sherlock gave a short nod, as though considering what he just said seriously. But before he could leave, he paused at the door, glancing over his shoulder—flicking his collar up.

“You know,” he said, as if something important had just occurred to him, “I may have underestimated you, Lauren.”

Her grin widened, and she put her hands on her hips. “I think I can take that as a compliment.”

And with that, Sherlock Holmes left the flat, leaving behind a lingering sense of unspoken understanding.

Across town, Mycroft Holmes sat in his quiet, dimly lit office at his private home in his personal study, with his fingers steepled as he studied his computer screen. His younger brother’s last chain of messages had piqued his curiosity to an extent that was rare for him except, now Sherlock had texted him out of the blue, a rare event:

Quit spying on her, brother, she’s not annoying. She asked if it was possible for cameras to follow her every movement. Dead giveaway.  And obviously didn’t mention you. Why should I? Why would I?

Mycroft heavily rolled his eyes, deciding to ignore this text and not respond at all. As some messages weren’t worth responding to even if he were ever idle, like on holiday. Which was never.

At the beginning of the week, it had taken him less than a few moments to decide to look into this American transplant because most people who Sherlock interacted with were... well, they were nothing like Sherlock. They couldn’t possibly understand the mind that operated at his level.

But this Lauren LeBlanc? She was different. And in the week he cautiously watched her, he knew exactly what his brother meant. Thanks to having one of his men place a camera in the entryway of 221B Baker Street, catching some facets of their exchanges with voice recording.

She didn’t seem to be drawn to Sherlock’s genius the way others were. She didn’t fawn over him or try to impress him. She was observant, unassuming, and yet, there was something in the way she had responded to Sherlock’s quirks—calmly, with a knowing air—that told him she had her own world to navigate. Then, her background in international business, combined with her minor in classical studies, only added to the complexity… Yes, he viewed her file at last— a great part of the reason why the camera got placed inside the building. She was an intellectual, in a way that wasn’t typical for most people Sherlock kept company with.

Mycroft’s lips quirked at the thought of how his brother would never admit it, but Sherlock had a rare respect for Lauren— though that respect came with a measure of suspicion.

However, Mycroft wasn’t concerned with Sherlock’s feelings, at least not right now. He was more interested in what Lauren represented: an unknown factor that had piqued the interest of his brother and in turn, himself. And that alone was enough to warrant his attention.

The other reason as to why he had the camera installed in the entryway of the building was because on one rainy morning—it had been raining in London for three days in a row this week—of course it had.

Not a proper storm, just that thin mist that seemed to seep into the very fabric of the city, greying everything it touched. Mycroft Holmes was sitting across from an MI6 liaison at the Diogenes Club, nursing a lukewarm Darjeeling and silently solving three internal security leaks before his scone had cooled. 

He wasn’t supposed to be also watching her: Ms. Lauren LeBlanc. Not really.

But when his laptop lit up in the corner, he opened the screen to view what it detected. She was returning from another one of her morning walks in the city—her hair slightly frizzing beneath an umbrella when she passed by the front window of Speedy’s—brown leather boots, a favored white trench coat too long for her frame if it weren’t for the boots elevating her enough to keep the coat from touching the wet cement… and one hand in her pocket with long hair pulled back in a ponytail that didn’t quite hold that day— he stilled in his seat as he noticed something rare in another human in general. First, a few of the basics he already had down:

American. Southern. Had tea with Mrs. Hudson within seventy-two hours of moving in. Already on a first-name basis with Sherlock. And, to Mycroft’s particular irritation, Sherlock had begun referring to her as “not annoying.”

Which was dangerously close to affection.

Then, he had surveillance data, naturally. He'd reviewed her tenant file, customs forms, and financial records. He’d watched her walk down Baker Street on five separate days and noted the way she always stopped to glance at the window boxes outside Speedy’s—absent-minded, almost wistful. He’d noticed her take up space without demanding it. Observant, poised, deliberate in her kindness. Perhaps ‘not annoying’ is right.

But this rainy morning, the rare thing he noticed was her pressing her palm to the front door of 221B for just a second too long before unlocking it. A little gesture. Almost nothing.

But that was when he knew. She was carrying more than anyone else could see. And she did it with grace. And that was the most dangerous thing about her.

He leaned back in his chair in a deeper silence than the present room of the Diogenes Club required—his eyes never leaving the screen as he finally sipped more of his Darjeeling.  He didn’t need to act yet—he was content to continue waiting, to observe.

After all, this was Sherlock’s world. Mycroft was just ensuring that nothing, or no one, disrupted the status quo.