Moving had never been pleasant. The whole process was arduous, taking far too much time and entirely unfulfilling since it was never actually finished. Violet had just moved two boxes out of her old closet, untouched since she'd placed them there the last time she moved, and shoved them to the back of the top shelf of her new closet, not to be thought of again until she repeated the whole process over again.

Violet wasn't daft, though; she was all too aware of the fact she caused these problems herself. She knew everything would be easier if she'd just organize everything or take the time to get rid of the things she barely used. The problem with that, however, was most of what she owned was books. Hundreds and hundreds of books now crammed into countless cardboard boxes. She'd much rather move again than get rid of her books.

Of course, the books caused another problem. As a fairly modernized woman, Violet liked to think herself capable of anything she put her mind to, but that belief couldn't really do anything about reality, no matter how much she willed it to. Her five-foot two stature and admittedly noodle-like arms didn't really stand a chance against her book-filled boxes. It was as if each word printed on the pages weighed a pound each. She knew that was impossible, but she nodded her head adamantly at the thought anyway. She'd always had a flair for the dramatic.

"Come on, Vi." She grunted to herself through gritted teeth, huffing and puffing as she leaned over the largest box of all, the last one left in the moving van, "You put it in here, you should be able to get it out. Don't be a baby."

She tucked a few loose, golden blonde curls back underneath her knitted cap and planted her feet more securely on the pavement. Her breath was like smoke in the cold, February air as she steeled herself, gripped the sides of the box, and heaved with all her might. She grunted loudly, begging it to at least budge, but it didn't. Defeated, she slammed her hands down on the floor of the van and threw her head back with a frustrated groan. A few passersby slowed down to look at her but she paid them no mind, too busy glaring at the stupid box in front of her.

Her ears homed in on the voice drifting out from the old brick building she was stationed in front of. Her new building. 221 Baker Street. Through her peripherals, she could see her sweet, new landlady standing just inside of the open doorway.

"Oh, Sherlock dear, get down here and help would you?" Mrs. Hudson called over her shoulder and presumably up the stairs where Violet knew her neighbor lived, "She could use your help. It looks like she's struggling."

Violet groaned and rested her forehead on top of the box. She was embarrassed. It wasn't like her to admit when she was out of her depth and even less like her to admit to needing help. Plus, she'd never met her upstairs neighbor. Mrs. Hudson had had a lot to tell her about him, well, warn her about him really, and Violet was somewhat anxious about meeting him, especially now under these circumstances.

"Sherlock!"

Violet turned to see Mrs. Hudson throw her hands down in exasperation. The small dish towel she was clutching fluttered in the air as she spun around and swiftly climbed the stairs behind her. Violet momentarily thought about going in and asking this Sherlock fellow for help herself, but the noise from inside changed her mind. What sounded like clanging pots and shattering glass echoed down, followed by the deep rumblings of an angry, masculine voice. Violet raised her eyebrows but didn't lift her head off the box.

"Get down there and help!" Mrs. Hudson called out, sounding like she was descending the stairs, "I know your mother raised you to be a gentleman so act like one!"

"Don't bring my mother into this." The man said gruffly, "Besides, the idea of 'gentleman' is so arbitrary I find it both useless and unnecessary for me to endeavor to be one."

Although the man's voice was cold, holding an almost unsettling lack of emotion, Violet couldn't help but smile at his ridiculous words. She disagreed with him, sure, knowing herself to be the sort of person who found the idea of gentlemen and ladies romantic, but he wasn't entirely wrong. There was no fixed definition of 'gentleman' anymore, no true customs to follow in their society now, and it amused Violet tremendously that this man pointed that out so blatantly.

"I'll have none of that, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson scolded, clearly not as entertained as Violet was, "That poor girl has been struggling to unload her things for the better part of half an hour and you are perfectly capable of helping her out."

"I hardly see why I should be punished for her lack of foresight." Sherlock commented. Violet blushed at his words and straightened as he came into view at the base of the stairs.

She didn't know what she expected, but he definitely wasn't it. He was incredibly tall and lean, a fact emphasized dramatically by the black Belstaff coat which covered him, brushing his shins as he moved. The moment she saw him, his eyes fixed on her. She felt uncomfortable under his gaze. It was like he was… reading her. He stepped onto the sidewalk and walked toward her almost like a predator, a calculating look on his face, his posture tall and elegant as his eyes bore into her, a striking cerulean color. They made his angular features sharper and his dark curls darker.

Violet wouldn't admit it outloud but she was intimidated. She did her best not to shrink under his scrutiny, but didn't think she did a very good job because Mrs. Hudson stuck her head out the door to yell after him.

"Do try to be nice to her, will you, Sherlock?" She scolded, seeming almost exhausted, "We want her to stay."

"Speak for yourself." He muttered back without taking his eyes from Violet. They flit over her quickly, taking in… something. Violet wasn't sure what. He came to stand in front of her, his hands deep in his pockets as he stared intensely down at her.

Pushing her nervousness and, what she considered premature, assumptions about this man aside, Violet turned toward him and smiled genuinely. He didn't smile back, didn't even move at all really. Violet didn't let that phase her, though, and kept smiling.

"You're Sherlock, then." She said pleasantly, pushing some more curls back underneath her hat and behind her ear.

"Obviously." He drawled, "Mrs. Hudson's been screeching my name for the last five minutes. Hardly a deduction."

Violet cocked her head to the side. Sherlock watched her in an almost bored manner and her lips quirked up the tiniest bit.

"You're funny, you know that?"

He looked startled.

"What?"

Violet giggled and rubbed her hands together, trying to warm them up.

"I said you're funny."

Sherlock hummed deep in his throat, not amused but curious. He leaned away from her the smallest bit so he wasn't towering over her anymore, and began assessing her all over again. Violet stood there calmly, equally as curious by him as he seemed to be by her. She watched his eyes as they danced over her, watched how his eyebrows pinched ever so slightly in the middle, how his bow shaped lips stayed in a constant line.

He was actually quite handsome.

With that realization, Violet coughed lightly to herself and looked away, feeling a tad uncomfortable as her cheeks heated up.

"Well," she chirped, "since Mrs. Hudson forced you out here, would you mind helping me with this box? It's a little too heavy for me, it seems."

"Yes. It is." He said, narrowing his focus on her arms and legs, "Your muscle mass is exceedingly low. 22% at the most I'd say. Barely healthy even for your stature."

Violet laughed humorlessly, averting her eyes and trying her best not to get upset.

"Yeah, I know." She picked at a loose thread in her gloves, "I'm going to do my best to change it though. New Year's resolution and all that."

Sherlock made a disbelieving sound in the back of his throat, "I wouldn't count on it. Only 8% of people keep their New Year's resolutions and even less when changing diet or exercise."

Violet chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, mulling over his words before smiling.

"Well, then." She glanced up at him, her grin seeming to confuse him, "If only 8% of people keep their resolution, I'll change mine to not keeping my resolution." She tapped her temple with her finger, "Reverse psychology. That raises my chances, statistically."

She continued to giggle, even more so when Sherlock simply continued to stare at her.

"Come on." She said, waving him toward the back of the van, "The quicker we get this box inside, the quicker I can warm up and start unpacking..."

Sherlock picked up the box before she had even finished her sentence and was halfway through the door as she trailed off. With a small sigh and a shake of her head, she locked up the moving van and followed after the tall, abrasive man she'd let walk off with her things.

Closing the door to the building behind her, Violet stopped in the hallway to stomp the snow off her boots. It melted into the doormat quickly, the flat was quite toasty; a fact Violet was exceedingly grateful for. She only paused there in the hall for a second more before noticing her flat door was cracked open. She quickly scampered in, tugging her wool poncho off over her head and tossing it on the coat stand she'd placed by the door earlier.

"Would you like some tea?" She threw the question over her shoulder as she stuffed her gloves into the pockets of her poncho. When there was no response, she spun around and folded her arms over her chest, amused, as she watched Sherlock.

He stood in the middle of her run down living room. The movers had delivered her furniture earlier that morning, but it did little to hide the peeling wallpaper and overall dreariness of the flat. Sherlock's eyes jumped from the cracks in the ceiling, to the dripping tap in the kitchen, down to the practically bursting cardboard boxes lining the walls, over the dusty furniture, then back to the ceiling. Mrs. Hudson had told Violet enough about him for her to know what he was doing.

"Find anything?" She smiled a little as she sat down on the arm of her couch.

Sherlock looked around for another moment before turning to face her fully. Although his face still held the indifference she'd come to realize was normal for him, his eyes held a glint of knowing which hadn't been there before. Violet almost raised her brows at the sight, but settled with a small smile when Sherlock walked toward her.

"Everything of interest." He stated confidently, an arrogant tone lacing his words. Violet did raise her brow at that.

"Do tell, Mr. Holmes." She was curious now.

"Based on the chalk stains on your sleeves, the stacks of essays in your bag," He pointed to said bag which lay on her dining room table, "and the copious amounts of short story collections in your library, I know you're a professor."

Violet nodded in approval. She wasn't surprised though, that wasn't too hard to notice. Sherlock pressed on though, barely even stopping to breathe.

"Also based on your library, you teach English of some sort. Your young age and position at a university tell me you're of higher than average intelligence, you graduated upper schooling very early." He looked her over for a moment, "Fifteen I'd say. Yes. Graduated at fifteen or sixteen, at the top of your class, and therefore went on to university to earn multiple degrees in more than one field. Not just English and not just the arts."

He paused for a moment and Violet watched as he opened a particular cardboard box with his foot.

"There are small chemical stains in the corner of this box, so you either studied chemistry or some sort of forensics." He leaned over a little to peer at the contents before nodding to himself, "Forensics. By the fingerprinting kit."

Now, Violet was a little impressed. He'd noticed the barely there stains on that box. She'd been carrying it around with her for a little over a month and hadn't cared enough to notice. She was about to tell him he was right but he continued on.

"Based on the fact you don't own a car but do own several pairs of expensive running shoes, I know walking is your prefered mode of travel. Take that and counter in the location of this flat as well as the degrees offered by each university in London, it's most probable you work at University College London."

Violet nodded quickly. She was quite proud of that fact. The smile on her face slipped a little, though, when she saw Sherlock's eyes narrow. He walked swiftly toward her, standing almost so that their shoes touched. She had to crane her neck to look at him, though it wasn't like he cared, he was too busy deducing, or, as she was quickly noticing, showing off.

"This flat is barely liveable." He stated, his eyes boring into her, "Mrs. Hudson hasn't rented it out for years due to how expensive it is to renovate. Any normal person would steer clear of a place like this but you seem unbothered by moving somewhere in such a state. I'd say you're used to untidiness, but your overall personality, profession, and educational record demand a certain level of order. By eliminating that, the only answer is that you have some money to your name. A small fortune, based on the fact you picked here to live rather than a nicer, more accessible flat, but a fortune nonetheless."

Now, Violet was speechless. He'd gotten that simply from the fact she'd rented the flat. He was either incredibly, unbelievably lucky, or incredibly, unbelievably brilliant. She hoped it was the latter.

"Now where'd the fortune come from?" Sherlock asked rhetorically, tilting his head a little to the side and allowing himself to smile. It wasn't warm in the least. He was building up to something and Violet suddenly found herself becoming nervous.

"Young women are often glued to their cell phones." He said, "I myself use mine an ardent amount, often checking it multiple times an hour and researching for my cases. However, in the ten minutes I observed you from my window when you first arrived and the twenty minutes we have been forced to be together, there have been no alerts or notification of any kind. Neither have you once glanced at your phone to check it. As a young woman who just moved, you'd expect some sort of family or friend to contact you. I believe it is also courtesy to check in for these sorts of things. Pair that with the fact that you moved by yourself, with no help other than my own, it's clear you either have no family or are estranged from them, and have few if any friends."

Violet slipped her hand into her back pocket and gripped her phone in her hand. It hadn't rung all day, probably not even all week. She blinked away tears.

"Your fortune must come from deceased family members then. Most likely your parents though it could also be an aunt or uncle. However, since you haven't received communication of any kind and your pupils dilated when I mentioned your parents, I'd bet on them."

Violet swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded.

"There are coupons from the pet store down the street on your bed." Sherlock took a step back, changing the subject off her parents. Something she was grateful for, "You placed them there so you wouldn't lose them in the move, so you clearly intend to use them. You obviously do not currently have a pet, so it's fair to say you've been thinking about getting one. A dog by your lifestyle and aforementioned running shoe collection. You want a pet to stave off the crippling loneliness you too often feel. A person of your age and intellect would feel ostracized, even with family, and wouldn't easily fit in with peers. Though that is hardly surprising. Ordinary people are incessantly dull."

Violet stood there, shocked. She hadn't expected that spin, hadn't expected him to say something resembling kindness after his small monologue of her insecurities. If he saw the tears in her eyes from earlier, he didn't show it. He continued to watch her. Although she didn't know this man, she did know that, despite his cold exterior and emotionless mannerisms, he was still a man. Mrs. Hudson had described him to her as some sort of machine, a sociopath without any regard for others. Although Sherlock may truly be a sociopath, Violet knew enough about people to know that didn't make him any less human. She also knew enough about people to know Sherlock Holmes wasn't the worst person she'd met. Not even close.

Despite the still lingering tears in her eyes and the emotional rollercoaster she'd just been taken on, Violet smiled up at the imposing man before her.

"Would you like some tea?" She repeated her offer from earlier, earning her the most confused and downright lost expression she'd ever seen. Sherlock jerked back minutely like he'd received a small electric shock.

"Tea?" He asked, disbelieving.

Violet laughed, wiping the moisture from her eyes, "Yes. Tea. Ever have tea before?"

"Of course I've had tea." He scoffed, sounding more like his previous self before his face softened again, "It's just. People don't usually offer me tea after I deduce them."

"I bet." She laughed more heartily this time. It bubbled from her belly and past her lips easily, "I'm imagining broken noses on your end and a lot of imaginative name calling from the offended parties."

Sherlock smirked, "Of a wide variety, I assure you."

Violet giggled again and the two shared a small, brief smile before Sherlock sobered, folding his hands neatly behind his back. Violet continued to smile at him, finding amusement in his little mannerisms.

"So," she clapped lightly as she stood, "tea or no?"

He looked apprehensive. His eyes drifted toward the door and Violet rolled her eyes as she walked into the kitchen.

"Don't pretend like you have somewhere better to be, Sherlock."

His eyes darted back to her. She could feel his gaze on her as she filled up her teapot with water, but didn't turn to look at him. She knew already that he wasn't used to companionship, friendship even, and she didn't want to pressure him. The silence drifted on for another moment or two and Violet happily set her teapot on the stove just before the sound of a chair scraping along the ground caught her attention.

"I believe it is customary to repay someone for time spent helping you move." Sherlock declared, falling down into the seat at the table, "I'll have one cuppa then."

Violet chuckled as she retrieved her teacup set from one of the boxes in the kitchen and began to clean them.

"You're right." She said, "It is customary. Though I hope you're not here simply out of obligation. I'm certainly not serving you tea out of obligation."

The room fell quiet and Violet wondered for half a second if Sherlock had gotten up and left without her noticing, but he soon spoke.

"I see you have several Bukowski novels."

"Is that a deduction, Mr. Holmes?" Violet teased without turning.

"Simply an observation."

Violet hummed, "Which is your favorite of his?"

"Factotum." He said simply, "Though that is the only novel of his I find worth my time. Most of his work is entirely too sentimental, riddled with emotional dirge for what should be rather than what is."

Just then, the tea kettle whistled and Violet hastened to remove it from the stovetop. She dropped the tea bags in and turned to Sherlock fully. Leaning back against the counter, she finally took off the cap she'd been wearing. Her golden curls, which had previously been entirely hidden from sight, spilled out, brushing her shoulder blades and surrounding her head in a wide mane.

"Well then, in Factotum, what do you think Bukowski, or should I say Chinaski since he's the main character? What do you think Chinaski should have focused on instead? If he focused too much on what should be I mean."

Sherlock was silent. Violet assumed this was him thinking over his answer, but she quickly remembered who she was with. Sherlock didn't take long to answer anything. She looked over at him too see him staring openly at her, his eyes narrowed slightly and far off. It looked like he was lost in his mind, she could practically see the gears turning.

Smiling softly, she turned and poured the now brewed tea into two of her favorite, yellow teacups and set them on the table. One in front of Sherlock, the handle facing him if he ever emerged from that brain of his, and the other in front of the chair beside him. She gathered milk and sugar from the fridge, then her favorite novel from her bag. Great Expectations. Sherlock would most likely consider that a typically mundane preference, but she didn't care. She'd debate him on it if he ever came out of his stupor.

For now though, everything was silent. Violet sat beside the still Sherlock, folding her legs underneath her and cracking open her book. She drank her tea, perfectly content to read and wait.