Just a little something I was inspired to write, as inspiration is so hard to come by these days with me. I hope you enjoy! Xxx

"Boys! Boys! You have a visitor!"

There was something about how the woman said those words that made Meredith slightly suspicious. Of course, had she known what she was about to walk into, she probably would of turned the other way and gotten out of London as quickly as she'd came.

The small lady who waltzed up the stairs in front of her seemed flustered. This was just her, though, but Meredith, at that time, did not know it. She did not know who her Uncle was sharing a flat with, nor did she know what a complete sociopath he was. No, she had no idea why Mrs Hudson, who'd introduced herself so happily at the front door, was now in such a flap about her turning up so unexpectedly.

Bang.

With a little bit of hindsight, one would come to expect noises such as these coming from 221B Baker Street. As Meredith had never been there before, she jumped at the rather loud sound. "Was that a gun?" She said in shock to Mrs Hudson's back.

"I don't think so dear," The old lady said, her voice an octave higher than it should have been. "Boys!"

"I've told him to stop it, I really have,"

The next voice, however, was very familiar to Meredith. Very familiar indeed.

"Tell him to stop that now! There is a young lady here who claims she knows you!" Mrs Hudson made a clear way through the doorway so John Watson was in full view. Her uncle, who had been using a crutch the last time Meredith had spoken to him, fell short on his reply, looking startled, to say the least.

Meredith could have sworn he had been taller. But then again, she hadn't seen him since she was ten. Her appearance had probably changed a great deal in the nine years they hadn't seen each other. He might not even recognise her!

"Meredith?"

Ok. So he did recognise her. Well, that was something of start.

"Hi," said Meredith meekly, stepping into the flat, her eyes scanning the room. There was a skull on the mantelpiece. A violin. A happy face spray painted onto the wall and it was very...well dark. The walls were dark, lit up by the fireplace with brown patterned wall paper, and furniture stood besides it, basking in its warmth. She could figure out quite quickly that whoever lived there with John didn't exactly care for his tastes. Whoever lived there with John was quite the character.

"What...what are you doing here?" John asked, still quite baffled.

Meredith had sensed the other presence in the room far long before she'd looked at him. The man was perfectly still, draped across the grey coloured sofa with his eyes firmly shut. She noticed the gun propped in his hands, before looking back to her Uncle. "I'm going to college here. Didn't you get my messages?"

"I erm...well there were quite a lot of them, I was going to listen to them-"

"But you've been busy? Yeah. I figured." Meredith tucked a blond curl behind her ear.

"What a beautiful niece you have! I couldn't believe it when I opened the door. I used to dream about hair like that," Mrs Hudson chimed as she emerged from the kitchen with a tray. "Aren't you going to ask her to sit down? I'm not your housekeeper you know!"

"Yes I know Mrs Hudson," John deadpanned, leading Meredith to an armchair.

"Do sit up Sherlock! You have a guest!" Mrs Hudson scolded the silent and still man. With his eyes still closed, he pointed the gun at the wall and shot it. Meredith jumped. She stared at him with wide eyes, not quite sure how someone could be so stupid as to fire a gun in a domestic flat.

She stood up quickly, marched over and grabbed the gun from his hands. The man's eyes shot open quickly, looking at her as if she'd sprouted a few extra arms. Meredith glared at him, this man called Sherlock, who she'd never seen or met in her life, his eyes as blue as a sheet of ice.

"If you insist on letting us all know how loud a gun sounds inside a flat, how about I shoot you in the ear. It might save us all some time."

The silence was rather heavy. John, who had been in shock for the latter, put a hand over his mouth to hide the small smile forming. Meredith had always been a firecracker. Maybe this could work to his advantage.

Meredith and Sherlock were still glaring at each other. She watched him slowly rise up from the couch, trying not to be intimidated as he towered over her.

"Young. I'd say, probably nineteen. A little late to be starting college, most start earlier but you, you couldn't start college because of your mother-"

John groaned "Sherlock..."

"-she's a drastically terrible mother, but you still love her, you're wearing a necklace she bought you, probably for a birthday she actually bothered to remember, and you've clung onto it ever since. You have sister, those were her boots but she threw them out, there are scratch marks on the sides where they've been pulled out of a bin, which suggests you don't have a lot of money, so unless you received some money from benefits, you must of got inheritance from a dead relative, most likely a beloved grandparent, and you're using it to pay for college. You have a few spots of green nail polish on you index finger, right hand, so you must be studying beauty therapy, a woolly subject but looks like it suits you nonetheless, and you've come all the way to London because your boyfriend dumped you a few weeks ago, who you've been crying about just this morning as there are red rims beneath your eyes."

Sherlock had such pale skin, his eyes were even more vividly defined than ever. His hair was black, curled over his head thickly, and one curl clung to his forehead. He looked ageless, like time had stood still for him. Meredith searched him with her green eyes. She could usually figure people out pretty quickly. Not that she went to the extreme of analysing every detail, of course. But she usually got the measure of someone rather easily. Sherlock, however, had a wall built up in front of him. A very thick wall.

"This is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. My flatmate," John introduced weakly, as his niece and rather intimidating looking friend stared at each other, or more prudently, glowered at one another.

"You have my gun." Sherlock said in a low voice, barely above a whisper. Meredith tilted her head.

"Do I? I'd forgotten with you blabbering on about my life,"

"So I was right then?"

Meredith smiled. "A little." She turned from him, placing the gun down on a small table. "You have an interesting friend," She said to John, sitting on one of the armchairs.

"What do you mean 'a little?'" Sherlock demanded.

"Tell me about it." John replied, looking a little unsure as Sherlock strode over to their side of the sitting room. "Sherlock-"

"Tell me what I got wrong," The tall brooding man demanded again, cutting off John completely and not taking his eyes away from Meredith. She looked slightly offended, not used to his rudeness.

John couldn't help but feel like he was being ignored, yet again. Sometimes with Sherlock around he seemed to fade into the background, especially if he was interested in something. And this something appeared to be Meredith. Meredith, who, when John had last seen her, had been ten years old and riding her bike down the council estate where she'd grown up. She'd always had mad, thick curly hair, but somehow it seemed to have multiplied, flowing down to the small of her back thickly. He couldn't understand how nine years had changed her so. Of course, he'd always recognise her; no one could have green eyes like that. They were the eyes of his sister, whom Meredith had directly inherited them from. Even now, when he looked at her, he could picture Harriet clearly in his mind. The Harriet who hadn't been consumed by alcohol, life...the lot.

"Well, first of all, this is paint, not nail polish." Meredith said as she held up her slender fingers to Sherlock, who narrowed his icy eyes threateningly. "I'm studying Art at college."

Sherlock still stared at her. "Is that all?"

"No. If you must know, I wasn't crying this morning because my boyfriend dumped me, I had an argument with my Mum on the phone."

"Same thing." He drawled. "Anything else?"

"Do you like being an arrogant know it all?" Meredith asked sharply.

Sherlock's lips twitched upwards. "Aha, so I got the rest right, didn't I?" he stretched his arms over his head, looking pleased with himself. Meredith had a burning urge to slap his sharp cheekbones. Who the hell was this man and why was he such a prick?

"Who exactly are you?"

John decided it was about time he chipped in. "If anyone has remembered I'm here, Sherlock is an erm, Consulting Detective, as it goes. And I'm his-"

"Assistant. He's my assistant." Sherlock finished.

"Oh...oh." Meredith suddenly realised something. She looked at the pair of them. "You two are...well...together?"

"No! No, no!" John exclaimed, his face turning an extreme shade of magenta. "No! I'm not his bloody assistant and we are definitely not gay!"

Meredith held her hands up. "Sorry, sorry. It's ok you know, Mum was-"

"I know she was," John ran a hand over his face. "How is your Mum?"

And there it was. The question Meredith knew had been stewing in John's mind the minute he had seen her walk through that doorway. One part of her brain told her to lie, but the other told her it wasn't her place to lie for her mother. Anyway, John knew what was going on; he knew she couldn't stop drinking. And Laura wouldn't lie either.

"She's been better,"

"Oh. Yeah...and erm, Laura?"

Meredith snorted into her tea. "The witch never speaks to me unless she wants something, I have no idea how she is,"

"Yeah she always was a bit...evil,"

"Oh my lord! BORING!" Sherlock, the strange tall man who lived in 221B Baker Street, exclaimed very loudly, glancing at the gun lying on the table. He must of thought better of it, because instead he flopped down on the sofa beneath the smiley face.

John shook his head. "Sorry about him. He likes to be the centre of attention," His words got louder as he shot the sulking Sherlock a dark look.

"Oh go on, continue talking about your boring, mundane lives!" He cried, throwing his hands over his face.

"It's a good job I'm used to weird." Meredith muttered to herself. "Anyway, I should go. I have to unpack and enrol, you know, it's what us boring and mundane people do,"

Sherlock didn't respond. John grinned a little bit, standing up as Meredith drained the remains of her tea. "It was really good to see you Meredith,"

"Yeah you too Uncle John," She smiled, giving him a bone crushing hug. "And Sherlock. You were right about my necklace but...My Mum bought it me for Christmas, not my birthday. She never did remember that."

As Meredith left the apartment, Sherlock jumped from his position on the sofa and bounded to the window. He watched as her mass of blond curls disappeared down the street, his eyes narrowed in annoyance. John observed his friend for a moment, one eyebrow arched.

"Three."

"What?" Sherlock grumbled, grabbing his violin.

"Three things. You usually get one thing wrong. You got...three."

"Shut up."

The rest of John's sniggers were drowned out by his rather aggressive playing.

...

A review is always welcome!