Sherlock Holmes was, by all accounts, a brilliant man. His ability to see the minutiae, to take small details and assemble them into a complete picture, was rivaled by none. However, his flat mate John Watson was also acutely aware of the areas in which he was less than brilliant. Specifically, social areas. For while Sherlock was as learned in the social niceties as anyone else, he frequently failed to see where they applied.

For instance, at that very moment, in the refrigerator, sat 15 eyeballs. Sherlock claimed to be studying the effect of various ocular diseases on how swiftly the eyes decayed. John was not entirely sure if this was actually true, or if Sherlock was just studying the effect on John's ability to eat left over takeaway. And just last month Sherlock had commented that Molly's vacation had turned her "brown as a nut, and rounder, too" whereupon Molly had cried and Sherlock recommended a course of anti-inflammatories and a heating pad. Molly had promptly cried harder.

Incidents like these made John wonder if Sherlock would ever end up with someone. For his part, Sherlock seemed completely oblivious to the fairer sex. Of course, he noticed them to deduce crimes, motives, and alibis. But merely to appreciate them as creatures, to find love or solace or company, Sherlock seemed completely uninclined. John would not be surprised if the idea of love had occurred to Sherlock long ago, but had been neatly dismissed as something that would distract him from his cases.

And then one day left John completely surprised. Sherlock had gone out for some take away Chinese food. John fervently hoped that this included food for him as well. Sherlock only managed to remember about half the time. Last time he had been so enamored of Bach's third cantata that he had rushed home to play it, leaving all the food behind.

But this time Sherlock returned, not only with an armful of food, but also with a beautiful young woman in tow. The woman was of average height, thin, with long dark hair that flowed pleasingly down her back. Her face was pretty and exotic. John immediately wondered what marvelous combination of ethnicities had produced the lovely creature, and then wondered if Sherlock was interested in her for precisely the same reason.

As she smiled and introduced herself, John felt the blood rushing through his head. He just managed to mutter,"How'd you do?" as his cheeks flushed bright red. Sherlock nodded.

"Yes, yes, quite as I thought," Sherlock said, meaning John's reaction. The woman looked curiously at Sherlock but did not press for an explanation. John fervently hoped Sherlock would not offer one. Fortunately he had already moved on.

"Gwen has taken 221C," Sherlock told John.

"I hear I'm in for some violin practice," she said with a smile.

"You're American," John said in surprise. Sherlock nodded.

"Mrs. Hudson has been telling Gwen about my profession. So she decided not to tell me anything about herself. Test my powers of deduction."

"He's on the west coast right now," Gwen said.

"Say borough," Sherlock demanded. Gwen obligingly repeated it.

"California," Sherlock told her, with conviction. "You're missing a phoneme only those from Washington, Oregon, and California don't have. And you smile and laugh so much you must be from California."

Gwen raised her eyebrows.

"You are good."

John added, "Well, she has a tan, too."

Sherlock shook his head.

"No, no, that's her natural color. Observe the yellow undertones of her skin, the plump lips, and the lack of cartilage in the nose. She obviously has some Asian mixed in, a darker Asian, possibly Vietnamese or Filipino."

A pause.

"Ah, Filipino it is. Your reaction gave it away."

Gwen looked up at John.

"No wonder you blog about it. It's remarkable."

"You read my blog?"

"I had an interesting hour perusing it. Mrs. Hudson told me about that, too."

Sherlock muttered to himself, "If she actually read the whole thing that puts her reading speed in the top 2%."

Gwen gave John a long, measured look.

"Did you shoot the cabbie?"

John jumped a bit and said, "What?" while Sherlock studied her with appraising eyes.

"Why would you ask that?" Sherlock said.

"The blog, it just ends with the shooting. No catching the shooter. No deductions on who it might be. Just some unknown vigilante with a handgun. You didn't even mention how remarkable of a shot that would be."

"One might exclude information for a number of reasons," Sherlock remarked.

Gwen shrugged.

"Maybe. Maybe you have some clue you're holding back because you're still chasing him. But why would you chase down a good guy? So that's not the reason. No, you're protecting someone. Can't be Lestrade. A detective inspector would hardly get in trouble for shooting a murderer. But John…well, he was in war. He could have made that shot. He would have reason to protect you. But he would hardly make a good assistant if he were wading through a murder inquiry. So my money is on John."

John stared at Sherlock. So that was why he liked her.

"So how did you end up here?" John asked, trying to change the subject.

Gwen smiled.

"Ask Sherlock. He's the man with the answers today."

John turned his gaze to Sherlock.

"You're smart. Analytical. Intuitive. Someone is bound to have noticed. You wouldn't have moved continents without the promise of a good, stable job. Compound that with the fact that you've taken a flat in my building, of all places, and I would say Mycroft hired you."

Gwen's eyes were dancing. Sherlock shrugged.

"I'd much prefer that choice. Option number 2 is that you're a plant by Moriarty."

Gwen's eyes swept the two of them.

"Who's Moriarty?"

John sighed.

"Let's eat while them food is still hot. And let's just say if you see a fashionable, oddly voiced maniac around here, stay out of his way."

Gwen snorted.

"Sounds like most of San Francisco."

Sherlock produced plates and utensils while John and Gwen set out the food.

"Does he really keep body parts in the fridge?"

John shuddered slightly.

"Right now it's a bunch of bloody eyeballs."

Gwen let out a small laugh. Just then her phone chimed. She eyed the screen regretfully.

"Sorry, boys, work calls. I'm off. Enjoy your dinner."

And she bounced out of the flat before either could protest.

John eyed Sherlock, who dug into his food with an absent minded expression. This was definitely going to be interesting.

Downstairs, in 221C, Gwen pushed the door closed with a sigh and leaned against it. She typed into her phone: 'Subject contacted and engaged. Awaiting further instructions.'

400 miles away, Jim Moriarty stared off into the distance and smiled.