The rain poured over London. Of all the mortal cities he had the pleasure of visiting—or lack thereof—Loki found this one by far more tolerable. Tugging the collar of the black peacoat he had slipped into up around the sharp arches of his pale face, he pushed out into the cool wind and rain. It crashed and hung on him like his thoughts that pelted him at the moment. A place to stay hide run away—anywhere that would hide him. Loki had called ahead and planned a few tours. With his magic, minute as it is, cost was not important. Something quaint enough so that he won't be suspected of foul play, something nice enough that wouldn't be an eyesore. A woman in the Marylebone district had two flats up, although one was mold-ridden. Those were the last stop of the day. First, he'd start in a large flat for purchase at Richmond, then slip over to see the rooms for rent in East Sheen and Barnes. After that, Loki would visit the open areas in Chiswick, Teddington, and Kingston. It was, surely, going to be a long day.

"Sherlock! Is it necessary for you to turn down every case?" John Watson was feeling a bit needled. Honestly, the eccentric sociopath was too much today. Since the Woman had disappeared after the latest escapade, Sherlock Holmes was always bored. However, the infuriating man would not count the blessings that he received so many damnable clients. They weren't all that boring.

"Really, John. Consider the first man, obviously a smoker. His teeth were yellowing and he reeked. The house fire was his mistake, clearly. No foul intentions or murder attempt. Besides, I'd rather wait for him to be murdered and solve that." John's mouth flew open to retort, but Sherlock plowed on. "The woman has been reading too many books. Her eyes were irritated because she either needs glasses or fails to use them. However, it's most likely the latter because she's paranoid. You can tell that by the way she looked over her should three times when she entered. She wouldn't have let her eyes irritate her for so long without going to the doctor. She has most likely been reading far too many curious novels. Thirdly, the older man was coming to us about what he believes to be a divine intervention—he claims to have come face to face with a Norse God. Tell me, Watson, how many people do you know believe in tangible gods walking in to look at a room for rent?"

"Well, you probably would find it more interesting then finding the missing tabby for client number four. I've been watching the news, Sherlock. Haven't you seen the attacks in the Americas a few months back? They say that it was a God that lead that army—a Norse one at that. How unlikely is it?" John pressed. His hands were still, and he was trying his best to, at the very least, get Sherlock to consider doing something other than wallow and collect dead body parts.

"Is that so? Perhaps I should watch more tellie like you, dear John." Sherlock mocked lightly. John's face tugged into a fraction of a frown. Both found themselves jumping up when Ms. Hudson rushed in. She was dressed in clothes a tad more formal than the usual dress. Her hair was done and she had taken to putting on a bit of eye shadow, although there was little of anything else.

"Oh, good. You're both dressed! Splendid. We have a lovely young man coming in to look at the available spaces, and he should be—" Ms. Hudson perked up, stopping midsentence to listen to the short buzz. "That's him! I'll go let him in." John looked at Sherlock, noting that face. When the taller weasel-like man went to squeeze after the older landlady, John clamored to catch his arm.

"No, no. I know that face. Don't terrorize him." John said, words and grip firm. Sherlock responds with a quick eyebrow quirk.

"I don't terrorize them, John. I just analyze." Sherlock, countered, before tugging his arm away and heading down the stairs just in time to hear Ms. Hudson greet the possible occupant. The man in question was tall, taller than Sherlock had figured. His hair was short and slicked back, raven black against the paler than most complexion. He felt John bustle off to the side of him to also get a look. Sharp, pale eyes, not blue exactly and not quite green either, shot over to look at them—and notably glittered with mirth.

"I hope I wasn't interrupting anything." He said, smoothly. British, undoubtedly. His voice didn't tremble and was well suited for his stature and appearance. Sherlock glanced to the side to see John almost flutter at the suggestion.

"We're not—we're colleagues. I'm John Watson." John bristled, although simmered down as the man nodded. He offered a wide, shark-like smile.

"I'm Loki Lawson. If you don't mind me questioning, what is it that you and your colleague do?" Loki asked, intent on causing trouble, if only a little bit. Sherlock began to speak, however, before he could stir the metaphorical pot more.

"I am a consulting Detective, and most notably, the only one in the world. John assists me. You, however.." Sherlock stepped forward, noting the height difference. Roughly four centimeters—"You are obviously in the business of keeping people out of it. You dress indistinctly, and while few flaws could point to office work, you would have wear along the seat of your pants." Loki raised an eyebrow when Sherlock unabashedly leaned around him to check. "There is none. You also dress in well-fitted clothes, and that means that you either buy new clothes regularly or you do not change that much in weight. It's most likely the second due to the lack of nutrition. You take care of yourself, otherwise. Very prideful. Also, named after a God of Mischief? You take after your name. There's slight wrinkling at the corners of your eyes, but no laugh lines visible. You had to keep your entertainment to yourself. Or else you would have been caught. By the way, I'm Sherlock Holmes. Was I wrong about anything?" This coaxed a laugh out of the man, but there was, as Sherlock had said, little motion with his mouth. Most of the emotion was propelled by his eyes. His tongue darted out to dab at paper thin lips.

"No, no. Quite right. Good to meet you, detective." Loki replied, his words working like silk over his silvered tongue. He was well practiced. This mortal was unlike any he had ever had the opportunity of speaking with. While Stark was a genius with his science, this Sherlock Holmes was a man of analyzing. Capable of being a worthy challenge in wit. With a shaggy appearance and almost an addicted craze about him, he would make good entertainment. "Ms. Hudson, I would like the flat upstairs. The one in the basement is a little too moldy for my liking. No offense meant, of course. You can't keep a place so dark in this city with all this rain." Ms. Hudson looked surprised, but, to her credit, nodded briskly and hurried down to wherever she might be keeping the paperwork. Sherlock suspected the common desk.

"What do you do?" John asked, noting that Loki had removed his peacoat. It was now folded neatly over his arm.

"That would be a secret. Want to play a game?" Loki grinned. Sherlock jerked, his eyes focusing on him now.

Hook. Line.

Sinker.

Hey, Quia here! First fiction in a long, long time. Please review if you have time!