Disclaimer: I do not own any characters from BBC's Sherlock or the collective works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes.

And So it Began

It was a relatively quiet afternoon in 221B Baker Street.

At least, if one were to count Mrs. Hudson arguing with a certain consulting detective for setting the kitchen table on fire with an experiment yet again, quiet, then it was basically business as usual. For Dr. John Watson, this was definitely the case.

"-and just look at the state of the kitchen, Sherlock!"

"I fail to see the problem."

"You have toes in the refrigerator!" Mrs. Hudson cried. John watched her puttering around the kitchen, straightening up, whilst Sherlock followed right behind, undoing it all.

"Well," Sherlock snapped, swiping a beaker of heaven knows what out of the landlady's reach. "I could hardly leave them out— John would complain too much and they would decay far too quickly to be of any use to me."

John rolled his eyes at the last statement before turning back to his laptop. At his wife's insistence (read that as threats), John had decided to take the evening off from helping with the new baby and instead spend it with his childish best friend. He had been hoping for a nice quite evening, though he should have remembered that such an occurrence would never happen around Sherlock.

Deciding what he needed was a nice hot cup of tea to make it through the evening, John heaved himself out of his armchair and wove his way between the feuding Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson towards the refrigerator.

He had just opened the door and pulled out the milk carton when Sherlock broke off mid argument and said, "I'm out of milk, John."

John looked down at the carton in his hand, giving it a little shake, only to find that it was at least half-full. He glanced up at Sherlock, confused. "What do you mean? This is-"

"Not milk."

Knowing better than to check to see what the liquid was, John carefully placed the not-milk back in its spot before quickly washing his hands at the kitchen sink. After drying his hands on his jumper (there was no dish rags that he felt comfortable using), John went over to where his coat was hanging and pulled it on.

"Right," he said to no one in particular, "I'll just go down to the store then." When neither responded as they had continued their row, John trudged down the steps towards the front door. Maybe he should buy some towels as well as some milk? He opened the door and was just about to step out when he was punched in the face.

"Bloody Hell!" John said, grabbing his nose and stepping backwards.

"Oh my- I- I am sorry, sir! I was trying to knock on the door, but you oh- I'm so sorry." Cold hands wrapped around his wrist and pulled his hands away from his face. "Let me see, maybe I can help?"

John waved his apologetic attacker off. "No, it's alright, nothing broken," He said, straightening up to look at the person who had just punched him.

"Are you sure, sir?" The young woman before him asked, wringing her pale hands.

John gave a tight smile. "Yes, I'm a doctor."

"Oh." She shifted from foot to foot and tucked a strand of her long brown hair behind her ear, obviously uncomfortable.

She couldn't have been more than twenty, John guessed, and had he not had a wife and baby at home, he probably would have made a flirtatious joke about her hitting on him.

"Can I help you?" John finally said after an awkward silence, figuring the woman wasn't going to start speaking.

The woman bit her lip and nodded. She reached inside the pocket of her black pea coat and pulled out a piece of paper with 221B written neatly across the top of it. "I'm here to see a Mr. S. Holmes?"

"Oh, a client then?" John stepped out of the way to let her enter. "Please, come in."

The woman looked slightly confused, but stepped in anyway and allowed him to lead her up the steps.

"Sherlock!" John called out, hoping that the consulting detective would pause his argument with the landlady long enough to actually do his job. "You've got a client."

The shouting stopped abruptly, and Mrs. Hudson scurried out of the flat, muttering under her breath about how the table would be going on his rent. She gave John and the woman a sweet smile, and said that she would bring up some tea for them in a moment.

John waved the woman into the sitting room and pulled out the chair for her to sit in. She thanked him and took the chair, though she looked more like she wanted to jump out the window then be sitting in it. Sherlock was nowhere to be found, presumably gone to change out of his dressing gown.

"So, uh, I never asked for your name," John said, hoping to break the uncomfortable silence. "I'm John, by the way. John Watson"

The woman squirmed in the seat, before answering, "Birdy Mason. Well, Bridget Mason, I suppose if you want to get technical about it, but I've always gone by Birdy." She pulled off her purple knit hat and began to play with the bobble on the top, refusing to make eye-contact with the doctor. Birdy reached up to pat down her hair as an afterthought, which had been standing up with static.

John thought that the name fit the woman in front of him— with her thin face, coltish body, and nervous energy, Ms. Mason reminded him very much of a baby bird.

John was spared from responding by Sherlock's entrance into the sitting room, fully dressed in a suit. "You have three minutes to explain. Give me facts. Don't be dull."

Birdy's eyes widened and she glanced at John in panic.

"Tell us about the case you want him to solve, and he will tell you if we will take it," John explained with a smile, hopping to calm the woman.

"I-I'm afraid I don't understand," she stuttered. "I think this has been a mistake." She stood abruptly from her spot and looked like she was about to make a mad dash for the door.

"Sit down please, Ms. Mason." Sherlock said, turning to stare at the woman intently.

John knew that look. He opened his mouth, but found that it was too late before Sherlock was rattling off deductions.

"Lifelong dancer, most likely ballet, with that posture. Left handed. Untreated generalised anxiety disorder and possibly OCD. Bookworm that doesn't get out much, mostly because of your anxiety disorders. Non-smoker and no perfume, so I'm guessing you have severe allergies, which explains why you own no pets, though now listening to your breathing pattern, I'm guessing you have a moderate to severe case of asthma. You play the cello, and John makes you uncomfortable, because you punched him in the nose."

John snapped his head towards the consulting detective. "How on earth did you-"

"Your nose is red, and I heard your conversation downstairs. It wasn't that difficult of a leap," Sherlock sneered. "Now, Ms. Mason, if you feel that I will be unable to help you, then please, do stop wasting my time."

"Ten out of twelve," Birdy said after a moment. "But that was very nice, sir."

"What?" It was Sherlock's turn to look startled. It wasn't as if he was used to being correct about everything with his deductions, but to have a person respond in such a way…

"Ten out of twelve of your observations were correct," Birdy responded, slowly inching her way back to the chair. "Well, really nine and a half, but I'll round it up. I have a pet fish, and my anxiety disorders are being treated."

John watched as Sherlock's face shifted from surprise to intrigue. If John hadn't expected the woman in front of them to grow a backbone, then Sherlock sure as hell hadn't either.

"And the last one?" Sherlock said, closing the distance between himself and the brunette until he was towering over her.

Birdy unfolded the piece of paper she had in her hands and turned it so that Sherlock could see it. "I found your message in the paper," she explained. "And I'm here to see about the extra bedroom here in 221B."

(A/N: Hi there! Thanks for reading my story. If you liked the chapter, tell me in the comments. If you thought something could be improved, also leave me a comment. Basically, leave me a comment! –CheckAlexa)