Hello all!

I thought I'd get started on a new piece of work in honor of Valentine's Day and our favorite consulting criminal. Enjoy!

I never thought that it would end like this, a sea of quotes on notecards surrounding me as I failed to write a single sentence. I'd been working on my final essay for what felt like hours, but upon looking at the clock, I realized that it had only been one. I let my head fall against my head as I sighed. I wasn't going anywhere with this. My body ached for a break, but I continued to tell it that until I wrote my introduction paragraph, I was going to remain on this couch, numb or not in my seat. I knew my thesis, I knew what it was that I wanted to write about, but the words just weren't coming. I was uninspired, unmotivated. However, above all else, I was disciplined. That would be my saving grace this semester, along with my cup of coffee that finally went tepid.

Two o' clock. It was certainly too early to have a drink, even if it was five o' clock somewhere. Just do it, I told myself. Just do it, Sherry. It was time. I was going to write like my life depended on it. Or—I was going to, until I heard the sound of the mailman. Okay, just…one paragraph, I pleaded with myself. Reward yourself by getting the mail. That's all you have to do. One. Paragraph. Taking a deep breath, I plunged in. At the very least, there was always editing and revising. It was just a first draft. Don't take every word you say so personally. Nothing has to be perfect on the first try, I argued with myself.

Five minutes passed. My paragraph was six sentences, followed my fool-proof introduction-paragraph-structure, was done. That's all it had to be. Not perfect, just done. It'd only have to be perfect when I turned it in. My scholarship was depending on it.

Relieved, I stood up and grabbed the mail from outdoors. I half-prayed, silently, begging whatever higher power there was to eradicate all bills from today's envelopes. No such luck. Phone bill, student loans from undergrad, and…oh. This isn't mine. This was the third time I'd gotten his mail. I wanted to consider it fate, but really, it was just a distraction from my paper. I stared at the blank envelope, deciding whether I should go give it to him now, or later. My decision process was about half a second long. I'd do anything to get away from the stale air of my living room and disappointing essay.

All I have to do is run it over, I told myself, while putting on some make-up. It'll take five minutes—less than that, even—I told myself, changing into clothes that were much nicer than my 3-day-old pajamas. This mail call is definitely, completely, and totally not a distraction, I told myself, lacing up my shoes.

As I walked outdoors, I kept the envelope under my cardigan, not wanting to get any rain on it. A blank envelope usually meant something important, so I didn't want the weather to tarnish it. I let myself in next door, and trudged up the stairs. In and out, Sherry, in and out. Sherlock will definitely know you're avoiding something. But, really, the third time in a month—maybe it wasn't my place to say, but I didn't know how easy it was to mix up 220B and 221B so frequently.

The first time I'd met Sherlock was when his landlady, Mrs. Hudson, invited me over for tea. "It's not every day you get a new neighbor," she said. She also told me that she'd invited the two men from 221B down for tea as well, since we're neighbors now, after all, and, well, one of them could be a handful, so it was better I see what I was in for up front. John had been courteous, offered to show me some London sights since I was new to the city, and the other, Sherlock, looked bored beyond all belief. Mrs. Hudson gave me a telling look that let me know that that sort of behavior was normal for him. The general ruling was that Sherlock was always going to get on people's nerves. There would be little, if any, exceptions of this rule.

There were two voices behind the door. And one definitely wasn't John's. "Sherlock?" I called out, knocking twice.

No response. Not a client, then, I'd assume. The previous two times, Sherlock had given me a harsh "What now?," but this time, there wasn't a peep.

"I know you're in there. I'm coming in. They did it again." I pulled on the door handle, allowing myself in. No, the other voice definitely wasn't John.

The two men sat across from each other, both now staring at me as I walked in. Sherlock was there, yes, but the other—I'd never seen him before, and he didn't quite look like a client. For starters, he wasn't sitting in the client's chair. I could deduce that much. His hair was brown, slicked back. Dark eyes, brown, I think, but nearly black. He wore a suit that looked more expensive than my apartment's rent. Clean shaven, with…I hated to say it, but, with eyebrows that I thought were better than mine. And, dare I say it, he had a little something to him that made me want to know more. Maybe it was the suit, maybe it was the way he set down his tea as a way of acknowledging my presence. Was I envious, or something else?

"Oh." I paused briefly, then walked over to Sherlock. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you had company," I lied. This looked to be a rather serious call. "Not a client, I take it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes—I was sure of it. "No. He's not," he drawled.

"One of your smart friends, then, is he? I didn't know you were so popular, Sherlock. I'm starting to get jealous," I joked, hitting him with the envelope, which he took out of my hands, and set aside.

"I wouldn't say that." He looked at the other person with an aggravated expression.

The newcomer decided to speak up, finally. "But I am smart, Sherlock. You must give me some credit." A small smirk appeared on his face.

I held up my finger. "Hold up. Not another word." I lowered myself down to Sherlock's level, resting my head upon his shoulder. Sherlock's body language screamed annoyed, but he tended to be annoyed with everything. "Let's see now…" I gazed upon this newcomer, trying to analyze him. I'd hoped I'd picked up a thing or two from Sherlock. Despite his loud bits (and I say that lightly—violin at three in the morning and occasional gunshots tended to be more than simply 'loud bits'), I did find him to be just as intelligent as he said he was. After all, it wasn't every day that you met someone with such a presence. "Hmm…so, mister," I said, not giving him a chance to tell me his name, "you're not a client, as I said before. You're not sitting in the chair. You're here for business. I mean, you're not in the chair, John's not here, and you two don't seem to be having a good laugh about the good ol' days.

"You…don't do public transportation. At all. Your suit is designer, and someone who can afford designer clothing doesn't just take taxis or the metro." I paused, looking at Sherlock, trying to figure out anything else that I could comment upon. Sherlock did it so easily, so naturally. "What else, what else…Oh! You're left-handed. Callouses. And, the way you're holding your tea. So. How did I do?"

A soft laugh. "Very good. Three for three. I'm impressed." The way he said it piqued my interest. His voice held a small lilt. He wasn't British—or at the very least, he didn't grow up here. "Quite good for a novice."

"Thank you, thank you," I pretended to curtsy.

Sherlock held up his hand. "Don't get any wrong ideas. She's not that impressive."

I gave him a quick, slightly-harder-than-friendly slap on the arm. "Well, you don't have to be so rude about it," I laughed. "I think that one of these days, if John is ever sick, that you should take me on one of your cases. I'm just saying."

He looked up at me out of the corner of his eye. "Don't you have an essay to work on? Stop using me as a distraction."

I pursed my lips and rolled my eyes. "I was just about to leave, anyways." A smile reappeared on my face. He was always like that. With some kind words from John, his roommate, I knew not to take any of what he said too personally. "But I'm serious about helping you on a case. Any time you need me, Sherlock. Any time at all." I meandered towards the door. 'In any case, I'll see you later Sherlock. And it was nice meeting you too, mister!" I left before giving him a chance to say his name or giving myself a chance to say mine. I decided upon moving to London to leave a little about myself to the imagination. I couldn't say with any certainty that it helped me succeed in getting friends, but, one could hope. I'd have to move away at some point, anyways.

As I left 221B and entered my own humble abode, I hoped that I had intrigued this other man. I felt compelled to get to know him, but he didn't seem like the type to invite just anyone out for brunch. He looked like he needed a reason to talk to somebody—as though he wasn't one for idle chatter. If there was anything that I was good at, it was making a lasting first impression. I wished it was a good one.

But, if I could wish to be good at one thing right now, I thought to myself as I settled back down in the circle of notecards and quotes, turning on my laptop which had gone to sleep, it'd be writing this godforsaken essay.

And there we have it! I hope you all enjoyed it-let me know your thoughts!