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I had had many fantasies about Sherlock Holmes living with me in my flat since I'd met him, but none of them had prepared me for the mental anguished I had suffered over the past three months. I didn't regret helping him; I just wished I knew what I was getting myself into before I so willingly participated. But I look back on it now with fondness—he'd told me I counted to him, and that he needed me. Hearing that from him was conformation enough that something was indeed wrong. I couldn't deduct like him, and maybe I wasn't as intelligent as him, but I knew that I was going to play a large role in his future even without such grandiose knowledge.

And here I was, the result of jumping all in, few questions asked—cleaning out dried blood and leftover body parts out of my fridge during my time away from work. This was mild considering what I'd had to put up with in the past few months. I finished scrubbing the kitchen with bleach, and went to the living room to see if he'd shot any more holes into the walls of my flat out of 'boredom'.

'Sherlock,' I called, quite curious about the knives sticking out of random wood fixtures throughout the living area. 'Why are all of my kitchen knives about the flat?'

'Bored!' he yelled back, his deep baritone sounding oddly childish. There was more than a hint of disdain behind his words, and I couldn't blame him. It's not like he could go anywhere…it was too soon, and people would still recognize him, the 'fake detective'.

'I don't think that should give you incentive to destroy your home away from home.' Home away from home—I'd made the mistake of calling this his home, and he'd made one of his rare appearances outside of his room while I was at the flat. Don't think that just because I am stuck in this miserable place for the time-being that it makes it my home. I winced at the memory. The first month had been rough—he'd said some of his classic rude monologue, but it was on a higher level. It had all been directed at me and no one and nothing else. Then suddenly, voila, he became nicer and started showing his face a little more. That's around the time I began noticing the dead body parts in my ice box.

'Molly Hooper do you not realize that the contents of your flat can only keep an intelligent mind entertained for a few very brief, very sad, seconds?' He emerged wearing a pair of slim black trousers and an un-tucked grey button up. 'My mind palace is bigger than this apartment and a great deal more entertaining, so you must excuse me for indulging myself in a few experiments for the duration of my stay in your…charming flat.' He looked at me with a sarcastic smile.

'To each their own.' I said, getting used to his snide remarks about my apartment.

'You say that quite often.'

'A deduction? Well, deduct this—I state that every time you insult me or my flat.'

He was silent for a moment and then retreated back into his room. I still fancied him, that was no doubt; and the time spent together made me fancy him even more. But, there were times when he was beyond infuriating. Now, would be an example.

I walked into my room, dragging my feet after my long day at work—four bodies, all of them were very obvious, so I had spent her day in the lab, looking at blood samples under microscopes. At nine I finally got to leave, only to come home to this.

I stripped down, goose bumps forming from the cold I hadn't noticed before then. I started the shower and hopped in, the steam relaxing away the tension I had coiled beneath my skin. I methodically massaged at my neck, my arms, my lower back. I washed my body three times—Sherlock often complained of the smell of formaldehyde. I washed my hair in the same pattern, and then let the water run over me until suddenly the pressure went out. I shut it off and threw on my dressing gown, my stomach finally responding to the hours of fasting it'd endured.

'Bacon, bacon…I know I had some bacon in here…' I searched the clean fridge for my bacon and it was nowhere to be found. 'I could kill him. Literally, kill him.' My blood felt hot, and I could feel myself getting warm in my gown. 'I said Sherlock, please don't eat the bacon—that's my dinner. Does he listen? No.' I deepened my voice, mocking him.

'I'll have you know that I didn't eat your bacon.' He stepped out of his room in a white tee and flannel pajama bottoms, his dark curls drenched and smelling like men's body soap. 'It's in a bowl, top shelf to the left. I had an experiment earlier and it evolved me cooking bacon, so don't think anything of it.'

With that he stalked out of the room, without telling me which strips of bacon could have possibly been poisoned…so I settled on a bowl of cereal, hoping not everything in my flat was tainted with the experiments of Sherlock.

It was a quarter after one until my head finally hit the pillow. I was exhausted, sore, and tired enough to fall asleep without putting pajama's on- in my dressing gown.

What do you need Sherlock?

You.

What can I do?

Help me.

With what? You're being so vague.

I'm going to die, Molly, and I need you to help me live.

What do you mean you're going to die? You're fine!

Trust me. I trust you.

I trust you. I do. I believe in you, Sherlock.

Do you remember Irene Adler?

Yes, she died a while ago…why?

She didn't die. She faked her death and then hid. I need to do the same.

How could I help you with that? I'm just Molly!

Well, first, declare me dead. And then allow me to stay in your flat.

How long?

Until people forget.

Okay.

Thank you, Molly Hooper.

I awoke at seven with the meowing of my cat that was trapped inside my room. He was a free spirit, and his name had originally been Sherlock, but since my new flat mate had taken over, I had to change it…he now went by Tom. So ordinary for such an extraordinary cat…I digress…

I unleashed him from the room and he ran right out immediately. Apparently, this was much to the dismay of my houseguest, who then let out an exasperated sigh.

I closed the door and slipped on a pair of loose khaki's and a jumper. I brushed my hair and considered myself as ready for work as I could be. I was in a fog still, not having had my morning coffee.

Is that violin music? It sounds so sad…

The beautifully depressing melody emanated from Sherlock's room. Before I knew it, I was knocking on his door, not in control of my own body. I wanted to run away, but couldn't command my feet to move.

The music stopped and his door swung open. 'Yes, can I help you Molly?' He asked, and then gave me a once over. 'Are you ill?' he reached out his hand and grabbed my wrist, placing to fingers over the blue vein there. My pulse, which was already dangerously high, began to beat even more furious than before.

'Wh-what would make you ask if I was ill?' I said, shaky, glad that's what his deductions had left him to.

'You're pale, whiter than normal. You are shaking. You eyebrows are furrowed and appear to be in a great amount of stress. You are breaking out into a cold sweat yet are blushing. Your pulse is extremely high and your pupils are dilated…'

'I actually…I just wanted to say that your music was pretty. I've never really been one for classical music bu—'

'Molly, I have asked you many times not to try and engage in conversation…it's a weakness of yours.' He looked at me as if I was disgusting. 'And stop being sentimental…it's repulsing.'

'O-okay.' I awkwardly and ashamedly backed away from the door as he closed it once more. Yet despite all this, I still had feelings for the man.

So there it was! Chapter One! I'm counting on your reviews to keep this story alive, so remember to review!

I love you all so much! XOXO -TDM