The apartment is big enough for us. No Freshman need apply.

You had to understand, Joan Watson was desperate in more ways than one.

When she told Carrie that she had finally found someone to move in with, she had expected her friend to take the news well. After all, living on your own in New York City was more than difficult — it was a rite of passage to try and find yourself into a college apartment or dorm away from Mom and Dad. And if that had been the long and short of it, she was sure Carrie would have been excited for her finding someplace to live on her own for her second year of college.

Instead, the interrogation had began as soon as she'd mentioned the one (arguably small) caveat to her new place of residence — Sherlock Holmes.

"Joanie," Carrie said, leaning across the small table, "Look, I'm not saying that this is a bad idea, but what if this Sherlock Holmes guy is some kind of serial killer?" she raised a brow over her iced mocha before bringing the straw to her lips. She sucked in thought, bright pink lipstick rubbing off onto the straw.

Joan shook her head. "No, come on. He's not some kind of psychopath or something. He gave me a complete list of his previous fourteen roommates and their contact information," she said, pulling the shrink wrap off of her new science textbook. Certainly Carrie had every right to be concerned, but for as weird as it was for her to have gotten a complete list of all fourteen people and their contact information, it had proved that Sherlock wasn't a murderer. Maybe an annoying roommate, but certainly not hiding any dead bodies in the closet.

"And," she said crumpling the shrink wrap, "All of them were alive. Not exactly all forthcoming with the details, but you know, not dead or anything."

With a sigh, Carrie crossed her legs and propped her elbow on the table. "You're telling me that out of the entire borough of Manhattan, you found the one guy who's driven no less than fourteen people nuts to live with and you're calling it a success because none of his previous roommates are dead?"

"Carrie," Joan sighed, rolling her eyes.

"—No Joanie, you've got to find someone else. I mean why him, why this guy?" she help up a hand, as if to ward off Joan's protestations. "I don't have anything wrong with you rooming with a guy if you think you need to, you're a big girl, but we have got to talk about your standards for roommates," she said, before leaning in even further to whisper, "I mean what's the real draw here? Full washer and dryer? Walk in closet? Doorman?"

"You're ridiculous," Joan replied, cracking open her anatomy and physiology textbook with a satisfying peel of the pages. Carrie paused, watching her flip through her book for a few moments before she leaned back with a huff. She crossed her arms, striped cardigan riding up her forearms as she watched Joan.

A few moments passed as Joan flicked through her textbook before she sighed again and looked up.

"Alright — he said in the email there was a walk in closet and a washer and dryer. I'll have my own room. I'll never even have to talk to this guy if I don't want to," she explained. Being a woman of science and calculations, Joan had seen the roommate wanted ad, weighed the consequences, and spent an afternoon looking up his previous roommates. By the end of an evening of terse phone calls with ex-roommates and a few emails she'd come to one conclusion about moving in with Sherlock Holmes — one that upon later reflection was a horrible misestimation of the situation at hand.

"I'm desperate," Joan said, picking up her own coffee for a sip, "—And besides, what's the worst that could happen? He's only undeclared, not some kind of criminal."

It couldn't be that bad, Joan Watson told herself.