AN: New ship being introduced –experimenting a little bit, but I think it kinda ties in nicely with the plot ;D Also, just a fair warning, these next chapters are going to have a lack of any real plot. More just character development and… fluffcicles all over the place. ^-^

C.H.A.P.T.E.R.F.I.V.E – Renovation

Day 3 in the mad castle seemingly in the middle of nowhere - 27/4/2013

I can't remember the date Mrs. Hudson said the date is the 27th of April or something. I guess it doesn't really matter however.
I'll put that anyway

So I found this book in the castle's library and it was empty. The hound Sherlock said I could keep it, so I guess I'll just use it as a journal. Just to hold onto what little sanity I can still cling onto. Unfortunately, it wasn't all that much to begin with.
These first few days have been somewhat uneventful. Well, apart from the initial shocks that come along with the castle of Baker Street. To cross off a few, an encounter with the real wolverine (He turned out to be a lot furrier, British and is a whole lot more intelligent) meeting walking-talking appliances (And watching an umbrella and a clock bicker like an old married couple) and almost being eaten by a pack of wolves.
It's been… different.
I can't honestly say I've heard of this happening before at all in history. Perhaps in some fairytale stories, or crappy teen fiction… but, this is something else. This is real. Really happening. And, if I'm being truthful to myself right now
I've been enjoying all of it.
I'm being shown around this amazing castle, and all I can think to myself is, 'is this where I'm actually going to live now?' It feels so bizarre. Bloody amazing, but… so very bizarre.
As a side note: I'm trying to work out more about Sherlock. He's a rather reserved man, and I've barely gotten a word out of him about… Well, anything. I have so much to ask, and no opportunities to ask him. Whenever I try talking to him, he remains rather silent. Short answers. As if he's holding back. I wonder if he thinks I'm still afraid of him…?
Well, I am slightly.
But I don't want to be.
Why don't you talk to me Sherlock Holmes? You're isolation only makes me more and more curious. Surely there's something you and I can talk about?

-John Watson.

Zzzzzip!

She huffed a little as she zipped up her coat, rubbing the back of her hand under her button nose and then sliding her small backpack over her shoulders. She shrugged them up and down one, two, three times before marching in front of a mirror. The blonde tucked a stray hair back behind her ear and then gave herself a nasty grimace. The stray strand of hair fell back in her eyes again soon after, but she just ignored it for the time being.

"Okay. Listen here you no good, disappointing, lousy drunk." She began, raising her forefinger in annoyance and pointing it at her reflection. "You have gone forty-eight hours with not even a droplet of alcohol. You're sober. You're awake. And you're going to go get your little brother. He has spent his life looking out for you, and what have you done? Nothing. Told him a bedtime story or two at most. Pathetic, Harriet Watson. Pathetic." She raised her nose at herself, taking in a deep breath and then shaking her head gently. "It's not too late though. You go there, with or without Moriarty's help. And you rescue that little brother of yours. You can do it, and you know it." Harry moped at herself a little, having little hope for this whole rescue mission she was planning on carrying out. She wasn't a hero. She was a coward. Always had been… She shut her eyes hastily, turning away from her reflection and then moving towards the door, looking slightly hesitant as she stared at the door intensely.

"You've just got to take it easy. Plan it out. Don't jump without thinking it through. And just take it, one step at a-"

A few slow knocks hit her door, just as she reached for the wooden knob.

She groaned out. Whether it was of relief or irritation was a whole other thing however.

Pulling the door open, Harry was put face-to-face with someone… Well… Someone. She hadn't noticed this someone around town before. A very very different someone. Not as plain and normal as the rest of the town. Someone who was… Well, rather beautiful. Stunning actually. Harry had to pause in her get-up-and-go attitude to fully take the stranger in.

A bountiful woman, with her brunette hair tied tightly and neatly into a bun high above her head. Although hidden behind her, it looked smooth and soft, like delicately woven silk that would only be saved for the richest of duchesses. Her lips were painted a rose red, and her heels were matched to that similar sort of luscious shade. Her skin was as pale as paper, looking like snow next to her long black coat, slender and curving along her wonderful frame. A light smirk rested upon her face as she looked across to the girl before her. The Watson was wearing rags in comparison to how this stranger appeared. As though from two totally dissimilar backgrounds. They both were. Whereas Watson was more accustomed to trying to appeal to women but fitting in more with the boys, this fair lady seemed more the type to appeal to everyone without even trying, but would only stay around royalty. Those who were up to her standards, and that was all.

The stranger tilted her head at Watson's hurried expression, smiling slightly in semi-curious amusement. "I… do hope that I haven't caught you at the wrong time?" She asked with a questioning tone, pulling her gloves off of her hands, one finger at a time. "This is the home of Harriet Watson, isn't it?"

"I-Uh… -uh huh, I-I mean…" Harriet leant on the doorframe, her hip popping out to one side in an attempt to look more laidback and casual. "…Indeed it is, ma'am…" She inwardly flinched at herself. Ma'am? What is this, the 1920's? "…Can I help you?"

The other chuckled a little, reaching over and pushing that stray bit of hair back behind Harry's ear as it fell out again. "Well, I'm new here, and…" She clicked her tongue in the roof of her mouth and sighed; "I guess you don't remember me. We went to school together when we were younger."

Harriet blinked a couple of times. She remembered her school being known as 'the scum bum hell dump' by other schools. Surely someone like this didn't come out of somewhere like that. "…We did?"

"Mhm. Irene Adler? Sound familiar at all?"

"Uh…" Nope. "OH!" Don't remember at all. "Irene! Yes!" I can't turn away a woman like this though. She set her body to stun today. "Sorry, heh, how could I forget?"

"Oh it's fine. I must look so different after so long." They both stood at the door for a silent moment, before Irene cleared her throat softly. "May I come in?"

"Oh, I uh… Yes. Ha, yes you may."

Harriet stepped aside, watching Irene step so confidently into the tiny little cottage, glancing the hallway over and smiling politely. Harry bit at the inside of her cheek hard and then wanted to bite down on her knuckle to just try and kick in her conscience. She needed to push this woman out of the door before she got comfortable. Her brother was stuck in a haunted house with the big bad wolf, and here she was, staring at the arse and tits of the most gorgeous woman she had ever encountered… A woman who looked so… So... She kicked herself whilst Irene was still peering into each room. Making a decision before she regretted it. She shrugged her backpack off of her shoulders, kicking it behind herself into the closet and then slamming it shut.

Sorry brother. I'll come to you in a few, just after I deal with this girl.

"Sorry about the mess. I wasn't really expecting any company today." Harry motioned her hands out to take Irene's coat, closing the door with her free hand. As the door knocked shut, the woman promptly turned on her heel, wiggling her nose and shaking her head.

"I don't think now is the right time for me to give you my coat, dear Harriet. We should get to know each other first, surely?"

Harry raised an eyebrow at that reply, running her hands down her grey waistcoat and slipping them into her trouser pockets. She wiggled her nose back at Irene, somehow carrying it out less expressively though. Noting the other girl's confusion, the other leant in to Harry's ear and gently mentioned along the lines of not having any other article of clothing on underneath that rather large black coat of hers. She turned and walked towards the living room, smiling back to Harry. "Come along Watson! We have much too much to catch up on, it's been years and years…"

The Watson felt her mouth hang open, unable to pull it back up again afterwards whilst her whole face now seemed to resemble a ripe tomato. Hot hot hot hot hot. So very hot now, boiling hot, ooooh it's so hot, got to go talk now, go talk to Irene now Harry, you've got to talk now.

The blonde almost mindlessly followed after Irene Adler, all too excited to see what 'catching up' could imply when one was only wearing one item of clothing…

Sherlock sat in his lounge, a pile of old cases scattered around the shelves, above the fire, that he had decided to skim through. If they were of importance, then he could simply file them away in his study, but if not, they were just as easy to burn. Slumping into his chair, he looked through the yellow folders, noticing that one was not like the rest. Whilst the stack of folders was thin –almost like a collection of plastic wallets- one was a book. And… bright fluorescent pink. Bringing it to the front, his eyebrows arched together in irritation.

'101 easy ways to be romantic for that special someone –tips by Mike Stamford'

What kind of imbecilic joke was this?!

He tossed it aside onto his coffee table, glowering at the book as if it had just spat at his feet. If this was Mycroft's idea of trying to make him try harder for the Watson living in his home, it was pathetic. Surely, he knew that Sherlock Holmes would not resolve to looking through petty dating advice books like this.

Anyway. Back to more important matters…

Case 36 – The Living Corpse

Date: 18th June 2010
Name: Mark Peters
Case Description: Specimen jumped from a large building, appearing dead, but found alive months later. Was trying to get the life insurance that his partner put on him not too long before.
Notes: How he did it: Unsolved

Case 37 – The Hollow Woman
Date: 1st July 2010

Name: Tania Walton

Case Description: A woman appeared in the form of a spirit in multiple homes, causing heart attacks or disappearances of many civilians….

Sherlock's eyes peered over the files to that darned pink book. He had been pretty helpless so far with John… How was he meant to act kind towards him? It always felt so strange to need to act… friendly. Friendly didn't necessarily mean polite or good natured. Just… friendly. Friendly. What did that even mean? The hound certainly didn't know. He blinked a fair few times, before he narrowed those stubborn blue eyes of his and turned back down to the case files.

Case 17 – The Fairytale Murderer

Date: 2nd December 2009

Name: Richard Brooke

Case Description: Victims found murdered that followed fairytale situations. Poisoned by apple, bled on broken glass shoes, red haired girl found drowned…

Sherlock huffed slightly, tossing the files to the side and then ruffling at his ears. He couldn't concentrate. Why couldn't he concentrate?! He was usually always on the ball, always knowing what he was doing, where he was going… His eyes unintentionally caught on that same bloody book. He did not need dating advice. He refused such absurdities. He was a genius. How hard could it be to get a man to fall in love with you? He reached forwards and picked up the book, turning it over and reading the description on the back. He tossed it between his hands a couple of times and then snuffed his nose, rolling his eyes.

…I… I wonder how ridiculous this book actually is… Maybe I should just… read it… just to see how stupid it is.

Sherlock smirked to himself, opening the front page and instantly looking for a 'top ten' list in the index. The quickest way to look over the best points were always 'top ten' lists...

"Okay. That's enough reading over there, pup."

The man in the chair jumped, immediately shifting the book from out of his hands to beneath his rear end and looking wearily towards the door. It was John Watson himself, holding… Feather dusters and… cleaning supplies. "…What are you doing?" Asked a baffled Sherlock, standing up out of his chair after shoving the book down the side of it.

"Cleaning." John responded bluntly, tossing a feather duster to the hound, watching it hit his chest and then fall to the ground. "…You've got an agile looking body, but you're not one for reflexes are you? I'm guessing you were more of an athletics guy at school."

"I have maids, John." Sherlock interjected, holding back the need to roll his eyes at John's domestic behavior.

"Who have in fact been turned into teapots, teaspoons and probably tea strainers too." John grabbed a stack of cups towering over Sherlock's coffee table, balancing back towards the door a second later. "I don't think they're quite in the right position to clean up after your mess right now."

"Well then, they'd find a way to be able to 'clean up after my mess'." The hound picked up the feather duster off the floor and tossed it back towards the other cleaning supplies. "I don't have time for inadequate chores that could easily be dealt with by a much simpler mind. A mind that doesn't need to think in order to strive and can progress through taking errands. And such tedious errands at that-"

"Oh grow up." John snapped, looking round to Sherlock with a sharp look. The look that a parent would give to a grumbling teenager, moaning about growing up and how difficult it's life was. "You're sitting around contributing little to this house and the people that inhabit it. Yes, they are currently not people. But they used to be. And they're in just as bad, if not worse, conditions as you. So now, you are going to come with me and start cleaning."

The beast snarled to himself, quietly first but then building it up in a crescendo, turning sluggishly towards Watson and then at it's climax, roaring harshly, gob and pieces of previous meals flying all about the other's unimpressed face. A foul stench of rot flowed through John's nostrils and made his hair stick up on end. However, he just screwed up his face slightly, wiping off the slobber once the other was done.

"Are you finished? Huffing and puffing and blowing the cleaning trolley down?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as Watson responded so cynically, crossly folding his arms together and then sounding like a spoilt child as he stated, "I. Don't. Want. To. Clean."

John smirked at this response, folding his arms back and then lowering his head to almost mock the other. "Tough. Titties."

The two stared each other down for a good minute or two, waiting for the other to crack first. Both as persistent as the other, they waited for the other to fold. And eventually, it was John who got the upper hand.

"Fine!" Sherlock howled out, screwing his hands into fists and stomping over to the trolley, grabbing a rag and cleaning polish with a little man riding a red airplane on it. "But don't think that you can boss me around now, just because you're living here. You are not taking over my life, John Watson."

"I never said that. I just said you should do something to contribute to the-"

"Yes yes, just shut up already."

The blonde gave the hound a warning glare, watching him barge into the large lobby and over to the banisters where he sprayed far too much of the polish and then began vigorously rubbing the clad rag against the wood. It was almost as if he was trying to sand the staircase down. Obviously, he had never done this kind of thing before… But then again, that didn't mean that he shouldn't learn how to. John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Calm down. You can handle a dog with his tail tucked too tightly between his legs." He mumbled to himself, grabbing the stack of cups again and then heading towards the kitchen, thinking rather rude thoughts about the other man…

"So… What is it you do?"

"What?"

Sherlock pricked up his ears, looking up from the sponge that he was rubbing against the hall's floor.

"What is it you do?" John repeated, looking towards the other man and sitting on his heels. "You know, job wise. Are you a police officer? Crime scene investigator? Modern Inspector Clouseau-"

"Consulting Detective." Sherlock turned his eyes back down to the scrubbing sponge on the floor.

"Oh." John blinked a couple of times, resting his hands on his knees. "So… What's that then?"

The Hound sighed, as if he was asking the dumbest question John could ever ask. "The police would come to me if a case is found which proves to be too difficult for them, which seemingly happens to be all the time. Lestrade used to work for the police and would consult me at his desperate times of need however if you could not quite tell our current situation means that both of us are now unemployed."

"…Oh." John watched the bitter look crawl onto the others expression and bit his lip. He reached down and scrubbed the ground a couple of times, before frowning and looking towards the other. "I never got round to asking you-" Sherlock barely gave him a glance of apprehension, but John continued all the same. "How did you know I was a doctor?"

"Hm?"

"Back the other day, with the wolves, you called me 'Doctor Watson'. Now, I never told you that, so how did you know?"

A pause.

"Are you sure you want me to explain?"

"Well, yes. I'm curious."

No shit Watson, I do believe that you have shown that through plenty of your actions whilst living here.

Sherlock sat back and looked towards John, glancing towards the other's hands and then back up to his face. It still looked so genuinely interested, Sherlock couldn't quite believe it. He was looking at Sherlock like he was a human being. Not some wolf man. Not a monster. Just… Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. It felt strangely familiar…

"There was one feature all along, John, that proves to me that you are a part of the medical profession, and that is your hands."

"My hands? Wha-"

"Indeed. When I first met you, you saw me and you felt a mixture of anger and fear, that much was obvious from your words and tone. Let alone that, you had lines along your forehead that had screwed up in muscle tension. You were tensed up. Now, ninety three point six two percent of people with muscle tension often find their limbs shaking when being put in tense situations, which would cause the hands to tremor unsteadily. Your hands, however, remained completely still. Steady and able to keep a hold of an object if need be, such as an operation –in which the same kinds of intensity would appear. Could be a family trait, runs in the genes, but your sister was quite the opposite, her trembling was quite obviously and exaggerated. 'How did I know she was your sister?' You share a pair of wristbands, like friendship bracelets. Hmm, very sweet and cute John, you're like a pair of puppies. But, you also have the similar qualities of short-cut sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. No one dates someone who they look that similar to, so you must therefore be a fellow Watson. Too young to be a father, so brother is the last resort. Cousin is an option, but coming out to a haunted mansion to find a possibly drunk relative? That's more of a brotherly thing to do. Back to the steady hands though – this therefore proves that under pressure, your hands would still be steady enough to operate or administrate medication. There are multiple things you could have developed this skill of steady hands for. Soldier, firefighter, but doctor seemed like the clearest choice. Clean cut, overly hygienic, direct and most importantly –when you look at a person, the first thing you do is check them over to see if they physically look okay. You try to work out if they are at all injured or, in the case of if they're attacking you, ways to injure them. Now, I wasn't too sure as to whether you were a doctor or a soldier for this reason. But, later, when we had our second encounter, is when I knew you were not a soldier. There was a gun on the mantle, and plenty of other weapons in that room you could have defended yourself with. However, you kept your hands to yourself, deciding not to attack. A soldier as young as you would not hesitate and would just, by instinct, attack a threat. It's just natural. However, instead, you just remained there and then left. Now, you would make a good soldier Watson, but by this judgment, I presumed you to be a doctor, and you are so it would seem that my deductions of you were correct, are you satisfied now Doctor Watson?"

Sherlock went back to scrubbing at the floor with his now greyish sponge. He could start to see his face in the floor again and instantly regretted giving into cleaning. The last thing he wanted to look at was his own ugly mug.

"That… Was amazing."

The hound blinked a couple of times at John's words, turning his eyes up to the other man, who was still scoffing in disbelief.

"…What?"

"That was amazing! I mean, you worked out that kind of stuff from my hands and where I looked without even thinking. That's impressive."

"Hm." Sherlock looked a little stumped for words, the temptation to smile poking at him gently. "I don't normally get that kind of a reaction."

"Oh?"

"Yes… People tend to walk away after I say about five words. And they usually say something else too."

"Like what?"

"Well… 'bollocks' has become a popular choice of a normal human being's vocabulary in modern times."

A snigger followed by a direct laugh came from John as he smiled and shook his head, rubbing the sponge against the floor once again. Sherlock watched him carefully, that smile seeming to stick to the other man's face for quite a while. He was frankly confused by John Watson now. How a man could listen to all of that without being mildly irritated or believe he was lying was surreal. He just wasn't used to it. A hint of a smile washed across his face, before he redirected his gaze down to the floor again, dumping the sponge into the water bucket.

"Bored of this. What else is there that needs doing?"

"Beyonce?"

"No."

"Uhm…The Who?"

"Never."

"Hmmm… The Beatles?"

"Nope."

"Not even the Beatles?!"

"No. Is it really that deplorable?"

"Yeah. The Beatles are legendary. Historical legends in the world of music."

"Highly doubt it…"

A pillowcase was tossed at the hound's head, causing him to twitch his ears about in surprise and then shake it off his muzzle impatiently. John carried the rest of the bedding to the laundry basket sat by the door, collecting odd pieces of clothing as he went.

"Well, you just said you liked music. And not one- not one! - Single musician I've mentioned in the past five minutes have been in that oh so proclaimed massive intellect of yours."

"That's because none of those so-called 'musicians' have ever particularly caught my interest. I have more profound tastes."

"Profo-" the blonde snorted, turning round to the other with a particularly large grin, clearly entertained by Sherlock's obscure personality. "Okay, so what do you like?"

Sherlock stepped out of the room and walked alongside Watson towards the next bedroom, having just left John's room. "That's a rather difficult question, depending on the situation dear Watson. I particularly enjoy the works of Beethoven, Wagner, and Debussy has a number of suites that are particularly intrigu-"

"Ah, okay, so you're into all the classical music then…" John paused, turning to look up at the other. "Anything a little bit modern, Sherlock?"

"Debussy's music was considered rather modern at the time-"

"As in something that I would know as well?"

John pushed the door open and walked into Sherlock's bedroom, picking up the pillows and beginning to pull of their cases.

"…The Bee Gees have had some good pieces…" Sherlock murmured, wandering into the room not too long after and starting to strip off the quilt.

"That's more like it!" John sniggered, smiling at the taller man and nodding gently. "Strange how you go from a classical assortment to 70's disco music."

"I cannot decide my natural tastes, John, their music has a vast range of musical features which I tend to enjo-"

"Ah. Ah. Ah. Ah."

"What, what is it? Have you hurt yourself?"

"Stayin' alive. Stayin' alive."

"…Oh."

"Whether you're a mother or whether you're a lover you're stayin' alive."

"John."

"Stayin' alive."

"Stop."

"Ah. Ah. Ah. A-"

"Is this trying to impress me?"

John choked on his own words, being greeted by a somewhat smug grin. "Sure. How to woo an oversized poodle, do his washing and start singing Bee Gees songs at him. You've got me."

There was a baritone-sounding chuckle coming from the other side of the bed as he collected up the bed sheets and stepped towards the door, carrying the messy bundle in his lanky arms.

The blonde watched him strut away with a small smile. It was definitely a good idea to make the hound do this with him. This had been the first proper time that the two of them had carried out a full-length conversation. And the first time to properly relate to him. And the first time to actually hear him laugh. Well… chuckle. But that was close enough, surely. It was all he wanted really. To see that Sherlock wasn't the beast that he had first appeared to be. Sure, he did seem to act like a child, but there was a difference between 'spoilt' and 'pure brute'.

"Are you coming anytime today, John?"

John snapped back to reality and collected the remaining bed sheets in his arms, scurrying to the door. "Y-yeah, sorry. Zoned out a bit."

Sherlock looked down his nose at John and then glanced back to the basket of washing. "I hate chores."

"Mhm."

"You do… a lot of chores?"

"Yup."

"…How very… mundane."

"Don't remind me…"

John handed the porcelain cup to Sherlock and then sat beside him on the staircase, placing a plate of biscuits between them and then resting his cup between his hands. The two of them looked around the entrance hall, quietly appreciating how much better it looked once a little bit of Mary Poppins treatment had been ran over it. It actually looked like a pretty decent castle from that angle. Now, they could both appreciate how much nicer it would be to call somewhere like this 'home'. That they could pick up a pen and paper without sneezing eternally on the dust that fluttered off of every piece. And they could put down a serving of food without worrying that a rat would scatter out and steal it from right beneath their noses.

"Much better." John mumbled, picking up a biscuit and snapping it in half between his teeth.

The hound tapped his claws on his cup a couple of times, inhaling through his nose and absorbing the smell of flowers John had left in a few vases on some of the bare surfaces. It was a nice smell. A strangely warm smell that made him just feel all around a little bit more cozy. He closed his eyes, just taking in that long forgotten feeling of tranquility.

"…I play the violin."

John blinked a couple of times, looking towards the other as he took a sip of his tea. "Okay… what?"

"Well… used to." Sherlock continued, eyes still shut as a faint smile came to rest on his lips. "Back before the strings would snap out of place by my own fingertips, I would compose suites and sonata's. Music that just allowed my to think, and keep my head entertained. I always needed something to not feel so… bored. I need to be able to think in depth just for the sake of discovering new information. If to help someone else at all, it would definitely be a positive. However, just to be able to observe and research and emote… It could all be done through one simple instrument. And all just to keep me pre-occupied." Sherlock wiggled his nose a little; his vacant smile fading as he cautiously opened his eyes. "…The lack of that instrument has lead to my downfall, almost. My patience now wears thin easily. Paper thin. No light is being found in any situation. My natural and more calming source of outburst has been vanquished."

There was somewhat of an absorbed face that sat beside Sherlock as he described the violin in such a beautiful way. As if Sherlock's violin was an old forgotten friend that had run away. As if his happiness and life depended on one little instrument. The coarse of his behavior and personality was co-dependent on a carving of wood and strings.

John moved the plate of biscuits one step higher and then sat a couple of bumps closer. He hesitated for a couple of moments, before resting his hand on Sherlock's furred one, biting his lip and trying to look at Sherlock's face.

"…What happened here Sherlock? I mean, what happened here that made all of... this? Do you really need to keep it a secret from me?"

The face of the other seemed unchanged, as if still in a world of his own. As if John wasn't even there anymore. Sherlock took a gentle sip of his tea, before standing and handing the cup back to John. "Thank you for the chores and beverages." He sighed numbly, shuffling down the remaining steps and towards the lounge, where he lowered into his chair and arched his hands beneath his chin, no doubt going into a world of his own for the rest of the night.

The blonde watched with a look of discontentment, holding the two cups in a stack and then picking up the plate of biscuits. He'd gotten so much further than when he had first arrived. But he still had so much more to learn. He wondered if he'd ever learn everything about Sherlock Holmes and co.