Superwholock one-shots

Who Dunnit?

"Maybe some people are supposed to write. Maybe you just aren't one of them," your friend Tara states as she sips her coffee. You sigh and look up her. She can be so blunt sometimes.

"You may be right. I've been writing this for about a year now and nothing." All that you can do is lay your head on the table. Then, an idea pops into your head. "Maybe I need a change of scenery."

"Where else are you gonna go?" Tara giggles. Both of you look out the window to the busy London street.

"I don't mean move out of London, I love London. I just mean a new apartment."

Tara looks at you with a mix of humor and frustration. "(y/n), that's what you said last time!" You shift in your seat. She sighs. "Okay, okay. Fine, move."

"Okay, good. Want to go apartment hunting?" you say with a smug smile.

Tara gulps the last bit of her coffee. "Sure, let's blow this lemonade stand." She tosses her cup in the garbage and stands up.

--------

After two apartments and many more that you'd had searched on the internet, you both are down on luck. "Maybe I just can't move," you admitted. Nowhere was welcoming enough. Or inspiring enough. Or just out of your price range.

Both of you sit on a bench feeling defeated. Tara scrolls through the list, hoping to find one. All you think about is your story and what can motivate you.

"Oh!" Tara jumps up. "There's one on this street! Let's go!" She stuffs her tablet in her bag and grabs your hand. You both take off running down the street. She leads you to a door marked 221B.

Tara reaches out to knock. Excitement buzzes in the air. The door opens and a lady stands there. "Oh, hello, dears, you must be here for-"

"The apartment. We heard you had an vacancy," Tara interrupted her.

She seems startled that she had been interrupted, but she nodded. "Yes it's at the very top. Not very convenient if you are carrying a load."

This is your turn to jump in. "We'll take it."

She claps her hands. "Come in. Come in." She leads you both up the stairs. Inside is a small apartment that looks like it shall bring inspiration to your writing. "Now the man downstairs can get a little.." she trails off.

"Who's the man downstairs?" you commented.

Mrs. Hudson, as she introduced her self, looks astonished. "Why, Sherlock Holmes. Didn't you know that?"

You look to Tara and she looks back at you with a smug smile. "Thank you Mrs. Hudson. Can we discuss payment later?" The lady nods and scurries out the door. "Sherlock Holmes lives here?" you hiss.

Tara just nods. She knew. Before you can confront her, footsteps come from below. An amount of whispering goes on and then slow footsteps come toward your new apartment.

A long legged man with curly hair stands in the doorway. He looks at you both and than speaks, "Sherlock Holmes. Hi." He doesn't offer to shake your hand.

"Uh," you stutter, "I'm (y/n) (y/l/n). This is my friend Tara Johnson." You try to hold out your hand but he just looks at it.

"Painter or writer?" he asked. A look of confusion contorted your face. "Painter or writer? You have calluses on your right hand. That means you hold something daily."

You look to Tara and she is trying her best not to laugh. "A writer," you mumble. He looks very pleased with himself.

"Well, I must be going." With that, he's gone.

Tara stands behind you containing her laughter not so well. "That was amazing," she guffaws. "I found you the perfect place."

"Well, it is a good place to write." You walk over to the window and look out it. The street below is so far away. People walk along it, not knowing that maybe a character will be inspired by them. Maybe one will be inspired by Mr. Holmes.

--------

Months pass and you're moved in. Everything is where it needs to be and you're happy like that. Everyday, you sit in the window and watch the crowd below. If it's warm enough, you open the window and let your feet dangle.

You haven't spoken to Sherlock since the first day you saw the apartment. Sure, a simple hello or head nod, yet that's all.

As you sit in that apartment that you've grown to love, you finish your novel. A novel, about a girl who becomes a crime fighting detective after her brother being murdered.

You publish it with relief. It only took a little over a year. Bakerstreet really helped with your writer's block.

One day while sitting with your legs dangling out the window, a knock sounds from your open door. "Come in," you declare. When you turn around, Mr. Holmes faces you. In his hand is a book, to be exact, your book.

"I read your story," he claims. "I actually liked it. You really got into the mindset of a detective. There was only one concern."

"What was that?"

He looks you dead in the eyes. "I believe the mayor did it. I can tell you why too."

You laugh and get out of the window. "Okay, explain." Then, you jerk your head to the window seat next to you. "Want to sit here? It inspires some great thinking."

He smiles on that almost resembles gladness. "Sure." On you both went into the night. Talking about the curly haired detective and who the murderer was.