221B Baker Street - Sherlock Holmes One Shot

221B Baker Street

This one shot features the use of She/Her pronouns.

It still wasn't quite clear to her how or why, exactly, she had ended up in the spare bedroom of 221B Baker Street for the night, but as she tossed listlessly over in the bed, she knew that she definitely had ended up there. The window told her so – the fleeting flashes of red-stained faces passing aimlessly by in the soulless double-decker buses, the glistening lights shimmering across the rain-soaked bricks along the quietening street, the net curtains John detested ruffling in the wind that had grown stronger since she'd pushed the window open before slipping between the sheets. Not to mention the hole in the wall from when a certain someone had decided his harpoon could stand in for a javelin and it was John's unfortunate wall that'd had to endure his wrath. Well, it wasn't actually John's wall anymore.

After arriving home and having a shower, she'd been watching TV, a documentary on sea animals and she'd decided to take a stroll to try and tire herself out when it had finished. It was becoming a habit, actually. London really was beautiful at night if you knew the right places to go.

She'd stopped for something to eat in a café she'd grown to like, decided to make her way home as she placed a few coins on the table, then found herself falling into the bedroom right above Sherlock Holmes'. She was beginning to remember Mrs Hudson greeting her at the door, passing a tired-looking Greg on the stairs, having to shout multiple times through the door that she wasn't a client, Sherlock waving her upstairs with a fleeting but kind smile.

Hmmm... why hadn't she gone home?

John's bed was very comfortable.

She wondered what detergent Sherlock used.

Did Sherlock even wash his own sheets?

God, she was tired.

*

Everyone is afraid of something – the dark, spiders, needles, fear itself. Everyone has something that makes their spine tingle. It was her unfortunate luck that her fear had a habit of visiting her some nights when she was too deep in sleep to fight it.

When she jolted awake, the sheets were sweat-soaked and entangled around her body, her mouth dry and her throat aching. It took a few drowsy moments to fully regain consciousness and a few more to realise those things in that order, which pointed to one solution – she'd been yelling out again. For everyone's sake, she hoped the ceilings were thick as she rolled over to look at the clock hanging wonkily on the wall to check the time.

Much to her misfortune, the same dim lights shining in from outside that highlighted the teasing hands of the clock also illuminate the thin, black barrel that was pushed sneakily through the tiny gap of the slightly ajar door.

Drowsy and close to unconsciousness, the thin tunnel of metal escaped her attention at first, evaporating into shadow within her blurred vision. It was the creak of the door that alerted her to the new presence in the room. Unfortunately, it was too late by that point.

"Whoever's in here, you best be on your way." Almost immediately after the familiar voice penetrated the darkness of the room, a shot rang out loud and clear, the bullet making a satisfying 'thwack' as it lodged itself into the wall beside the window. She shouted his name and instantly the lights flicked on, drawing her attention to the tall, slim figure in the doorway. Sherlock was in his dressing gown, the days socks still on his feet, his hair in a flattened clump on his head, thin lips set in a firm line. Clasped tightly in his pale-knuckled hands was a shotgun, still smoking from the brutal attack on the poor wall.

"What happened? Are you alright? Who's in here?" He scoped the room out with his meticulous eye, keeping the gun at face level as he whipped around the space.