Nightmare On Baker Street

Happy Birthday Indeed

October 31

October 31 was always an eventful day. For one, it's Halloween. But it's also my birthday. And I had absolutely nothing to do. Later on in the day, I had a costume party with a bunch of people (including Emilie), but that was at 10 tonight. It was a dreary wednesday morning -- 11.28 AM to be precise. The London sky was cloudy and overcast, much as it usually was, ruling out going outside to do something. However there wasn't much point in staying inside, either. Not that that stopped me from doing so. I'd been lazing about on my couch in my flat, boredly observing what John would have called "crap telly" and drinking mug after mug of tea. Not because I was thirsty, but more because I had nothing else to do. Finally, when 12.15 was rolling around, I got bored of criticising the TV on my own and decided quickly to phone Sherlock. It rang three times before he picked up.

"Yes?" Came the exasperated sigh.

"Don't be so excited," I scoffed, rolling my eyes. "Can you come over? Criticising the telly by myself isn't particularly entertaining. It's grown rather dull."

"On my way." Then he hung up.

I huffed quietly and tossed my mobile onto the sofa beside me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shrugging into his coat and slipping his phone into the pocket, Sherlock called out that he was leaving and made for the door.

"Where to?" John asked, not looking up from his paper.

"Elanor's." His hand was on the knob.

"Isn't it her birthday?"

"Yes." The door fell shut behind him with a soft click. Mrs Hudson stopped him in the hall to give him a small, wrapped box to deliver to Elanor. Instinctively, Sherlock gave it a tiny shake. Perfume.

It was beginning to rain as he stepped into the cab. Sherlock squinted out the window at the crystalline droplets splattering on the cold glass. A sigh escaped his mouth as an incoming text made his mobile chirp. He fished it out of his pocket. It was from John.

What did you get her? It read.

Why does it matter to you? He responded.

Just curious.

...

Socks.

You got her socks?

And a scarf.

Did you even wrap it?

They're tied together with twine.

You're hopeless.

Smirking to himself, Sherlock slipped his mobile back into his pocket and paid the cabbie as they pulled in front of Elanor's flat. He crumpled the ticket with one curl of his long, slender fingers and sent it to live in the pocket of his trousers alongside his phone. Water flecked his skin as Sherlock jabbed his finger into the intercom. A moment's hesitation, then she appeared at the door.

"Hey," she grinned breathlessly, standing aside to let him in. He shuffled past her in the narrow doorway, saying, "That was fast."

"Oh, yeah, I saw you coming in the window." Elanor smiled coyly over her shoulder as she led him down the corridor and up a flight of stairs. For whatever reason, it warmed Sherlock to think that she'd watched for him. It was the first time he'd been to her flat. Four months and ten days of knowing each other, and this was the very first time. Genuinely curious, Sherlock let his eyes rove about the main room as Elanor shoved open her front door. An open, high-ceilinged room, mostly unfurnished but for a sofa, which sagged before a worn-looking telly, and a drawing desk tucked away in the corner of the room. The walls were painted a dark, sepulchral red colour, and sported various paintings and drawings, many of which Sherlock noted to be Elanor's. At the far end of the room, there was a steel spiral staircase winding up to the second floor. One long, blank, wine-red wall came to an end at halfway to the left of the staircase, transforming into an opening, which led most likely into the kitchen. Glancing at the staircase and craning his neck slightly to catch a glimpse of the upstairs, Sherlock assumed that most of her things were there, on the second floor. Either that or she had a flatshare, which was highly unlikely; one sweep of the room told him that only Elanor lived there; besides, she'd never spoken of such a thing.