Arcadia - (A WhoLock Fanfiction)

Arcadia - (A WhoLock Fanfiction)

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WpMetadataReadComplete Sat, Dec 6, 20141h 28m
I looked around my room and realized just how lucky I was. I had a nice house, a beautiful family, and none of that would be there if I was with my real parents. My room was quite large compared to others. It was in the attic, all the way up the stairs. I felt silly for never admiring the beauty of my life before but I felt the simplicity of my life about to be ripped away. ... For Aria Oswald, knowing who she is has always been a problem. When her suspiciously average life is revealed to be something very different, will Sherlock Holmes be the one to help her understand who she really is? Or will it be the Doctor to save the day yet again? | A Doctor Who/Sherlock FanFiction All Characters except for OC's belong to the BBC, I am merely parodying them for literary enjoyment :) by winter-clare
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#564
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221B Baker Street was not supposed to be my final destination. It was a pit stop. A temporary, financially questionable decision in one of the most expensive cities in the world. A place to exist quietly. To keep my head down, drink overpriced coffee, and avoid unpacking my emotional baggage. Then I met Sherlock Holmes. And quiet ceased to exist. One minute, I was just a tenant in a slightly dysfunctional flat. The next, I was the unwilling documentarian of absolute madness- ✔ Sherlock, the world's only consulting detective, who refuses to function like a normal human being. ✔ John Watson, who has reached new heights of exhaustion thanks to said detective. ✔ Mrs. Hudson, who is not a housekeeper but absolutely runs this place like a benevolent overlord. ✔ Molly Hooper, the forensic pathologist who is finally terrifying Sherlock (to my endless delight). ✔ Mycroft Holmes, who controls the British government but, more importantly, cannot figure out why I exist. ✔ Lestrade, who shows up mostly to suffer. ✔ And Rosie Watson, who is officially my tiny, all-knowing best friend. I am not a detective. I am not a hero. I am just the one thing Sherlock Holmes cannot deduce. My name is Safa. I babysit Rosie for extra cash, I document Baker Street's chaos out of sheer pettiness, and I gloat about my food just to drive Sherlock insane. I tell myself I don't belong here. That I am still just passing through. But the thing about living at Baker Street? You don't realize you're home until it's time to leave. And for once, Sherlock Holmes never saw it coming.

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