221c - A Sherlock Fanfiction

Allison

It was snowing. Hard. I pushed against the wind, heavily laden down with all my groceries. The fur trimmed hood to my parka slipped off, and my long, dark red hair began to take the appearance of a powdered red velvet cupcake. A cold red velvet cupcake.

I came to the door, and ran inside, up the stairs, and into Sherlock's flat. I slammed the door behind me, and he looked up sharply from his perch on his chair. He had his coat on, and he was wearing a suit under it. He had his knees tucked up to his chin, and he was hugging them. He still had his shoes on, and was watching telly.

"Groceries." I barked.

"Oh, thank you. How much do I owe you this time?"

"Forty quid."

"Ouch."

"Sorry, but that's how much everything on your list added up costs. This should last you until next week when John brings your groceries."

He fished out his wallet and handed me four ten pound bills. "There."

"Thank you. Do you need me to stock your fridge and pantry, or are you finally gonna do it this time?"

To this he had no reply. I grumbled to myself and dragged the groceries into the kitchen. I began unloading his, leaving mine in the bag. I started singing Ride by Twenty One Pilots to myself, quietly, in a half whisper.

"Hm?" Sherlock called from the other room.

"Oh nothing. Just humming."

"Ah. What song?" I told him what song I was singing, and he didn't reply. Obviously, he didn't actually care.

I left 221b, and took my own groceries to 221c. I unloaded them, and took off my coat. I plopped down into one of my big comfy chairs, and picked up the book I was reading. The Road by Cormac McCarthy. It was really good.

My eyes snapped open, and I shot up in bed. I heard something. There it was again. A shuffling noise, like feet. A man's feet, from the sound of it. He was barefoot. Oh, heavens. A break-in. I took a deep breath, and put on my blue dressing gown. I opened my sock drawer and pulled out my revolver.

Holding it with two hands, I crept down the corridor, slowly and quietly. I heard the low hum of my microwave. This burglar wasn't very careful.

I slipped into the kitchen. "On your knees, hands where I can see 'em!" I barked, holding my gun at arm's length. The light from the microwave silhouetted the man. I couldn't see him very well, as I didn't have my contacts in, and my eyes weren't adjusted to any sort of light.

He did as I told him to, and said, "Can you really not tell it's me, Allison?" Sherlock. Of course, it was Sherlock. I lowered the gun.

"Are you bloody kidding me!"

"Erm, no?"

"Breaking into my flat in the middle of the night to use my microwave? Are you bloody serious?"

"I was doing an experiment in my own, and my tea got cold, so..."

"I was sleeping!"

"I wasn't!"

"Well that's your own bloody fault. I finally acquired a sleep cycle of that of an average person. You keep sabotaging that."

"Not necessarily. The first time, the time with the cello? That was you, not me."

"Humph. How did you even get in? The door was locked!"

"I took your spare key. Here's one for 221b, in case you ever need it." He handed me a key.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now put your glasses on."

I did as I was told, and I when I returned, Sherlock was lounging on my sofa. Shirtless. "Erm, Sherlock? Why aren't you wearing a shirt?"

"I dunno. Didn't feel like it, really. Besides, most people find it attractive."

I put my hands out in front of me, like a shrug but facing forward. "Okay, not denying that, but still! Clothe yourself!"

He left my flat and returned a few minutes later wearing a shirt. Thank heavens. He flopped down on my sofa once more, and drank his tea. When it was all gone, he fell asleep. On my sofa. I just let him be, and went to sleep on one of the big comfy chairs that I had.