Stereotypical (BBC Sherlock)

Chapter 1 - Return

"Jordan, I'm leaving."

I looked up at John and stood. He pulled on his jacket and looked at me as I stopped in front of him. I fixed his tie and brushed his hair down. "Okay."

He limped out, headed for the cab waiting for him. I closed the door behind him and set about cleaning up breakfast. He had stayed in my flat the night before, too tired to struggle up the stairs to his own. I didn't mind, it had happened often enough.

The front door opened and I heard someone walk slowly up the steps. I stopped and listened. Had he forgotten something? The door upstairs opened and closed. I went up silently. That wasn't John... I hadn't heard his cane. Pushing the door open a crack, I peeked in. A man stood in the center of the flat, staring at the violin case that was always left open. He pulled off his coat and draped it over the dusty chair, the one no one sat in anymore. He sighed and plucked the violin. It was in tune. I tuned it fairly regularly, I don't know why. I never played it. It always sat there.

I pushed the door open. "Sherlock."

He jumped and turned around, staring at me. His surprise turned to confusion as he looked me over.

"Who are you?"

"Jordan Close. I live downstairs." He nodded and turned around, closing the case and setting it on the floor. Interesting... I thought he would have sat down and set about being rude by now. "Do you... Do you want me to call John? He's at work."

"I know..." He didn't answer my question. I pulled out my phone and dialed John.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Hey, sorry. Um... you need to come home. Now. There's uh, someone here to see you."

"What? Who? You alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, fine. Just come home. Take a day or two off, you're gonna need it." I hung up. Looking back at Sherlock, I compared what I saw now to the pictures I'd seen. He was thin and extremely pale, but it wasn't normal. He looked sick. He was sitting in his chair, head back and eyes closed, brows furrowed. He seemed to snap from his thoughts and then went to a duffel bag on the floor. He pulled out a box and grabbed a nicotine patch. Sitting back down, he rolled up his sleeve and put it on, relaxing. I studied his arm.

He'd gone back to the drugs, it looked like. Heroin, most likely. "Tea?" I asked.

"No." I sat in John's chair, unsure what to do. He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Who are you?"

"What? Oh, Jordan Close. I live down-"

"Yes, yes, but who are you?"

"Oh. I knew Mrs. Hudson's son. I moved to London two years ago and she let me stay here. I um... I've been helping John deal with..." I gestured to him and he nodded.

"You're American. From the South, it seems."

"Oh god, do I have a country accent?"

"No."

"Good."

"You haven't been helping very much. His limp is back."

"I just make sure he takes care of himself. I help him when he has nightmares; I feed him, make sure he sleeps. That's all. I'm not important, just the girl downstairs."

"The last time someone told me they weren't important, they saved my life." He mumbled. I stared at him, confused. He waved the thought away and studied me. Lord, people were right. He had the nicest eyes... I sat back and let him stare me down. It wasn't as unnerving as they said. "You believed him."

"Who?"

"John. You believed him when he said I wasn't a fraud. Why else would you be helping him?"