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Description
It had been raining when you first met him. You’d just walked about five miles home, your thin waterproof jacket the only protection you had, had pulled open the door to the homestead where you lived and had walked in to find him perched on a stool in the middle of the main room, as if he’d always been there. He noticed the door slide open, looked up and met your gaze, his curly brown hair sticking to his face with water. You still got shivers when you thought about the way he looked at you with those deep blue pools; like he could stare into your very soul.

Still, he had about as much right to be there as you did, so you didn’t kick up a fuss. Instead, you walked over to the coat hooks sticking out of the brickwork, pulled off the (f/c) coat and hung it up, trying not to act like anything was out of the ordinary. Even with the hood, your (h/c) hair had become sodden, sticking to your face as if it was covered in glue. Towel, you murmured to yourself, a towel would be good.

“You don’t own this place, do you.”

It wasn't a question; it was a statement. And, more concerning in your eyes, was that it was completely true. You twisted your upper body around to look at him, the sudden movement making a few droplets of water escape your hair and form a small puddle on the flagstones. The man smirked, then leaned forward slightly, placing the tips of his fingers together, but not putting any weight on them.

“How did you know?” your voice rang out in the near silence, the only other competitor the raindrops tapping against the window panes. You instinctively walked over to one of them, your footsteps made all the more obvious as they beat down on the stone, and pulled them to, the rough brown fabric making small indents in your skin. Taking another breath, you repeated your question. “How?”

“Anyone who has that level of apathy to finding somebody in the place they live probably doesn’t own it….”

You nodded, moving on to the second set of curtains. “I guess that was quite obvious.”

“That’s not all.”

It was then that you paused, wondering what else he could have noticed, but still not turning around again. “What else then?”

“Somebody as young as you would never be able to afford a place like this. Or would probably want to live somewhere like this if you could afford it. It’s isolated and quite far from any other houses, so you’re less likely to be discovered. Also, you are unable to afford television, internet or newspapers, so financially you’re not very sound. From this I can conclude that your family or flatmates kicked you out and you discovered this place, which hasn’t been occupied for a number of years. It’s quite far from where you originate, judging by your accent. You decided to stay here because it was the best you could find and because you had no choice. There are too many folds in your t-shirt around the chest- obviously you have something there you’re trying to hide. You feel exceptionally stressed and bite your nails as a coping mechanism.”

You grunted, nodded your head and closed the next set of curtains, rubbing your fingers against the seams. “Pretty much correct. Though I still have no idea how you figured out that I couldn’t afford internet access or television. Or who the hell you actually are.”

“You’ve answered your own question.”

You didn’t get it and that was noticeable, given the sigh that the man gave. Choosing to ignore him, you wandered across the room to get another stool, before returning and placing it down next to your companion, perching awkwardly on the unstable structure. “So what about you then? You know quite a bit about me, but I know nothing about you.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got all the time in the world.”

“It’s also none of your business.”

You sighed with annoyance, the hair at the back of your neck bristling. “Can I at least know your name?”

“Sherlock.”

The corners of your lips turned up in a smile, a gesture that was not returned. You shuffled slightly, finding a position that was at least bearable, if not comfortable. You’d learned that the other stools were terrible long ago, but Sherlock had snagged the only one that had that much balance left. “[Name]”, you replied, glancing across to see if you’d had an impact. Nada.

“You were right about everything, you know. My parents kicked me out the day I told them. Told me never to go back. Luckily I found this place and a couple of guys who used to live here too told me it hadn’t been occupied for four years. It’s only two months until it’s legally mine now.”

No reaction. You glanced around the room, trying to avoid that critical glare. He was like a panther, you reckoned, going all silent to freak you out, sitting on his haunches as he waited, a lean, dark killer, for you to make a first mistake. You swallowed, trying to find something to focus on. And it was then that you noticed something was out of place.

“Why is the violin not on the wall?”

It wasn't really a question you expected to be answered, but Sherlock did, replying in that deep husky voice that made you feel like a deer trapped in the headlights. “My apologies. I was playing it.”

It took you a couple of minutes to register what he said, leaving you looking like a confused chicken for a couple of seconds. Sherlock looked into your eyes and you once more shivered.

“What was that long story that was none of my business.”

“I told you it would take a while to…”

“I don’t care. Besides, if we’re gonna stay together for a while I might as well make sure you’re not a serial killer or anything.”

He smirked again, as if that was somehow hilarious to him. You gave a slight smile, not understanding the joke, and stood up to go make some tea.

Description
It had been raining when you first met him. You’d just walked about five miles home, your thin waterproof jacket the only protection you had, had pulled open the door to the homestead where you lived and had walked in to find him perched on a stool in the middle of the main room, as if he’d always been there. He noticed the door slide open, looked up and met your gaze, his curly brown hair sticking to his face with water. You still got shivers when you thought about the way he looked at you with those deep blue pools; like he could stare into your very soul.

Still, he had about as much right to be there as you did, so you didn’t kick up a fuss. Instead, you walked over to the coat hooks sticking out of the brickwork, pulled off the (f/c) coat and hung it up, trying not to act like anything was out of the ordinary. Even with the hood, your (h/c) hair had become sodden, sticking to your face as if it was covered in glue. Towel, you murmured to yourself, a towel would be good.

“You don’t own this place, do you.”

It wasn't a question; it was a statement. And, more concerning in your eyes, was that it was completely true. You twisted your upper body around to look at him, the sudden movement making a few droplets of water escape your hair and form a small puddle on the flagstones. The man smirked, then leaned forward slightly, placing the tips of his fingers together, but not putting any weight on them.

“How did you know?” your voice rang out in the near silence, the only other competitor the raindrops tapping against the window panes. You instinctively walked over to one of them, your footsteps made all the more obvious as they beat down on the stone, and pulled them to, the rough brown fabric making small indents in your skin. Taking another breath, you repeated your question. “How?”

“Anyone who has that level of apathy to finding somebody in the place they live probably doesn’t own it….”

You nodded, moving on to the second set of curtains. “I guess that was quite obvious.”

“That’s not all.”

It was then that you paused, wondering what else he could have noticed, but still not turning around again. “What else then?”

“Somebody as young as you would never be able to afford a place like this. Or would probably want to live somewhere like this if you could afford it. It’s isolated and quite far from any other houses, so you’re less likely to be discovered. Also, you are unable to afford television, internet or newspapers, so financially you’re not very sound. From this I can conclude that your family or flatmates kicked you out and you discovered this place, which hasn’t been occupied for a number of years. It’s quite far from where you originate, judging by your accent. You decided to stay here because it was the best you could find and because you had no choice. There are too many folds in your t-shirt around the chest- obviously you have something there you’re trying to hide. You feel exceptionally stressed and bite your nails as a coping mechanism.”

You grunted, nodded your head and closed the next set of curtains, rubbing your fingers against the seams. “Pretty much correct. Though I still have no idea how you figured out that I couldn’t afford internet access or television. Or who the hell you actually are.”

“You’ve answered your own question.”

You didn’t get it and that was noticeable, given the sigh that the man gave. Choosing to ignore him, you wandered across the room to get another stool, before returning and placing it down next to your companion, perching awkwardly on the unstable structure. “So what about you then? You know quite a bit about me, but I know nothing about you.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got all the time in the world.”

“It’s also none of your business.”

You sighed with annoyance, the hair at the back of your neck bristling. “Can I at least know your name?”

“Sherlock.”

The corners of your lips turned up in a smile, a gesture that was not returned. You shuffled slightly, finding a position that was at least bearable, if not comfortable. You’d learned that the other stools were terrible long ago, but Sherlock had snagged the only one that had that much balance left. “[Name]”, you replied, glancing across to see if you’d had an impact. Nada.

“You were right about everything, you know. My parents kicked me out the day I told them. Told me never to go back. Luckily I found this place and a couple of guys who used to live here too told me it hadn’t been occupied for four years. It’s only two months until it’s legally mine now.”

No reaction. You glanced around the room, trying to avoid that critical glare. He was like a panther, you reckoned, going all silent to freak you out, sitting on his haunches as he waited, a lean, dark killer, for you to make a first mistake. You swallowed, trying to find something to focus on. And it was then that you noticed something was out of place.

“Why is the violin not on the wall?”

It wasn't really a question you expected to be answered, but Sherlock did, replying in that deep husky voice that made you feel like a deer trapped in the headlights. “My apologies. I was playing it.”

It took you a couple of minutes to register what he said, leaving you looking like a confused chicken for a couple of seconds. Sherlock looked into your eyes and you once more shivered.

“What was that long story that was none of my business.”

“I told you it would take a while to…”

“I don’t care. Besides, if we’re gonna stay together for a while I might as well make sure you’re not a serial killer or anything.”

He smirked again, as if that was somehow hilarious to him. You gave a slight smile, not understanding the joke, and stood up to go make some tea.