(Sera.)

"In loving memory of a father, a lover, and a friend, rejoined at last with Emma and Marlow Mathers.
SAWYER MATHERS"

I stared at the epigraph tracing the curve of the simple headstone with my fingertips. The dark earth beneath my shoes was freshly packed and three bouquets of garishly colored flowers had been carefully propped against the monument.

The new ones had always been my favorite to visit. Perhaps because they felt less distant, like this buried corpse was less dead than the other boxes of bones submerged beneath the ground. Skeletons were past death, and death is a state of living.

I turned away from Sawyer Mathers, and strolled down the aisle of older headstones, drips of lime-colored lichen stretching down each of their sides. The London sky was its customary grey, and it smelled like rain, something I hadn't realized I missed from my stint in Sherrinford. All my time there was spent inside and away from any sort of fresh air, something that didn't quite occur to me in the moment. Circumstances are dire when London is one's source of fresh air.

Huffing, I pushed the cemetery gate open with my hip, entering the flux of pedestrians.

Something about graveyards calmed my mind, they always had, and I sure as hell needed all the calming I could get if I was going to pull off this stunt. I thrust my hands into the pockets of my favorite black coat, something that, if today went successfully, wouldn't get to be worn quite as much as I'd have liked. My favorite grey trouser suits would be subjected to the same fate.

The walk to my new flat was short, and yet, oddly enough, that wasn't something I was thankful for. Perhaps my distaste for exercise was being overpowered by the pit of dread in my stomach. Failure today would cost everything, something I couldn't afford; unfortunately, defeat was overwhelmingly likely.

I dug the newly cut key out of my pocket and twisted it in the lock until the varnished wooden door clicked open.

Inside the flat was completely bare, save for my open suitcase in the corner which was thrown next to the white pillow and sheet I'd nabbed from Sherrinford. Call it an act of vengeance.

The only thing softening the stark whiteness of the room was the pale sunlight filtering in through the back window, illuminating swirling dust motes.

I tossed my keys onto the sheet, making a mental note to get a bed as soon as possible, before rummaging around the already messy case. It was a wonder I'd survived this long without a mattress. I'd done some shopping as soon as I had arrived back in London three months ago, procuring all that I'd be needing today. It had to be down to the most finespun detail, the most precise image I could possibly conjure up. And if it wasn't, those months of sleeplessness would all slip down the drain.

Her second favorite. That's what she'd called me. It hadn't been a leap to assume the first was her brother, the consulting detective. She said she had a soft spot for the emotional ones, and from what I'd read in the recent papers, Sherlock Holmes fit that bill. Her intentions with him, however, were what worried me.

I inhaled sharply through my nose, shoving the looming unease to the back of my mind, as I pulled a pair of plain jeans and a dark red sweatshirt from the suitcase. They still smelled new, which wouldn't work in my favor.

I quickly misted my bare throat with a new bottle of scent, recoiling slightly. This noxious rubbish would have been my last choice of perfumes. The thick, flowery smell made my stomach clench unpleasantly. Perfect.

With a man who blogs about the 243 types of tobacco ash, one can only be too careful.

Forlornly slipping out of the charcoal-colored trouser suit, I shimmied into the jeans and inexpensive blouse. Perhaps not classy, but class had been thrown from the equation, this was yet another matter of theatrics. Maybe I was being reckless, or malicious, or selfish. I almost smiled.

My usual heels were discarded for lace-up sneakers, and a bare index finger was adorned by a simple band of steel. A swipe of mascara and messily black rimmed eyes would yield a dramatic effect when tracked down my cheeks, but that was yet to come. For that detail, I had to be particular about my timing.

I grabbed the keys and buried them in my jean pocket along with my phone, shutting the door behind me with a slam.

The crumpled grey suit lay pooled on the bare floor.

• • •

I didn't know what I was expecting when I imagined 221B Baker Street, but it hadn't been this. Dark, almost black paint peeled slightly from the door, and gleaming brass lettering both contrasted and complimented the sombre shades.

I reached up and rapped the knocker, which had been skewed slightly, against the door. I twisted my new ring anxiously as I waited. At least that wasn't acting.

The door was unfastened to reveal a small, thin woman, somewhere between middle-aged and old, her mousy hair cut short. White skin and red rouge was sharply accented by her black silk dress, which was stamped with a lively floral pattern. She smiled tenderly, though something about her seemed unstable, like a gust of wind might topple her at a moment's notice. "Are you here for Sherlock?"

I nodded, tugging at the hem of my shirtsleeve as I let my gaze drop slightly. Her thin, affectionate voice was just as fragile-sounding as she looked.

The woman clucked compassionately, pushing the door open wider as she ushered me inside. "He's off doing God-knows-what right now," she made a light noise of exclamation, raising her hands, "but I'm sure he'll be back soon, don't you worry." She wrinkled her nose reassuringly and bustled into the kitchen, a couple clattering noises following in her wake.

"I'll make you a nice cupper while you wait," came her excited voice from the kitchen. "John's upstairs, you could go in and meet him. I'll bring this tea up."

"Who-" I cleared my throat, "Who's John?"

"Oh, he's the one that writes the blogs about their cases. Sherlock's friend," at this, she poked her head round the corner and quieted her voice slightly, "well, that's what they like to remind everyone. I've seen the way they look at each other." The woman tapped her nose conspiratorially at me before disappearing again. "Of course, they'll never admit it, that's just the way they are!" she raised her voice again and let out an incredulous, delighted laugh. "Mrs Turner, next door, she's got married ones. Baker Street seems to attract all sorts, just that kind of place, you know?" she chattered happily.

The corners of my lips twitched into a smile. I was surprised at how much I enjoyed being around this woman. "Sorry, I didn't catch your name...?"

"Just call me Mrs Hudson, that's what the boys do." I could hear the energetic smile in her voice.

"Right, er, I'll go on up then, shall I?"

"Yes, yes, and tell John to get his lazy butt up and quit watching telly. I've been listening to that thing from down here all morning." Mrs Hudson, who had hovered briefly on the threshold to say this, submerged into the kitchen once again, followed by a couple more scuffling sounds and a low whistle from the kettle.

I quirked my brow, stepping up the first stair, and pausing slightly to run my hand along the rutted, raised wallpaper. A moment to regather the artificial shroud of grief I'd let slip in the presence of the lively woman.

In a way, it was lucky I'd get to meet John on his own first. It'd give me time to settle into the character I would hopefully be playing for a long time. Sherlock would be the tough one to convince.

Reaching the landing, I was met with a door, which I cracked open carefully. I moved slowly into the quiet flat. "Hello?"

A greying head popped around a corner, its eyes widening slightly before the body came into view. John Watson, the person to which the body belonged, was a small man, only a couple inches shorter than me. Impeccable posture made up for any lack of height. He looked like a military man.

"Er, hello, are you in for Sherlock?" he raised his brows slightly.

"Yeah," I felt my lips twitch slightly, tears pricking my eyes. "D'you mind if I sit down?"

John nodded quickly and ushered me towards a small, spindle-legged chair, into which I crumpled, hastily wiping a well-timed tear from my cheek.

At this, John rushed off and returned as quickly as he'd went, this time carrying a box of tissues, which he set gruffly by my side. He hovered there, looking uncertain. "Well, Sherlock isn't in, but—"

The door burst open to reveal a tall man, his forearms and white button-up shirt stained brown with dried blood: he slammed the butt of a harpoon against the wooden floor, glancing at the dumbfounded John in front of him. He inhaled deeply and grimaced.

"Well, that was tedious."