First Sherlock story. This ideas been in my head for a few days, just thought I'd give it a go. Sherlock/OC because personally I don't like the idea of Sherlock/Molly or any other.
I don't own Sherlock.
When John Watson agreed to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes he assumed they would be the only two occupants of 221b Baker Street – besides Mrs Hudson of course. Mainly because he assumed the tall detective needed a flat mate to assist in paying the rent, thus lived alone. That's why when the doctor entered the flat, leaning heavily on his stick with a briefcase tucked under his opposing arm; he was shocked to find another occupant reclining comfortably in the far chair, legs stretched out infront of her, reading a newspaper that looked to be about three times the average size of a normal paper.
''Uhm, hello'' John said uncertainly, dropping his bag.
The woman lowered the newspaper and peered over the top. She was quite attractive, probably around thirty years old. Dark green eyes framed by long, thick lashes. Her hair was dark blonde/brown, although not nearly as dark as Sherlock's and hung loosely curly, mid length, framing her face nicely. She was wearing a grey high-waisted pencil skirt with a white blouse. Black tights and black high heels.
''Ah, you must be Doctor Watson'' she said, putting down her paper to shake his hand. Stood up, she could have only been about 5'5, just about coming slightly taller than John's shoulder – probably shorter due to her high heels.
''Uhm, yes, sorry, I didn't know you lived here'' he shook her hand firmly
''Hm. Forget to mention me did he? He tends to do that''
John looked confused.
''I don't follow''
Just then Sherlock bounded into the room, letting the door slam behind him. He took in a brief glance at his new flatmate before realising he had not introduced them. ''Oh, John this is Liz. Liz, John'' Then he took in Liz's appearance and noticed that she was not expected home for another couple of hours, ''shouldn't you be at work?''
''Yes I should but I told you, I don't like it''
Sherlock's jaw set and he let out a huff.
''At least one of us needs to hold down a job, you could at least try not to get sacked'' he flounced over to the sofa, picking up the recently vacated newspaper and began flicking through it idly.
''I do not 'try' to get sacked-,''
''Well you certainly don't try that's all I'm saying'' he flipped another page, nothing interesting – adverts, missing dog, window cleaning service, takeaway phone numbers, care hire, bicycle parts for sale. Boring.
''Am I missing something here?'' John spoke up causing the two to look at him indifferently.
Liz shrugged, ''I got fired'' as though it was justified explanation enough.
''Again'' Sherlock added, not taking his eyes of the paper.
Liz flopped down beside him on the couch, kicking her shoes off and allowing her head to fall on the back rest. ''It's not as though you've got a paid job is it?''
John sunk down into one of the armchairs, looking around the flat as the two bickered. It was cosy, cluttered but it had a homely feel to it, it felt lived in already and welcoming – nothing like the pokey little thing he had been living in previously.
A threadbare rug, violin, books (lots of books) A few boxes still littered the floor, most of them labelled 'more books' or 'do not touch' smiling to himself he observed the fireplace, wood, grand, antique? With a large mirror above it. It was then that he noticed something that looked like a skull perched on the end of the mantelpiece. Bloody hell.
Upon meeting Sherlock Holmes, he got the impression that he was a distant character, if a little haughty in his demeanour, although looking at him now, in the flat, he did still have an air of arrogance about him that the Doctor supposed was just, well, Sherlock but he seemed less tense. His body language was just more visibly relaxed. Even if him and Liz were currently participating in a tennis match of name tossing.
After much insulting and slandering, Liz finally hurled herself of the couch, a faint smile tugging her lipstick painted lips and muttering 'prick' before heading into what John assumed to be her bedroom, leaving an all too smug looking Sherlock on the couch, still engrossed in whatever was is the paper.
''Well that was a bit… awkward'' John said, pointlessly tapping on the chair arm as he did so
''Not in the slightest''
''Well you did just practically verbally abuse each other for about twenty minutes whilst I was sat here like a lemon and then she stormed off into her room. Does make me feel a little uncomfortable, yes. Does that happen often?''
Sherlock finally pulled his gaze away from the paper and folded it in half, ''you said 'her' room, but it's my room as well''
''Oh'' Realisation suddenly dawned on John's face, ''OH sorry. You didn't say you two were, uhm…''
''Didn't I mention? Liz is my wife''
''Your wife?'' John gawked, ''I didn't even know you even liked her''
''Just because we're married doesn't mean we have to like each other John'' With that Sherlock pulled himself off the couch and headed towards the kitchen.
Living with Sherlock and Liz had its ups and downs. First off, Sherlock liked to play his violin at three o'clock in the morning and shoot holes in the wall at all kinds of ungodly hours. Liz liked staying out in the evenings and rolling in at whatever time suited her (not that she was a part goer, definitely not. It was the quiet bars she liked) which lead him to realise that Liz liked to drink. He quickly found out that she was mostly partial to whiskey.
They never did the shopping; when John first moved in he looked in the fridge and found a decapitated head residing in the section where the frozen veg ought to be. Mrs Hudson said it wasn't unusual and that she had found human body parts swimming in the bath once, apparently you just get used to it.
Out of the three of them, Sherlock was the one with the job – which he 'invented' Liz said employment didn't suit her and preferred to stay at home. John had had a few interviews for different things; none of them had gone to well so far, he thought he might try out the local GP, his army medical training ought to come in useful there surely.
Three months later, he came to realise that Liz's drinking was more of a drink problem than an occasional habit. The cupboard under the sink unit was always well stocked with booze and the recycling bin was often filled with nothing but bottles.
It made her moody as well. He was sure she could start an argument with herself locked in a drawing room.
Sherlock just seemed to take it as it came, one night John came home from a date with Sarah (a girl he'd met at his new job) to find them both arguing pretty badly. In the end, Sherlock had thrown her over his shoulder and forced her to go to bed.
Tonight John decided to talk to Sherlock about his wife's… Issue. He was a doctor; if he could get a little background info then he might be able to help. Only last week she had tripped in the flat, resulting in nothing but a nasty cut on her forehead – it could have been much worse.
''Sherlock, I was, uhm, wondering if, umm, about Liz'' John began hesitantly but was cut off by the detective talking over him in that monotone voice as his stares at the laptop, eyes unblinking as he searches the screen.
''Liz likes to drink and before you say, yes she does know she has a problem''
''Right'' that's a start, he thought, '' well, I was thinking-,''
''I know what you were thinking, you were thinking that if you could find out some more about her past then you could trace it back, perhaps as far as her childhood. Something that triggered it off in the hopes that you could find a solution and help cure her of her alcoholism'' John stared at him, mouth dropping open; he never failed to be amazed when this man knew what you were thinking even before you said it out loud. ''I can tell you know she won't stop easily, when we first met she was a heavy drinker even then'' Sherlock closed the laptop with a snap before placing it down on the table by the window. ''and close your mouth, you'll let flies in''
John snapped his mouth shut, realising that he had been sat there, gaping like a fish.
''I'm not saying I can 'cure' her as such, but I think I can help. Is there anything, anything at all that you know of that might have caused her to, err, want to, uhm, forget maybe? Aside from, you know, cut up fingers in the sink '' he tried to joke and Sherlock smiled slightly, sitting in the arm chair opposite John, one leg thrown over the other haphazardly and his fingertips lightly pressed together with his 'thinking face' on.
John could practically hear the cogs working together in the genius' mind as he tapped his fingertips together before speaking, ''When I met her, it was in a bar'' he began, ''She hated me at first, young twenty-two year old drowning her sorrows in a glass of gin. That's Elizabeth written all over'' he allowed himself a quiet chuckle at the memory. ''she was a journalist at the time, a beginner. Moved out of the family home and lived with her boyfriend, Lee he was called – terrible temper, he liked to drink too''
John leant back in the chair and prepared himself for what was going to be a long discussion about Liz's past, listening carefully as Sherlock told him how she had once gone to work with a split lip because Lee had hit her and when asked about it she simply said they'd gotten into a fight resulting in her 'falling' down the stairs. John couldn't believe it; Liz didn't take shit from anyone least of all some drunkard who thought he was clever hitting women.
''After a while the agency she worked for fired her shortly after her parents were killed in a traffic collision. She didn't have any money and decided to stay with Lee in their flat'' The story continued and John was still shocked at the things his friend was telling him. Sherlock didn't know about Liz's abusive partner until she came to work at Scotland Yard, he noticed her severe weight loss and coy behaviour and how one day she collapsed in her office after what Sherlock believed was the result in her being beaten black and blue the previous night. The hospital had confirmed her to have bruised and suspected cracked ribs, that was then the truth came out.
''Liz can't have children'' Sherlock spoke solemnly and John let out a faint sigh, still not coming to terms with what this woman – a women who he lives with and has come to be friends with went through, ''although it's just as well, neither of us want children. Liz hasn't got a maternal bone in her body'' Sherlock let out a shaky laugh, ''anyway, after a few months Lee was sentenced and went missing. Suicide apparently, although a body was never found. Liz never let me investigate and I didn't want to push the matter'' he stared at something past John's shoulder, eyes glazed over ''it wasn't long until I realised I might actually love her''
John was taken aback at this intimate information his friend had shared, of course he knew they must love each other, really. They may fight like cat and dog but they're married for crying out loud. They're just very private people; don't show that much affection towards one another. Anyone in the outside world would think they were merely acquaintances. Sherlock explained that two years after her partners 'death', they had moved in together and shortly after gotten married.
John listened carefully to every word, not wanting to interrupt as so far this was the only time his friend had opened up so easily about something so personal and he was sure it wouldn't be happening again anytime soon.
The silence was suddenly broken by the front door slamming shut, followed by thumping footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock twisted round in his chair and grabbed his violin, starting to play a fast tune and John knew the conversation was over.
''What the bloody hell happened?'' John dropped the shopping bags and hurried over to where Liz was lying across the sofa, face down with her limbs spread out in a way that could hardly be called comfortable.
''Don't worry, she does that from time to time'' Sherlock explained coherently from his position at the kitchen island, nose buried in a telescope, ''she'll wake up in a few hours''
''Where's she been, I thought she was trying to cut down''
Sherlock spared him a glance, ''went out last night for a few, what did she say? Oh yes; 'quiet drinks'. Didn't come home last night, I just found her there this morning''
''Well, have you checked she's alright?''
''Yes, yes. She's fine'' Sherlock waved off and sure enough, two hours later she woke up with a pounding headache and aspirin being shoved infront of her face by her husband.
Liz went a month without alcohol with the help of John.
She was three weeks late.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.
Elizabeth hurried (as non-suspiciously as possible) around the flat in search of her dairy. Sherlock paid no attention as she turned over cushions and upset papers all over the desk in search of the infuriating book.
''It's in the kitchen, underneath the jar of teeth'' he was lay on his back, staring at the ceiling in his pyjamas. Twiddling his thumbs idly. John was at work and he hadn't had a case for nearly a month. Everyone just seemed to be keeping alive. Boring. Most days he composed with his violin but even that had started to get slightly tedious day in, day out and Liz had taken his gun away claiming the noise was making her brain bang against the inside of her skull. There was nothing to do, Liz even had a new job which meant that he was in the flat by himself all day – well aside from Mrs Hudson…
Elizabeth finally found her diary and flipped through the pages rapidly until she found what she was looking for. Yep, nearly four weeks late. Shit.
She grabbed her keys and bag and flew down the stairs, not bothering to say goodbye to Sherlock, only that she was off to work, which wasn't a lie. She was, but also suddenly felt the need for fresh air.
A trip to the doctors had confirmed her suspicions. The impossible had become certain – She was pregnant.
A baby... Bloody hell. She was told she'd never be able to have children, Lee had seen to that. He kicked her in the stomach so hard she passed out. She couldn't remember what happened much on that day. Only that the hospital had told her that she would never bear children, it didn't bother her.
She wouldn't keep it of course – she couldn't. She liked their life the way it was, nothing tying them down. And anyway, it's not as though it would even be wanted. Both Sherlock and Elizabeth had made it clear they didn't want mini versions of themselves running around the place and that suited them just fine. So she planned to have an abortion.
And a week later that's just what she did.
On her way home she stopped by the supermarket. She's been advised not to drink and sure, she had been doing well but now she needed it. There was so much stuff going through her mind she was trying not to think about…
Even though she didn't regret her decision on bit, she didn't tell Sherlock. Not on the off chance he might have changed his mind. No, she didn't risk it.
The door of 221b Baker Street closed behind her as she climbed the stairs wearily, her body was tired and she wanted nothing more than to sit in the comfy arm chair and nurse a glass off whiskey, allowing the amber liquid to sooth and chase away her thoughts, just for a while.
The flat was dark, which was not unusual. Sherlock often sat in darkness for lengthy periods of time.
Liz dumped the Tesco bag on the counter, making the contents clang together noisily before unscrewing one of the bottles.
''Hello Elizabeth'' Liz turned her head to the source of the voice; there was only one person who called her by her full first name.
''Mycroft'' she nodded curtly, taking in the eldest Holmes brother with distaste. He was stood by the fireplace holding his customary umbrella in one hand and a large, brown envelope in the other ''to what do I owe this pleasure''
He remained silent and watched as she downed the first glass before slamming it back down on the counter to re-fill it sloppily ''Do you think it wise, a woman in your condition'' he motioned to the Jack Daniels in her hand with his umbrella.
''I don't know what you mean'' she said coolly, ''besides, I hardly think it's any of your concern what I do''
He continued to watch her as she shrugged off her coat and hung it on the door. Elizabeth had never really cared for Mycroft Holmes, who does? But they had got on fairly well in the past so he wasn't all bad, she supposed. Didn't mean she had to like him.
''Is there a particular reason why your hear Mycroft?'' She walked over to the arm chair, stepping out of her shoes as she went, leaving them behind her on the floor before she dropped into the chair, curling her legs beneath her and taking another sip of her drink.
''I just popped by to give you these, I know what you've done Elizabeth'' he said darkly, dropping the envelope on the desk.
''What are those?''
''Your medical records''
Please leave a comment, I would like to continue with this as I was going to write it all together but decided it would have been too long :)