Stamford was good enough to arrange our next meeting, this time at the residence itself. The façade seemed nice enough when I exited my cab. It was in a respectable neighborhood, and as I climbed the stairs of the front door, children were playing down the lane. A good sign. I was mildly surprised to see a woman answer my rhythm on the door: older to be sure, likely the landlady. Behind her stood Stamford on the stairs, waving to me.

“Oh, you must be the one! Thank the stars, Stamford mentioned you were abnormal but not that you were pretty! Please, please, come in. I’ve just steeped some tea. Wonderful timing, now, do you prefer biscuits or something more savoury?”

“Uh…” I stumble. The foyer we are in is just that: a foyer. Not a narrow, barren corridor customary of inexpensive residences. The staircase Stamford is standing on is comfortably wide. The place is clean and well furnished. There is even a painting hanging on the wall. “Savoury?”

“I’ve got some long beans I like to roast with lemon and pepper, if you like. They’ve got a nice crunch.”

“Perhaps an introduction first,” Stamford proffered. “Watson, this is Ms. Hudson, your potential landlady. She lives here on the main floor while you would be just up there.”

“Oh yes!” the lady apologized. “Although you may of course have access to this floor, as it is where the kitchen resides. Do you cook, dear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply, warily looking up at the high ceiling and the banister overlooking us.

“That’s a relief,” the woman chimed, “the lazy creature upstairs always cooks but it is never food.”

I frowned with some horror at her while she started toward the kitchen but then she spun back around. “Oh, how about I show you the place first? You can settle upstairs, get to know the space over tea.”

I mutely followed her up the stairs, my heart fluttering lower and lower into my twisting abdomen. I cannot afford this. The ceilings are high everywhere and as she leads me deeper into the flat, a modest, though plush, runner softens our steps. The knob to my room is a polished brass hammered with a sunflower design, which turns to reveal a room only furnished with an armoire next to a secondary door, perhaps to a washroom.

“Stamford did tell you the room was barely furnished, I hope?” Ms. Hudson wondered as she stepped up the two stairs of the raised platform within the concave bay windows. She moved the curtains to reveal panes stacked taller than myself. The lifted area was surely meant for a desk or some other furniture needing light, but I felt the beautiful room sway slightly.

I wanted it. It was tall and rectangular, that semi-octagon of windows filling it with morning light. It was Spartan, of course: a box with a sentinel armoire, but I could make it mine.

“I was so happy when the good Inspector brought Sherlock back. Not for Sherlock, but the news that he had met you! It will be so nice having another lady in the house — erm, do you mind if I call you that? One of the members of my card table, her son is a…a bit of a pouf, but he goes the extra length to wear a gown. I can’t say I mind when he, or she, styles hair better than any salon I’ve visited!”

I had gone to the window to see the view overlooking the street. “Lady is fine — um, Ms. Hudson, how much is the rent?”

“Oh, don’t you worry on that, dear. The rent is negotiable—”

“It pays in its own way to be a rich widow,” said a much soberer voice. I turned toward the door which was not a washroom, but the connection of our rooms. There were bags under his eyes as he stared at me, but his hair was reasonably tidy today.

Ms. Hudson sighed as if this were part of an ongoing argument. “The negotiation is certainly in your favour. The place is large but it only has the three bedrooms, these two attached.”

“It is no secret that you do not need the tenant,” Mr. Holmes remarked, “only the help in paying off your gambling pursuits.”

I observed this exchange and the characters of it: Mr. Holmes leaning against the doorjamb like he had just woken up while Ms. Hudson sputtered indignantly. His eyes landed on me, however, and flicked to something so briefly I could not tell what it was before he said, “Though you are not the only one who enjoys losing money.”

He and I stared at one another. This was vastly different from his behaviour in the hospital. What was oblivious, frantic concentration, was now steadfast and calm inspection. I felt like he was having a conversation with me but I was not hearing it.

Ms. Hudson prattled on, “You are not making a good case for yourself, Sherlock. You ought to present more courtesy — or at the very least, put a bloody shirt on! — before the person moves in and discovers how you really are!”

His gaze slid toward his landlady. “That restriction is exactly what landed you a devil of a husband.”

“Never mind that now,” she piped, fuming as she turned back to me. “Might as well ask now, what are you currently paying at your place, dear?”

I opened my mouth but it was Mr. Holmes who answered, “One hundred pounds for the year.”

I blinked at him, unsure what game he was playing, while Ms. Hudson thought aloud, “I can’t very well charge more than Sherlock when your rooms are the same size. Seventy quid should suffice, however I do require the first two months’ rent paid in full when you move in. Is that all right?”

I removed my gaze from him to lie, “Yes, I can do that.”

“That’s marvelous!” she beamed. “Take your time, moving in — oh, I’ll get the tea — Sherlock, don’t you scare her away now!”

She rushed from the room while Sherlock otherwise rolled his eyes and his body back into his own room. Stamford approached me and shook my hand for the first time since I had come in. “This moved right along, eh?”

“Thank you,” I sighed.

“It’s the least I could do. When will you come round for dinner? The wife is eager to meet you.”

“Uh…I’m not sure. I’ll write to you. Probably in two weeks.”

“Come round if anything changes,” he said on his way out. “Good day, Sherlock!”

A deadpan, “Stamford,” was all that he received, however our mutual friend did not seem bothered at all as he donned his hat and could be heard leaving through the front door.

I approached the doorway between our rooms and faced a stark contrast: my Spartan abode was nothing compared to the…organized mess that was his, however the occupant could be the only one to discern the sense of organization. The shape of the room mirrored my own, however long, navy curtains allowed only a sliver of sunlight. The entire wall we shared was shelved with books while there was no actual bed in sight. I had to think the rumpled space of pillows and blankets on the floor was where he slept. The rest of the floor was a maze of piled books, an overgrown rubber plant, a few less thriving plants, and various tables holding up small chemical experiments or equipment.

It was my turn to lean against the doorjamb, taking it all in. Mr. Holmes was standing with his back to me by the window, examining whatever was in the beaker he held. He had made no efforts to don a shirt, so the light played off his lean, toned figure. I could not guess his age. He had the sort of physique and features which granted him a constant look of youth, like he was fresh out of university despite being perhaps past thirty. His visage was entirely different when he was not inebriated: bored and studiously calm.

“Why did you tell her my rent was one hundred pounds?”

“Because you’re poor,” he declared without looking at me. “You can barely pay the seventy. If she thinks you can afford it, she won’t turn you away. As much as she would like to take the hundred, her obligatory illusion of fairness would not let her deviate from the contrast in our rents.”

“I only pay eighty pounds now,” I corrected, still processing myself how I might be moving into a larger, yet cheaper, abode.

“I know, which you might be able to pay were it not for your recreational activities.”

I could not help but ogle him with some amusement. “What do you think I do in my spare time?” I said with mirth.

“Lose at gambling, obviously.”

Ms. Hudson entered my room behind me with her tea and beans, providing me with an exit. She was certainly kind, albeit chatty as we drank together. I did not mind her conversation — she simply seemed overjoyed to have someone other than Sherlock to talk to — however I had affairs to get in order.

“Of course! Of course, dear,” she chimed as I announced my leaving. “I’m sorry for keeping you so long…”

Her words drifted, inciting me to glance back before I descended the stairs. She was looking at Sherlock’s closed door. “Something wrong?”

“Hm? No, it’s just…he’s rather quiet today. How rare.”