Chapter Text
Sherlock knew the second he walked into the parlor that there had been other people besides himself, John, or Mrs. Hudson in 221 Baker Street. John was still at the grocery store and Mrs. Hudson was in her flat, 221a. There were boxes by the door leading down to the basement flat, 221c. Yesterday Sherlock had been in “a mood” and remembered nothing. After brief concentration, he vaguely remembered Mrs. Hudson giddily gossipping with John about new tenants…
New tenants. In 221c.
Well… hmm.
Sherlock was a fan of excitement and anything that could dispel his boredom of human mortality and stupidity. However, he doesn’t like change. Especially not to places or people he considered safe. The detective didn’t yet know how he felt about these intrusions in his life.
With no immediate threat presented, Sherlock made his way up the stairs to 221b. Hopefully a mind-dulling reality TV program would help calm his anxiety. That and maybe three more nicotine patches. Maybe these new tenants would be a new way to cope with his crippling boredom. But secretly, Sherlock found himself wishing that these new tenants would be boring.
~~
Abigail hoped that a shower would help get rid of the jet lag that she couldn’t seem to shake even three days after arriving in London. Yet every time she closed her eyes she saw Will’s look of complete shock and betrayal when he found out she was alive. Abigail read Freddie Lounds’ articles on Will and how he was tried for her own murder and cannibalism. It shouldn’t have hurt as bad as it did that so many people were quick to believe he had done it. Then again, Hannibal was a very convincing man. So much like Abigail’s own dad, yet so different. She trusted him even though she knew she shouldn’t. But what did it say about Will that he trusted Hannibal too? Neither person felt safe around the psychiatrist, but both trusted him. Maybe it’s because Hannibal would never hurt them unless he was hurt himself. Like a wild animal, cornered and wounded. Hannibal’s instability simply stemmed from the fact that he was always the one to wound himself.
With the water turning cold, Abigail stepped out of the shower of her thoughts. Wringing out her long hair and wrapping a towel around her body, she made her way across the small apartment to her room. It was small and sparsely decorated, but she knew that the three of them needed to lay low for a couple months until the FBI calmed down on their pursuit.
However, that didn’t mean that Abigail couldn’t explore the city. She was in London after all. The biggest city she had ever been to was Chicago, and even that was a six hour drive from her house. In America, “old” meant a raggedy old farm house that creaks when you went down the stairs. In England, “old” meant intricate stone buildings and posh British paintings. So of course Abigail wanted to explore such a cool historical city.
Putting on a simple outfit with a navy jacket to keep out the early spring chill and a purple neck scarf to hide her still noticeable scar, Abigail made her way through the small apartment to the living room where the stairs to the parlor were. Hannibal was in the kitchen making some intricate and fancy French dish Abigail couldn’t pronounce, and Will was in the room Hannibal and him shared, sleeping off the pain of his stab wound.
Peeking her head into the kitchen entrance, Abigail asked Hannibal quietly so she wouldn't wake Will, “I’m going out for a bit, is that alright?”
Hannibal eyed her with hesitation, but ultimately decided it would be fine. “Of course. Just be careful, only use our agreed aliases and be home before five.” Abigail smiled in acknowledgement and Hannibal returned her smile with an equally sweet one.
Slipping her boots on, Abigail made her way up the narrow stairwell to the parlor. Just as she crossed the parlor and opened the door to go outside, a person carrying rather overstuffed grocery bags stumbled through the door and nearly tripped trying to regain their balance. Abigail held out her hands to steady the person. After they regained their balance, Abigail took some of the bags to help.
“Ah, I’m sorry.” Abigail grimaced apologetically. The man she’d almost tripped had short mousy hair and a pudgy nose. His brown eyes twinkled with kindness.
“No no,” he reassured hastily with a British accent. “Should’ve watched where I was going.” He chuckled awkwardly. He moved in quick, short movements. He furrowed his brow in confusion. “Are you, uh, the new tenant? In 221c?”
Abigail felt a little awkward but answered anyways, “Uh, yup. Me and my, uh, parents just moved in.” The man simply nodded in acknowledgment. Abigail didn’t want to talk to this guy, she just wanted to explore London. “Uh, I’m Abby. Abby Bloom.” When deciding on a last name for the three of them to share, the name of their closest friend and mentor was the first to come to mind.
“Ah right,” the man said quickly, holding his hand out to shake. “I’m John Watson. I live upstairs.” Abigail shook his hand quickly and released it just as fast.
“Umm, let me help you with your groceries.” Abigail offered politely. Mr. Watson smiled in thanks. Abigail followed Mr. Watson up the stairs to apartment 221b. Mr. Watson took the groceries back from her.
“Thank you Miss Bloom.” John smiled kindly. “I’ll see you around then.”
“Yeah, uh, nice to meet you too.” Abigail smiled quickly. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Mr. Watson, she just really wanted to get out of the house for a few hours and her time was limited. Waving politely, she made her way back down the stairs to the parlor and out the door before anyone else could stop her.
~~
John had gotten Sherlock’s text three blocks from home asking for groceries. He almost texted back with “no”, but decided that it would be best to get groceries lest he eat takeout or fried eyeballs for supper. After picking up some necessities and some not-so-necessary necessities, John made his way home to 221b Baker Street.
Just as he was about to open the door, it opened unexpectedly, and John stumbled into the parlor trying to regain his balance with the help of slim arms.
“Ah, sorry about that.” The girl said.
“No no,” John hastily replied. “Should’ve watched where I was going.” The girl had long dark hair and eyes almost as piercing blue as Sherlock’s. They seemed widened in permanent shock. The strange girl who John found out was his new neighbor, Abby Bloom, helped him with the groceries and left rather quickly. John didn’t take it personally though - she was on her way out before John almost fell.
John made his way to the kitchen table to try to make room for the groceries. Haphazardly shoving jars full of mysterious liquid and body parts aside, John finally found room for his bags. Sherlock was spread out on his armchair like a cat while watching some trash reality show on the telly. John busied himself with putting the groceries away with no offer of assistance from Sherlock.
“How was she.” Sherlock suddenly asked, not looking up from his program.
Confused, John asked, “How was who…?”
“The girl. Our new neighbor.” Sherlock simply supplied. If John wasn’t mistaken, there was a hint of bitterness in his voice.
“Good, good,” John answered just as simply, mostly to irk the dark haired man more than anything else. Sherlock remained silent.
With the groceries put away, John resigned himself to his chair next to Sherlock and read the paper while Sherlock continued with his reality show binging.
“That’s good.” Sherlock said suddenly.
“What’s good?” John asked, confused.
“The girl.” Sherlock answered.
“Ah.” John was almost concerned. But this behavior wasn’t entirely unusual for the taller man, so John supposed he would simply indulge him for the time being. When overly stressed, Sherlock would often shut down like this, not answering questions for several minutes, hours sometimes. Or not at all. John just wondered what could have him this stressed.
“Is it the new neighbors?” John asked carefully.
“What do you mean?” Sherlock deflected, not once taking his eyes off the TV screen.
“Are you worried about the new neighbors?” John elaborated.
“No of course not why would I be.” Sherlock said quickly in one monotone breath.
John was silent for a beat. “Alright then. You’re not worried about the neighbors.” He waited a few moments before adding quietly, “But, uh, hypothetically, if you were worried, you could talk to me about it.”
When Sherlock didn’t say anything, John went to his paper and hoped this problem wouldn’t grow into something uncontrollable.