Chapter Text
221B Baker Street – Late Afternoon
The flat smelled of old books, something slightly burnt, and the faintest trace of gun oil. Sherlock Holmes paused in the doorway like a predator catching a new scent.
Someone was in his chair.
A woman in her early twenties, legs curled beneath her, oversized hoodie too cozy to belong to a Londoner who gave a damn. Red hair in a loose braid. Combat boots with the laces double-knotted the wrong way around. Her smile was warm.
Too warm.
She sipped her tea like she didn’t have a care in the world.
“Hi,” she said with a lazy wave. “Sherlock, right? John’s told me so much about you.”
Sherlock didn't speak. His eyes flicked over her like a scan.
John, seated nearby with a notebook, smiled awkwardly. “Sherlock, this is Hazel. She’s a new client. Came in about an hour ago.”
“Hm,” Sherlock said, scanning her with the full force of his mind.
She met his stare like it was nothing. Like it didn’t mean anything at all.
Sherlock’s tone was light. “Hazel. Lovely name. Tell me, what brings you to my flat?”
She cleared her throat and sat up straighter, like she’d rehearsed it.
“I’ve been back in London a few weeks. Worked in... private security before. Overseas.” A pause. A glance down, as if reliving something. “Now I’m trying to start new. But I’ve been getting these weird letters. No return address. No name. Just... messages. Threats.”
John frowned. “Do you have any of them with you?”
She nodded and reached into her messenger bag, pulling out a folded envelope. Clean. Too clean.
“Here’s one,” she said, offering it to him. “There are others, but I didn’t want to drag my whole paranoid folder.”
Sherlock didn’t move. John grabbed them.
He was watching the way she sat. Not a flicker of tension in her shoulders. Not a trace of real fear.
“I assume you’ve gone to the police,” he said.
“They said I was ‘overreacting.’ Probably just a jealous ex. Maybe someone from overseas. I’ve pissed off a lot of men with fragile egos.” She smiled, light and charming. “But then I saw your website. Thought, ‘hell, why not?’ If anyone can solve a creepy-stalker-mystery, it’s you.”
Her voice was too casual. Like she was deliberately underperforming.
John nodded. “They’re smartly worded. Language is vague, but a bit disturbing. No overt threats, but... unnerving stuff.”
Hazel gave a wry grin. “’He’s being watched,’ ‘You don’t belong there,’ that kind of poetic horror, until the last one said something about my flatmate’s schedule. Figured it might be serious.”
Sherlock didn’t answer. He stared.
She looked ordinary. She spoke like a uni dropout who drank energy drinks for breakfast and had opinions about bad dates and boxed wine. But he saw it—the precision under the surface.
How she kept her hands in clear view. How her eyes scanned every object in the room exactly once.
How she was performing.
Not nervous. Not unaware.
Exactly calculated.
His gaze lingered on her boots. Polished, but not recently.
Military surplus. Eastern European style. Re-laced. Worn for mobility.
Combatant, not civilian. Lying.
“Where do you live?”
Hazel hesitated, then shrugged. “Westminster.”
Too vague.
He stepped closer.
“You came here... how?”
“Tube.”
“Which station?”
“Waterloo.”
Wrong answer. She didn’t smell like the underground. She smelled like—
Gunpowder. Detergent. Steel.
“You covered the camera downstairs with chewing gum.”
Hazel tilted her head. “What camera?”
John looked up. “Wait—we have a camera downstairs?”
“Pink gum. Synthetic fruit. Orbit brand. Pressed at a left-handed downward angle. Recently chewed.”
Hazel sighed, her smile dimming just a shade. “Okay. Maybe I didn’t want anyone knowing I came here.”
Sherlock’s voice dropped, cold and sharp like a knife sliding into velvet.
“John. Get back.”
John looked confused. “What? Why—”
“Get. Back. Now.”
Hazel let out a slow breath and leaned back in the chair, as if disappointed it took him this long.
“Took you long enough,” she muttered.
Sherlock’s fingers twitched toward the inside of his coat, inching closer to the grip of his concealed pistol.
“I was just playing your game,” he said.
Hazel rolled her eyes. “Liar.”
He stepped toward John, shielding him, every muscle drawn tight.
“Oh, would you relax,” Hazel drawled. “I’m not even armed. See?”
She stood slowly, hoodie lifting slightly to reveal nothing but her waistband. No holsters. No weapons.
Sherlock’s tone dropped to a hiss. “We both know you don’t need a gun.”
John looked between them, completely lost. “Okay, what the hell is going on?”
Hazel tilted her head and gave a slow, amused smile.
“I’m not here to kill anyone,” she said, tossing her coat over her shoulder. “I just wanted to meet the famous Dr. Watson. That’s all. Relax.”
Sherlock didn’t relax. Not even slightly.
“You’re not supposed to be in London.”
She raised both brows with a smirk. “Well... oops?”
Then her gaze shifted back to John. Softer. Almost... genuine.
“Seriously though—thanks for the tea. You’re surprisingly decent.” A beat. “Hope I didn’t freak you out too much.”
John gave a confused half-smile. “Not yet.”
Hazel winked. “Good.”
And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out like she'd never been there at all.
Like a ghost that chose not to haunt.