Rating: Teen
DISCLAIMER: ...Don't we always think we can write things better than the people who actually write them, because they just do one thing or another we don't care for?
Summary: Fluff in 221B.
He was startled into reality by tapping at the window. At first, he thought it had to be a lost bird, or something, but a glance upwards told him that was wrong. At least, in the very most literal sense. It appeared his sense of reality had begun to return, for he questioned the presence of a familiar drenched face, grey eyes, clinging dark hair, and all for all of two seconds before getting up and limping over to it. He opened it quickly and stood out of the way, and Victoriana wriggled through the window like a seasoned house-breaker and lay there for a moment. The resemblance to a drowned rat was remarkable.
"You know, you took your time about it," she snarked, and his lips twitched. The giggling burst out of him unexpectedly, and after a moment she joined in.
Mrs. Hudson hurried up the stairs and insisted on feeding and clothing the poor creature. Victoriana looked to John, eyes practically begging for rescue, but this time it was for her own good. John Watson was keeping well out of it, since it was entirely possible that she'd caught a cold out there sulking and panicking and the sooner she had warm food and was into dry, warm clothes, the better. He turned his attention to a novel he'd picked off the shelf.
He'd actually managed to lose himself in the book when he was interrupted by a richly toned woman's voice. "Alas, poor Yorick, I hardly knew thee and then I forgot thee."
He glanced up, making a face that said 'that's probably inappropriate and I have to be the voice of reason sometimes', and Victoriana smirked at him, one eyebrow raised, toweling off her hair which looked much better after a wash. She glanced again at the skull, still smirking, then joined him by the fire, and the silence was both warm and companionable.