Nobody Knows My Heart Like You

Carl Powers: The First Pip

Sherlock dragged them back to 221. Danielle was running behind him. All four followed behind Sherlock, confused as to why Sherlock brought them home. Danielle was actually the only one following his train of thought. Sherlock walked up to the door for 221c, finding it locked.

"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock called out.

"We need the keys for 221c!" Danielle called out.

After another few minutes Mrs Hudson came in with a keyring. Sherlock accepted the keyring from her hands. He sorted through them for the proper key.

"You had a look, didn't you, Sherlock, when you first came to see about your flat." Mrs Hudson mused. "And Danielle, you tried helping me clean it."

Danielle shook her head. "It's bad, I couldn't get it without a hazmat suit."

Sherlock ignored them both. He eyed the keyhole before phishing the key inside. "The door's been opened recently."

Mrs Hudson scrunched up her eyebrows, frowning in confusion. "No, can't be. That's my only key. Danielle?"

"I gave you back the spare." Danielle excused, matching Mrs Hudson's frown.

Sherlock continued opening the door. John and Lestrade watched it all with the kind of politeness that came from being around Sherlock. Which in layman's terms was: shutting up until he's about to be killed by someone angry.

"I can't get anyone interested in this flat. It's the damp, I expect. That's the curse of basements." Mrs Hudson rambled on.

Sherlock pushed the door open. Danielle followed in after him. John and Lestrade obediently followed behind.

"I had a place once when I was first married. Black mould all up the walls-" Nrs Hudson realized her audience had vanished. "Oh! Men!"

==NKMHLY==

The flat was empty. No furniture to speak of, the wallpaper faded and peeling off every edge. If Sherlock had tried shooting it up, it might have improved the looks. It was hard to tell what was ugly wallpaper and what was an abandoned mess.

It was making Danielle squeamish just looking at it. Could she be blamed? It was a miracle she had gotten her own basement flat looking nice. Then again, Jim hadn't cared much for it.

Danielle was certain about one thing. She hadn't left a pair of trainers in the middle of the flat. Neither had Mrs Hudson.

"Shoes." John stated, in his usual tone of hoping he wasn't the only one who thought it was odd.

"They aren't mine, or Mrs Hudsons." Danielle explained.

Sherlock was dismissing both of their comments. He started to walk towards the trainers. John held out his arm. "He's a bomber, remember." John cautioned.

Danielle hadn't even considered that the trainers could be explosive. Could bombs even be that small? What did Danielle know- maybe bombers had just gotten smarter. Phones had gotten smaller than before, maybe a bomb could fit in a trainer.

(It would not occur to her until much later that John had obviously the floor around the trainers had been set with a bomb. She never wanted to think about her own obvious stupidity again.

Then she remembered that the airports made you take off your shoes in security, so maybe John had been warning about the shoes.

Point is: she was using the wrong equation but got the right answer.)

Sherlock was mindful of the floors as he approached the trainers. He laid himself down flat on the floor, trying to see what was so special about the trainers without touching them. Danielle thought touching them was a bad idea together. This whole room was disgusting- the trainers looked no better, matching the ancientness and lack of cleanliness of the room itself.