Sherlock has a furrow between his brows as he steps out of the taxi, though he doesn't know it. It's been there nearly all afternoon, after he left the flat to question someone for a case without John. Rosie had a doctor's appointment, leaving him to go by himself. He didn't like it, having no one to talk to (or, well, at) or to give their input, whether it would be close to correct or entirely off the mark.
Well, it's over now, and he thinks he's solved the case, so he supposes he'll just have to forget about it. But his furrow doesn't disappear; in fact, it deepens.
This is caused by the knocker on his front door, as it's been straightened. And Sherlock knows exactly who did it.
Mycroft.
He's the only one who bothers to straighten that knocker, as most people don't even use the thing, if they do knock on that door. Sherlock suspects that Mycroft doesn't actually knock, anyway, so why he bothers to straighten the knocker hardly makes an ounce of sense until one considers his great need to have everything in order, and, in any case, it serves as a helpful, yet annoying warning for Sherlock.
He fixes the knocker, then unlocks the door and enters, mentally preparing himself to speak to his brother, wondering why in the world he would be here.
After climbing the stairs, Sherlock carefully and casually opens the door to the sitting room, where he finds John and Rosie, but no Mycroft. The furrow returns.
"Where's Mycroft?" he asks.
John also looks confused. "What? Mycroft?"
"Yes, where's Mycroft?" Sherlock repeats, looking in the kitchen, as if he were hiding in there.
"Mycroft is not here," Rosie says helpfully with her little lisp and unconfident r's. She looks up at Sherlock from the floor.
Sherlock glances at her as he looks around. "Yes, Ro, it does look that way, doesn't it?"
John asks, "Is he supposed to be here?"
"The knocker on the door was straight," Sherlock replies. "He must be here."
"Well, unless he's hiding in the bathroom or your bedroom, he isn't here."
Sherlock almost goes back into the hall to check, then decides against it and heads back downstairs instead, going straight to Mrs. Hudson's door, which he knocks on loudly.
The landlady answers, looking up at him with a bit of indignation. "Sherlock Holmes, what are you doing?"
"Has Mycroft been here?" he asks.
She just looks confused, too. "Mycroft? No, I haven't seen him."
"Then why is the knocker straight?"
"I don't know."
It bothers him, the not knowing. He paces in the hall, thinking. "Who else would straighten that knocker?"
"Well, the only other person who's been here today was the woman who's rented 221C. Maybe she straightened it. Or her — what was he? — brother? — yes, I think her brother."
Sherlock stops instantly, processing. He looks at the nearby door to the basement apartment. "Someone's renting 221C?"
"Yes. She came asking about it a couple hours ago — Lily, her name was. I warned her about you and all the noise you can make at times, and then there's the mold that could pop up down there if not properly cared for — and her brother warned her about that, too — but her heart seemed quite set on it. She's got a lot of plans already, and they'll have to do a lot of renovations and things, but I think she'll fix it up really nicely. She seems excited about it. Watching her light up made me feel young again, truth be told."
Sherlock misses the last bit of what Mrs. Hudson said, trying to determine how he feels about the idea of a new neighbor. Abruptly, he turns and walks back up the stairs, then opens the door to the sitting room before unceremoniously sinking into his chair. He's half lost in thought.
"Someone's renting 221C," he says.
John looks over at him. "What?"
"Came by today. Her name is Lily."
"Did you... meet her?" John asks unsurely.
"No," Sherlock replies, his curls rustling as he slightly shakes his head. He goes quiet, and John doesn't ask anything else, so they sit in silence for a few moments. Rosie looks at them curiously, and then Sherlock stands, heading back to his room to call Lestrade. "She's going to have to stop straightening that knocker," he mutters, decidedly not liking this new development.
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Soon, the sounds of voices and laughter and various forms of renovation can be heard from downstairs on most days from morning to afternoon. John doesn't seem to mind too much, and Rosie is relatively unbothered by it, but Sherlock doesn't like it one bit. It makes it harder to think, even in his mind palace at times; once, the sounds of some sort of hammering echoed as he walked from room to room, irritating him exceedingly. Luckily, he never heard that specific sound again after that day, though there are still others.
And so, as much as he tries to think of other things, the thought of this woman frequently comes to his head, and he wonders about her. He can't deduce what he can't see, though his annoyed feelings towards her ensure he'll deduce everything he can about her when he meets her, as that usually makes people uncomfortable.
Based on Mrs. Hudson's frequent favorable descriptions, though, he sometimes almost decides against this in the evenings, when he can't hear anything. But irritation brings a new determination, one he hasn't mentioned to John, as he knows John will unfortunately tell him not to, even when he himself inevitably starts getting tired of the noise.
It becomes quite a relief to leave the flat, which they do now everyday for a number of reasons — though not once do they run into this Lily or her brother, or anyone else coming to help her with renovations. Apart from the muffled sound of her voice, Sherlock doesn't know anything about this woman except for her name and apparent tendency to be terribly loud when moving into flats, aside from what he's gleaned from Mrs. Hudson. Unfortunately, John always shoots down his complaints.
"It irritates me a bit, too, Sherlock, but it'll be over soon enough — and, anyways, that flat certainly needs to be renovated," he says today, eliciting an eye roll from Sherlock as they ride in a taxi toward a crime scene Lestrade has called them to. Sherlock lets the matter drop, tired of arguing the point with him now, and instead, when they reach their destination, complains to Lestrade.
"I can barely think, Grayson," Sherlock huffs, bending over a corpse with his travel magnifying glass. "Everyday there's some sort of noise going on downstairs. This woman is incredibly loud."
"I think you're exaggerating," John says, but Sherlock just ignores him.
"There's all the voices, going in and out the door usually, but then there's days where she's actually doing construction down there, and I can hear it all the way upstairs. How is Rosie supposed to nap when all that is going on?"
"Rosie doesn't take a regular nap anymore."
Sherlock straightens, trying to remember when that daily routine was changed. Finally, he argues, "Well, she should; she's only three years old. Three year olds still need naps."
"And, apparently, so do thirty-five-year-old consulting detectives," John jokes, and Lestrade laughs. Sherlock remains unamused, turning back to the corpse with a pout.
Lestrade shakes his head. "Look, from what I've heard, Sherlock, that flat is a bit of a wreck, so you can't blame the woman for making it livable. Renovation is just noisy, and that's all there is to it. It'll all be done with soon. Just buy some earplugs."
Sherlock's frown deepens, and he stands again, not even looking at Lestrade as he leaves the crime scene. "It was obviously the husband. Next time don't call me for something as boring as this."
Lestrade and John sigh, the latter following Sherlock back to the street, where they find a taxi. Sherlock pouts the whole way home, and John enjoys the silence, leaning back with his eyes closed.
Once back at 221B, Sherlock stomps up the stairs, honestly making more noise than Lily does on most days, while John goes to Mrs. Hudson's to pick up Rosie. When the two of them return to the flat upstairs, Sherlock realizes he has one ally left in this world: Rosie.
He rants to her while John fixes her dinner, and she responds with very sympathetic looks and words she learned from her father. When John calls her to the kitchen, she enters and sits at the table with wide eyes and a shaking head. "Lock is mad," she declares as John helps her in the chair.
John chuckles. "Yes, Rosie, I know. And he's going to be mad for a while longer."
"'Til the Lily woman moves in?" Rosie asks.
John's chuckle grows, and Sherlock recognizes his own phrases. "Yes, until the Lily woman moves in. Shouldn't be too long now."
"I hope not," Sherlock comments from the sitting room. Rosie shakes her head at him as she eats, though she does listen to his periodic rants while the Lily woman and whoever else is down there renovate 221C.
Sherlock just hopes it'll be over soon.