The first thing the maid did upon entering was scream sharply and drop the breakfast platter to the floor. She didn't seem to care that Mrs. Hudson's tea and crumb cake was ruining the carpet, nor the fact that she had broken at least two pieces of good china as she sprinted across the room and dropped to her knees in front of the apparently dead body of Sherlock Holmes.

He was splayed on the ground, his clothes from the night before a study in dishevelment. Books and papers littered the ground around him, some of which had been scribbled upon hastily, and others that had been torn to pieces. He didn't appear to be breathing, and all the girl could think as she stared at him in utter shock was that she didn't want have to be the proverbial maid who discovered the body of the proverbial eccentric genius. She knew it was not the way Sherlock Holmes wanted to die. It was neither public nor noisy and had absolutely nothing to do with crime or a violin, therefore unsatisfactory.

The girl reached out a trembling hand to grip his shoulder. "Mr. Holmes? Mr. Holmes!"

The great detective, much to her delight, stirred slightly, moaning out what sounded like a scientific formula. Wincing at the verbal chastising she was sure would come after, the girl slapped him briskly across the face.

Holmes was awake in an instant, shooting up into a sitting position. For a moment he looked very determined, then the events of the previous night caught up with him and he swayed slightly, leaning back on an elbow.

"Damn this glare," He rasped, shading his eyes from the weak shaft of sunlight streaming in from the far window. He then caught sight of his maid. "Ah! Christiana."

The girl breathed out heavily, her chestnut curls falling in her face. "I thought you dead."
'Oh, quite," He assured her. "But not anymore." Then suddenly, as if remembering something. "My experiment!"

He scrambled to his feet and lunged for something bubbling over the fire, but Christiana pushed him down firmly into the nearest armchair.

"No, you stay there." She went to the fireplace and removed the kettle of God-knows-what from the heat of the flames. Then she turned and looked at him hard, hands on hips.

"Morphine or cocaine?"

"The latter."

"Mr. Holmes," The maid began righteously. "I have been your maid for five moths now, and I have already found you 'dead' thrice! Admittedly, one was from you testing the drug which allowed Lord Blackwood to fake his death, but the other two have been directly related to your 'habits'. You'll damage yourself."

"Nonsense," He said, waving at her a little sloppily. "I am in perfect condition. I know my limits."

"You have none, Sir."

"Exactly."

"That is not a good thing! Your mind-"

"Is as sharp as ever," He snapped a little defensively. Christiana fumed, striding over to the windows. She threw open the dusty drapes further, flooding the destroyed study with London's pale grey light.

"Oh devil woman," Holmes moaned, covering his face with a pillow. "Why do you torment me?"

"Look at that fog," She muttered. "Thick as pea soup. They'll be no leaving the flat today, although I can't think of anything that would do you better."
"I'm fully capable of entertaining myself, thank you. I have no need for the petty delights of the outside world."

She laughed, taking in ever inch of his Devil-may-care exterior. "Oh, I've seen what happens when you take to entertaining yourself You haven't had a case in weeks, therefore, you 'entertainment' is a danger to humanity in general.

Holmes yanked off his near-ruined waistcoat, tossing it in a corner. "Don't patronize me; get out."

"No," She snapped, stooping down to pick up Mrs. Hudson's shattered china. "Look what you've made me do…"

"I mean, it Christiana. Leave me, or God help me, I will fire you."

"You don't believe in God, Mr. Holmes."

"Quite right. Have I told my theory as to the commonplace disease of using religious constrictions as a crutch for sexual dysfunction?"

She ignored him. "You won't fire me; I'm the only maid in central London who can put up with you for any amount of time. I know how many you've gone through since Mrs. Hudson started looking for extra help."

"She plots against me," He muttered. "She's assembling a whole legion on nannies…"

"Yes, it's all a malicious ruse, devised to destroy you utterly. You made the papers again," She said mildly, tossing him one of the newspapers that had been dropped along with breakfast. "Second page; more praise for the Blackwood case."

"Boring," He mumbled, tossing it behind him. Christiana reached into the deep pockets of her dress and produce a smaller, slightly less credible paper. "You also made the scandal sheet. Front page, third week in a row. Expose Into Famous Detective's Intimate Relations With Resident Doctor; Miss Adler Tells All."

Holmes scowled. "Now she's being petty. I only gave Lestrade her location once. Burn it, oh bane of my existence."

She obligingly threw it into the fire, rolling her eyes. Now he was just being melodramatic.

"Have I ever mistreated you, Mr. Holmes? Am I the utter nemesis you enjoy making your household help out to be?"

"No," He admitted slowly. "We're strangely compatible in our deviations from social norms."

"English would be appreciated, Mr. Holmes."

"You're a strange girl with little tendency to submit to accepted gender roles. Working at seventeen, and from such a good family? You should be married. Also, I often notice the edges of ticket stubs sticking out of your apron pocket when you bring my tea; you attend the theater regularly. A scandalous place for a young woman of virtue."

Holmes crawled out of the armchair and onto the floor, arranging himself cross-legged on a fraying cushion. "Also, you seem to admire my work. I do not…off put you. And I find your presence in my sphere of being acceptable, as you are neither a nuisance nor an entirely uninteresting character."

Christiana walked by, swatting him lovingly upside the head. "Which is your way of saying you like me. Your allowed to enjoy the presence of other people, Mr. Holmes. It makes you no less brilliant."

Suddenly he caught her hand, yanking her down on the floor across from him. Christiana sat awkwardly in a puddle of skirts, recoiling bit under his intense gaze. After scrutinizing her a moment, he asked,

"What are your thoughts on the plausibility of a parallel reality?"

It was at that precise moment that Doctor Watson walked through the door, tossing his hat familiarly on a nearby table. He then caught the destroyed state of the room, Holmes's hung-over disposition, and the bewildered eyes of the young maid who had been roped into one of his many interrogations.

His companion gestured to a third cushion, one left intentionally empty.

"Ah, Watson. Perfect. Do sit down."

Rock candy, parlor games, and Holme's particular brand of entertainment ahead! Want some more? Drop us a review. Stay shiny, my friends :)