Sherlock was right, of course, about the murder weapon. Figuring that out eventually led them to finding the man responsible, who told the whole story when he realized how much they knew and how it could help him. He'd been hired to go in and steal something else — the very expensive chess piece — but wasn't sure exactly what he was looking for. As he searched, he'd found the statues, thought one of them might be it, and the woman had come down the stairs and confronted him. He panicked and, well...

The man who'd hired him wanted to put it with the rest of the chess set, but, in life, the woman had refused. So, he paid somebody else to take it back — and it did not work in his favor.

This process took about a week, in which Sherlock heard more noises from downstairs, though none as bad as he'd previously heard. In the following week, he had no new cases, and so stayed in the flat most of the time. He only heard noises once more, and then they stopped.

He hasn't heard any since, though his irritation is being kept alive by the frequently straightened knocker. One day, it will be Mycroft who's done it — or he'll show up and it'll already be straightened — and Sherlock won't be prepared. He's resolved to speak to this Lily about it when he finally meets her, if he ever does. Now that she's moved in, as Mrs. Hudson told them she was, he expects to every day, when he happens to think about it, but he doesn't that first day, though he hears her and someone else going through the hall.

The second day, he hasn't thought about it at all. Rosie's been having him play with her all day, and his mind has been off even his growing boredom. After John gets home from getting the shopping, though, he escapes and makes his way into the kitchen, looking for something small to eat. His meals are rather irregular, despite John and Mrs. Hudson's efforts.

While he's hunting in the cabinet, there's a timid knock on the door. It's only then that Lily enters his mind, and he stops, listening as John answers.

"Hello," he says in a friendly manner.

"Hello," she replies, her voice a bit shaky, though it starts smoothing out as she talks. "I'm Lily Marlow — I just moved in downstairs, and I hope I'm not intruding or anything, but I brought you some cookies to introduce myself and, well, apologize for all the noise. I promise it's all done now, so I won't be bothering you anymore."

"I'm John Watson, and, really, you don't need to worry over any noise," John replies. "I was not bothered." He looks at Sherlock, who's just exited the kitchen, as he says this. Sherlock rolls his eyes before turning his head and taking in this loud and elusive woman.

She's shorter than even John — by a good four inches or so, putting her near Molly's height — so Sherlock has to look down slightly, from this distance, to see her face.

Her dark brown eyes hold the nervousness her lilting voice lost, yet also a good deal of friendliness. Her lips are curved into a soft, likewise friendly smile, and her tight-curled dark hair — it matches her eyes — is pushed back with a cloth headband, which is likely not meant to be there for this meeting. It makes her hair look a bit messy, though that also may be because she likely didn't do anything to it. She was in a hurry then, or at least she's just absent-minded. Maybe both.

Her face, a shade lighter than her hair and eyes, is free of makeup, as far as he can tell, and her body language portrays the last of her nerves in such a small way that John probably doesn't notice it at all; she's more turned in on herself, trying to make herself smaller, though just barely. There's a large dish in her hands, containing a dozen light brown cookies, sparkling with sugar. She makes eye contact with him, and those hardly perceptible nerves seem to increase.

Sherlock offers her a closed-lipped smile to remedy this, his previous grievances with her now seemingly just memory, somehow pushed away by her apologetic expression and literally sweet gesture. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Lily Marlow," she says softly.

"I heard." He nods to the side, a gentleness in his voice he didn't expect to be there. "I was just in the kitchen."

"Oh."

"Would you like to come in?" John asks.

She smiles, and the nerves start to fade away. "Yes, if you don't mind."

"Here, I'll take those," he says, and she hands him the dish, which he walks to the kitchen counter. Lily follows, and Sherlock notices she's a bit surprised by all the clutter — the microscope, beakers, experiments. John clears some things away before he puts the dish down. "Thank you for these, by the way. You made them yourself?"

"I did," she replies.

"Of course she did," Sherlock says, gesturing to the headband in her hair. It must've been to keep it out of her eyes and away from the food.

Her eyes widen a bit as she touches her hair unconsciously. "Oh, I'm so sorry; I forgot-"

"That's alright," John cuts in, looking reproachfully at Sherlock, who truly didn't mean to make her embarrassed. "Don't worry about it. I didn't really notice it before, anyway." There's a short, awkward pause, which is remedied by the sound of little feet coming down the hall.

"Who here?" Rosie asks, just before she turns the corner and sees Lily, and her eyes alight. "Lily!" she exclaims happily.

Lily laughs, leaning down to Rosie's height. "Hello, Rosie. I just came up to say hi and bring you some cookies."

"Cookies?" Rosie says excitedly, and Lily laughs again — a rather nice, light laugh. Sherlock can't help but notice how relaxed she seems when talking to Rosie, and while that could be attributed to the fact that they already met, he doesn't think so. Rosie, meanwhile, is fixated on the cookies. "What kind?"

"Brown sugar," Lily replies. Rosie's face betrays that she's never had those before, and Lily laughs at her expression. "I can make you chocolate chip next time if you want."

Rosie beams. "Yes pease."

"I don't know if you're going to want chocolate chip, Rosie," John says. "These are amazing." There's a cookie in his hand with a bite out of it. Sherlock hadn't noticed him picking it up, as he was observing the two flowers having a conversation near the floor.

Lily laughs as she stands, this laugh seeming to contain a, 'Thank you,' but she voices the sentiment anyway. "Thank you."

John looks at Sherlock. "You have to try one."

Sherlock was planning on waiting until after Lily left, if he had one at all. He has to admit how enticing they look, though, and he takes one, expecting an ordinary, sweet cookie when he puts it in his mouth. And it is sweet, but it is far from ordinary. There's a hint of molasses, a rumor of a snickerdoodle flavor, something reminiscent of ice cream, and sugar dissolves immediately and fills his mouth, chased by a soft, buttery texture.

"Oh, wow," he mumbles, almost involuntarily, his mouth still half full, and Lily laughs that, 'Thank you,' laugh again, then says it again, too.

"Thank you."

"Thank you," John says, already eating another as he hands one to Rosie, who seems very happy with it once she eats it.

"Thank you," she repeats, even less intelligible as her mouth is full.

"You're welcome," Lily says, her voice still full of laughter. Sherlock, his cookie finished and therefore not distracting him, notices her nerves have now completely disappeared.

John then seems to remember his hospitality. "Oh, can I get you anything? Tea?" He gestures to the dish. "Cookies? Biscuits? I don't want to offer you your own cookies, but I don't know if we have anything here. I don't think I bought any biscuits..." He goes to search the cupboards.

"Oh, that's alright. I don't need anything. I've already had two of my own cookies anyway," she replies, still laughingly. There's frequently laughter in her voice it seems, though the tone changes. "To be fair, they were the messed up ones; I flattened them with my oven mitts, and I couldn't give them to you in good conscience."

"I would've eaten them gladly, just for the record," John says, coming back to stand at the counter again.

"I'll keep that in mind next time."

Then, Rosie grabs Lily's hand, pulling it to get her attention. "Can I have another one?"

Lily smiles. "You'll have to ask your father."

Rosie looks at John, who hands her another cookie, and she grins and takes it from him. Lily's smile seems to widen. It all but confirms what Sherlock has been thinking since seeing her first interaction with Rosie.

"You're a schoolteacher," he says, as Rosie runs into the sitting room with her cookie.

Lily looks at him with a bit of surprise, but he can tell from her reply that she knows enough about him to recognize that he was deducing her. "Have been for about ten years now." Then, she seems to challenge him, a good-natured brow slightly raised at him. "Can you guess what Year?"

What he does, in a way, is guessing, although it's just educated. Of course, some things he can be certain of — but this he can't. He has a good guess, though, based on Rosie's age; she's three, so the closest would be Reception. But Lily said, "Year," specifically. "One."

She smiles. "You are good at this."

"It's only what I do for a living."

She laughs, then the challenge starts to come back, along with curiosity. "What else can you tell?"

John gives Sherlock a warning look — one Lily doesn't notice — but he didn't need to anyway. Sherlock, at this point, has no intentions of saying anything purposefully embarrassing or upsetting, definitely not anymore. She's influenced him with her cookies, smiles, laughing voice, and apology, making it so he doesn't even want to dislike her anymore, which is something he hasn't figured out yet.

He smiles a bit. "You grew up in a home with loving parents — likely with American connections — and you have..." he thinks, judging by her demeanor and personality thus far and also on what Mrs. Hudson has told him "... an older sibling. A brother.

"You've been baking many years — likely since childhood — and these cookies are probably one of the first things you learned to make, so you felt comfortable enough to make them for us to introduce yourself. You find a sense of satisfaction when people enjoy what you've made.

"You're good with children, you like working with them, and so you decided to become a primary school teacher, but you wanted to teach a bit more than what children learn in Reception, so you teach Year One. You're more comfortable around children, and you don't fear what they think of you, but you fear what adults, people your own age, think of you. You make excuses for yourself before anyone has stated a possible offense. Nevertheless, you don't let it stop you from speaking to them or bringing them cookies to introduce yourself. You've dealt with this for a while, and you've learned to live with it."

John looks worried, and Sherlock wonders if he's said something wrong. But Lily is smiling with a spark of wonder and delight on her face. "You're right on everything except two details."

"Is it the American thing?" Sherlock says with a groan, and she laughs.

"No, my dad is from the States. You were wrong about my brother — he's younger, by two years — and my job. I actually started out teaching Reception, then I decided I wanted to move closer to the city after a few years, so I took an open position at a primary school teaching Year One. I only left this year, when I moved here, but I'm still teaching Year One in Autumn. Just... somewhere else..." Sherlock only nods, not quite sure what to say, not exactly beating himself up for missing those details as they would be near impossible to detect. She adds, "Everything else, though, you were spot on. That's... honestly, it's amazing. How did you do it?"

And now he is definitely in his element. He does what John calls, "Showing off." "Your personality made it seem likely that you either had a good childhood or overcame a bad one, and the first was more likely. Mrs. Hudson mentioned you had a brother, and your personality pointed towards being the younger sibling. She said, in short, he's more practical. It seemed probable he would be older — but, of course, I was wrong.

"Your baking skills are clearly refined, as your cookies show. Cookies are a more American dessert, so it's likely you learned the recipe from an American source; ergo, you probably have American connections in your family. Also, I knew you get satisfaction from others enjoying your food by your look and your words after we'd complimented your cookies.

"You're clearly good with children and comfortable around them based on how you interact with Rosie, and, since you're a primary school teacher, it stands to reason that you would've gone into that field because you're good with children. Of course, my reasoning on the details was wrong; Rosie's younger than Year Ones, so I had to make some assumptions. I knew you weren't as comfortable around adults because I could tell you were nervous when you walked in, and then of course there was your introduction, in which you apologized for intruding before John had really said anything at all. And anyone bringing someone dessert, unless it was poisoned, could hardly be intruding."

"Amazing," she says, with a matching laugh.

Sherlock shrugs. "It's simply close observation, deductive reasoning, and educated guessing."

"And a lot of obscure, specific knowledge stuffed in his brain," John adds, and Sherlock rolls his eyes again. Lily only chuckles at the exchange, and it lightens Sherlock's mood a bit.

"I want to try," she then says to Sherlock.

"You mean... with me?" he asks, a bit surprised.

"Well- Well, not if that would make you uncomfortable — I just thought, since you know how to-"

"No, that's fine," he says, interested to see what she'll say. "Deduce away."

"Okay..." she says, looking at him, thinking, her brows scrunching, and her nose slightly follows suit. "I think... you're a decently famous detective."

"And how did you figure that out?"

"The internet."

Sherlock chuckles, and she smiles almost triumphantly, then turns serious again, observing him for a few more moments. Then, her eyes stop, seemingly fixated on something on his person. "I think..." she begins "... you play a stringed instrument."

Sherlock's brow raises. "Which one?"

She looks up at his face again, thinks some more, then says, "Violin."

There's a quiet that settles until Sherlock suspiciously asks, "You saw it in the corner, didn't you?"

She's absolutely surprised. "I was right?! I was really guessing — I didn't see a thing in the corner. Your apartment honestly reminds me of one of those games where you have to find certain objects in a cluttered scene." She smiles. "But I bet you know where everything is, don't you?"

"I sure don't, half the time," John comments.

"Correct again," Sherlock replies, ignoring him. "How did you figure all of that?"

"Well, I saw your hands, and I thought, you know, with my limited musical knowledge, that somebody with hands like yours would play a stringed instrument, so I guessed. And when you asked which one, I figured you weren't the type of person to play guitar or ukulele, so I went with violin — I know there's more stringed instruments than that, but those are what came to mind. And, anyway, violin fits you. And so does the talent of knowing where everything is in a good bit of chaos, especially a chaos in which you live."

"It 'fits' me? What do you mean?"

"Your personality," she replies. "The whole aesthetic of this apartment, really. It's very... classic. In a sort of... intellectual way. That's the only way I could really describe it."

Sherlock gives this some thought while John jokingly tells her not to fuel his ego by calling him intellectual. She only laughs and replies that his ego can't be as bad as John makes it seem. Sherlock hears it all vaguely and processes it later, as she's taking her leave.

"Well, I won't intrude on your hospitality any longer. I have a few more boxes to unpack, anyway. Thanks for... well, inviting me in." She looks at Sherlock. "And the deduction lessons."

He nods at her in a sort of, "You're welcome."

"Oh, do you want your dish?" John asks, before she can get very far.

She waves him off. "You can just bring that back when you've finished the cookies."

"Then I will see you later this evening," John jokes, and she laughs again.

"I will look forward to it."

"You're leaving?" Rosie suddenly asks, getting up from her spot on the floor to go to Lily, who gets on her level again.

"Just for now," she assures her. "But I'm only going downstairs."

"And I can come see you?"

"If you want, and if your father lets you, I'd be delighted to have you."

Rosie grins at this, and Lily smiles back before saying goodbye and heading out the door. Rosie returns to the sitting room, while Sherlock and John go back to the kitchen, where the cookies still sit. John looks at them, then starts cleaning up the kitchen to distract himself from wanting to eat yet another one. Sherlock doesn't have this problem, as he's reflecting.

She's quite an interesting person, despite, by all his logic and reasoning, being so normal. She's only a schoolteacher, though she got the money for all the renovation somewhere, not to mention the rent at its normal rate. But he detected nothing secret beneath the surface — no double life, no secret murder, no hidden agenda. But she's interesting, and Sherlock, going over the conversation and his thoughts and deductions, figures out why.

"I see what Rosie means," he says.

John turns to him. "Huh?"

"Rosie said Lily 'knows the fairies,'" Sherlock explains. "I see where she got that from."

"Oh," John says, nodding in thought. "Yeah, I think I do, too."

"And it's not because she's pretty," Sherlock continues.

John's brows raise, making Sherlock realize what he said. "You think she's pretty?"

Sherlock sighs. "Well, objectively, yes. Her features aren't exactly symmetrical — rarely anyone's are — but they're pleasing to the eye. Her hair and eyes are nice shades — but it's not about the color of her eyes, it's what's in them."

John just seems confused now. "Okay...?"

"There's a sort of..." Sherlock struggles to explain it himself, especially in a way that won't have John practically starting a matchmaking business "... light in her eyes, for lack of a better word. Like she's always amused about something. Her whole demeanor carries it, but not in a way that makes you think she's laughing at you. And based on what I know about fairies — because you persist in letting Rosie believe in them-"

"-because she's a child, yes-"

"-I can see why Rosie would describe her in this way. It's the... the lightness that she has. Now, if she had been, say, angry, the effect would've been totally gone, and she likeIy wouldn't've been half as pretty or fairy-like."

"People are only pretty when angry in the movies, anyway."

Sherlock nods. "Possibly..."

Then, John asks, "So, is all this fairy talk and such the reason you went relatively easy on your deductions?"

"Well, yes, I suppose," he replies. "That and the cookies."

"They are good cookies," John agrees. Then, he caves. "Give me another one."

Sherlock doesn't argue or complain, as he's returning to his thoughts, even as he eats another cookie himself.

It seems to melt in his mouth, and he thinks of the woman who made it as he absently passes one to John. Everything he said was true, of course. There was a lightness about her; he almost didn't expect her feet to be touching the ground when she walked. Like that light within her that escaped through her eyes and smile also provided a sort of buoyancy.

And why had that light affected him so? Why had the waver in her voice, the anxiety he saw, her apologies, cookies, and laughter changed his mind? He was prepared to be scathing, to mention all the noise in a barely concealed complaint. He hadn't even told her to stop straightening the knocker — he'd forgotten. The only explanation he can presently come up with for her chasing all his grievances away is magic. And fairies have magic, don't they?

So, Rosie must be wrong; close, but not quite. Lily doesn't know the fairies, she must be one. A flower fairy — that's a type of fairy, isn't it? — that's especially good at baking cookies.