221b Baker Street Flat Novels & Stories

Muttering under his breath after that. "More money for you." I called. "Don't be salty." He silenced after that, but I continued glaring at him in the mirror. I swear all drivers in this city are crabby bastards. We pulled up-front and I eyed the five-story apartment building askance. It looked a hundred years old with chipped bricks. I looked around, wondering if someone would try to steal my bag. But the only one around was a couple kids riding bikes down the block. I hit a buzzer and someone very formal answered. "What floor, Ma'am."

the man behind the desk asks. I smile. “I’m here to see Sadie Wilde.” I tell him. He nods. “Okay can you give me your name?” he asks. I nod. “Beckett King.” He nods typing on the tablet in front of him. “Okay it seems like Miss Wilde added you to her list of visitors, you can go straight to the elevators on the left.” He tells me “Oh floor four, apartment 8” he says with a bright smile. I nod wide eyed, taken off guard by this whole place. I am out of my element in this place. I feel like I’ve stepped out of my world into James Bonds world.

She asked in return. “Ah, not that much,” I answered truthfully. She chuckled as she shook her head. “His and Dr. Watson’s address was 221b Baker Street,” she said and my mouth formed an ‘o’ as I understood the reference. Her flat’s address when she took the second one on the second floor is 2-21b, similar to that of the famous London detective. The elevator opened and she led the way. We stopped in front of a door with a number two. She took her key out but before she put it in the keyhole, she paused.

Like she was reading my mind. She pulled out her phone from her apron. “What’s your address, pretty?” “221B Baker Street, New York, NY 10001,” I said without hesitation. Her eyes widened. “Wow, you must be loaded. That’s a fancy area. That’s where all the wealthy people live.” I laughed. “I wish. I’m just an average girl, trust me.” “I see,” she said, smirking. “Your Uber’s here in about three minutes. Take care of yourself . okay?”

Their flat was on the eleventh floor, there were four doors that led to different flats, Aaliyah and Annah got flat number 456 while JC got 457, he would live next to them. This time Aaliyah didn't complain as she agreed with the selected apartment building, this place was pleasant and modest and moreover this met her request. "Your room is over there." Aaliyah pointed at the second room the moment they entered their flat.. It was a two bedroom flat, which had. Living room, one bathroom , a kitchen and a balcony in each room. It was a fully furnished one so they didn't need to add anything significant. Annah entered the room that was pointed to her and immediately fell in love with the room

“I... thanks. I'll... go get on with that.” I hurry out, finding little relief in the London air. A quick G****e on the phone confirms that a 'flat' is the same as an apartment. The trusty A to Z shows me how to get to Hackney. I'll check out the shop before I phone. Maybe I can just talk to the guy face to face, if he's there. If the apartment has a roof and fits my budget then it could be perfect for me, and the first piece of good luck since I got here. ***

I say, and I get out. I hear both doors open behind me and I walk toward the building at the pace of someone who lives in this street and has done so for years and has no particular reason to be doing anything except walking toward a door. The building's entrance is a plain door and I get to it and I look at the buzzer panel and the ground floor unit is listed as 1A with no name beside it, just the flat number, and I put my hand on the door and push it and it opens. Unlocked.

“What is it?" “What? I called about…” “Yeah yeah right," She interrupted me with a wave of her hand. “There's two flats available. Some bitch moved out today so you're in luck." “Flat 9 still available?" I asked as we walked up the stairs. "Yeah but you don't want that one.” She snorted. "Why not?” "My uncle died in there. Heard the guy who used to live there took off. Didn't even pack his shit. Suspicious weirdo. No one has wanted the flat ever since.”

I nodded. The call ended. I slumped into my seat, staring at the address on the paper. 820 Pixel Street — South Industrial District. Smart of Gary to move her somewhere forgotten. SODO was full of dead spaces — empty warehouses, low security, no questions. I called Axel. “820 Pixel Street. The building next to the old office block,” I said once the call connected. Axel hummed. “She’s there?” “She’s there. Get some men ready,” I said, exhaling.

I said. The flat was on the third floor of a converted building on a quiet residential street. Three buzzers by the door. I pressed the middle one and waited. A long pause. Then a voice through the speaker, young and slightly unsteady. "Who is it?" "Amelia Quinn," I said. "You sent me a package." Another pause. Longer. The door buzzed open.