"John."
The first thing Watson saw when he hiked up the stairs to the flat was Sherlock and a teenaged girl. She was hugging him. Very tightly. And he was not the slightest bit pleased about it.
"Hiya Watson!" she chirped, smiling fit to burst. She had mysterious eyes, and judging by the lack of space between her and Sherlock, a death grip worthy of a bear trap.
"John," said Sherlock again, his voice deceptively calm. When she reasserted her grip on him, he took a sudden breath and shut his eyes for a moment, as if to cope with the shock.
"Was wondering when you'd show up," she continued with a slight shrug, as if it were perfectly normal for her to be hugging a sociopath who was on the brink of murder. "Sherlock texted you a whole five minutes ago. Where do you live, Cardiff?"
"Get her off me." commanded Sherlock. His words were short, truncated, as if it took all his will to focus on them.
"Sherlock," said John carefully in a low voice, holding eye contact with his best friend and stepping closer carefully as if trying to tame a wild animal. They were both watching him, now, and her gaze was now almost as intense as Sherlock's. "Just...stay calm. You may be overreacting a bit."
"She won't let go." Sherlock mumbled, so quick he almost didn't catch it. He furrowed his brows at the both of them. The whole situation was quite confusing to him, but obviously something had to be done. However comical it may be to a bystander, it could very well escalate into a life or death situation, knowing Sherlock.
"Um. Duh," she said sarcastically, as if it were the most idiotic idea in the universe to terminate a perfectly good hug. "You're Sherlock Holmes. You're one of the highest placers on the list of people that most desperately need hugs and never seem to get them, somewhere between Loki and Erik. Which means I'm not letting go until you've had the longest, most amazing hug of your life. John, you're next."
"I'm good, thanks," responded John a little too quickly, subconsciously taking a step back from her. She apparently took no notice.
"Get her off." Sherlock repeated.
"Ah, yes," murmured John to himself, his eyes going over the two of them and earnestly searching for any weakness in her hold. "Any chance we could, maybe...pull her off?"
"Not a chance," blurted Sherlock, half-sighing as if it were taxing on his patience to tolerate the sluggishness of other human beings. "unless you happen to have a crowbar or an adorable animal. She's quite musical, constantly has a song stuck in her head, always humming or tapping a rhythm. She walks to the beat with her left foot coming down on beats one and three, even going so far as to correct herself when she finds she is marching on the wrong foot. Marching? Yes. Obviously she has spent years in a regimental band, which means she is accustomed to holding her instrument up for long periods of time. She's a low brass player, baritone possibly, judging by the full lips and proud nature. She plays one of the heaviest instruments on the field, the endurance in her arms is adamant. She's not letting go. And before you even open your mouth, I already tried asking nicely. Her answer?"
"Nope!" piped up the girl. Sherlock glared into his eyebrows, his self-control waning quickly.
"You have made your position quite clear," he growled. Yes, growled. If she didn't let go, John feared that his skills as a doctor would be readily needed.
"So...miss," began John, unsure of what to call her seeing as no introductions had been swapped. "would you mind...letting go?"
"I just said that I asked her that before," stated Sherlock through gritted teeth.
"I'm Kinners, by the way," she introduced with another smile, as if neither man had said anything. "Sounded like you were unsure of what to call me, seeing as no introductions have been swapped until this point. I already know who you two are. If I didn't, I would've let go of Sherlock by now. By the way, can I call you Sherry? Mycroft lets me call him Mikey...well, not really, but I call him that anyway because I think he secretly likes it."
"Mycroft?" echoed John. She even knew Sherlock's brother? This girl, and this encounter, was getting stranger by the minute.
"The gun." said Sherlock stoically. Kinners furrowed her brows, as if the word 'gun' was foreign to her.
"What good would that do?" she asked no one in particular. John began to wonder if she wasn't delusional. "What, are you itchy again? Scratching the back of your head with a gun isn't entirely safe, Sherlock. Although, I guess you're not a 'safe' person. I could itch it for you, if you promise not to try escaping."
"I swear, if you don't let go RIGHT now," warned Sherlock, his tone spiking angrily as his temper shattered. "I'm going to shoot you-"
At an aghast look from John, Sherlock cut himself off and wiped his expression clean. Awkwardly looking from his friend to the floor, Sherlock continued at a lower volume.
"...into space." he murmured. At that, Kinners beamed and gasped. Mad, she was.
"Sherlock, that's just as bad!" snapped John in an accusatory tone. "There isn't any air in space, she'd suffocate! Besides, how would you even get her up there?"
"I'm well aware, John," retorted Sherlock, the storm returning to his eyes. "While I may not know every insignificant detail about 'our' solar system, I do happen to know that space is a vacuum."
"...cleaner?" finished Kinners tentatively.
"Shut up!" commanded Sherlock, squirming vainly against her death grip. As predicted, she didn't let go. She didn't bother tightening, however. Sherlock's arms were pinned to his sides as surely as if they were chained. He might as well have been attacked by a giant friendly bulldog.
"No, thanks," deflected Kinners nonchalantly. It was as if Sherlock was barely there. "I rather like my gob. It loves to go. Mycroft didn't like that about me, either, but mneh. What's his deal, am I right?"
"The gun, John," intoned Sherlock, shutting his eyes as if he could tune out Kinners' ramblings by doing so. "I don't care if you shoot her or me, just end this before my sanity erodes!"
"I'm not shooting either of you," said John firmly. The soldier's grimness in his eyes left no room for argument. "We can work this out without violence. Believe it or not, Sherlock, not everybody reacts positively to a gun. That's just you, and you're mad."
"Then how do I make her let go?" demanded Sherlock. John opened his mouth, closed it again. Well, best to do what he did best, according to Sherlock: think like a normal person.
"Well, traditionally, you would hug them back." thought John out loud. The room was silent. Sherlock's face resembled the face he'd procured the day John asked him to be his best man.
"Do I look like a man of tradition to you, John?" inquired Sherlock slowly. Dangerously. Kinners looked slightly confused as well, which was refreshingly new.
"I don't think Sherlock is going to do that, John," said Kinners carefully, her eyes switching back and forth under connected brows. "Trust me, he is many things, and of all people you would know. But a man of tradition? Mycroft definitely, but Sherlock, not so much."
"If I hug you back, will you let me go?" asked Sherlock, grimacing as if it pained him to even think of resorting to such human affairs. Kinners looked even more confused.
"There's no telling what I'd do, really," she shrugged, looking up as if struggling to recall something. "But then again, you would never do anything remotely affectionate, except maybe for Molly, so why would I bother thinking of what I'd do if something impossible happened?"
Not a very useful answer. John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock and spread his hands out to the sides, as if to say, Well?
Sherlock spent uncountable moments hating himself for what he was about to do.
Slowly, haltingly, as if he didn't remember how to control his body, he pulled one arm free. Rather than use it as leverage to push away, he forcibly put it around her shoulders before he could question himself.
Kinners froze.
Sherlock did, too, but after a moment, he looked back down at her. Her face was expressionless, and her arms as rigid as ever. Sherlock tried patting her on the head. No reaction. She reminded him of a taxidermy display he'd once seen in Russia, except less artful.
"You lied to me, John." he muttered, almost too low for John to fully understand.
"Sorry?" he echoed, leaning forward to hear him better.
"She didn't let go." he reiterated bitterly, louder this time. "If anything, it's even worse! The only thing that did was shut her up. Progress nonetheless, but in case you haven't noticed, she's still touching me."
"Sherlock, I...I think she's in shock," told John, not quite believing the words he was saying as they fell out of his mouth. But she wasn't moving, save for scant signs of life. One moment she was bursting with energy, the next completely stoic. What was with this girl?
"John, think about what you just said." said Sherlock with a dark undertone of sarcasm. John looked back up at him for a brief moment with a slight glare to remind his friend that he wasn't a complete idiot.
"I am thinking, Sherlock, but the signs are there!" John retorted, checking her pulse again. "See? Irregular heart rate, rapid shallow breathing, skin cold."
"What about weakness?" inquired Sherlock, struggling once more against her grip. She behaved as if she were in rigor mortis. "None of that, obviously. And the confusion?"
"I suppose the lack of motion could count," mused John, waving his hand in front of her face. Her pupils didn't budge, merely staring off into space as if nothing were there at all. "Knowing her, it would only make sense to assume that this kind of behavior is abnormal."
"I suppose it's a sound diagnosis," muttered Sherlock, obviously not altogether pleased with his result. "I surely won't doubt you. It doesn't matter though, the police should be here any moment now, and they can take her away to St. Bartholomew's...or the asylum."
John stopped and looked at Sherlock for a long moment to comprehend what he had just said.
"You called the police?" echoed John in disbelief. Sherlock looked nonplussed, as if it was a perfectly logical course of action.
"On charges of assault. I almost said battery, but I figured that wouldn't be necessary because you have a gun and I knew you would get here first."
"Sherlock, she's hugging you! How is that assault?!"
"I don't want to be hugged! Same principle as sexual harassment, really."
"How can you even say that?"
"John, don't be so dramatic."
"You're the one being a drama queen! People don't call the police when they're being hugged to death!"
"Aha! She's suffocating me! Woefully inefficient, but now with your witness it's possible that I could sue her for attempted second degree murder. Thank you, John."
"Nobody's suing or murdering anyone!"
Sherlock groaned and glared into his eyebrows at the antagonizingly familiar voice. Lestrade hiked up the stairs with badge in hand, inevitably flanked by Donovan and Andersen. Nobody bothered to move for a prolonged moment as the three officers processed the scene in front of them. Lestrade was the first soul to make a brave observation.
"The #*$ is this?"