Chapter 1: On Meeting the World's Only Consulting Detective and His Army Doctor
Liquid is a curious thing. At least it was to Charlie. There was something about it that she didn't quite have the words for. There was something truly poetic about a drop of water merging with the sea, losing itself in the eternal oblivion and not minding in the slightest because it belonged. And there was something utterly heartbreaking about immersing your hand in a body of water then pulling it out, watching the beads of moisture try to escape and drip their way back home only to be wiped off on a person's jeans. Forever separated. Forever lost. Charlie couldn't explain her fascination with liquids, her admiration for their versatility. How they seemed so free-flowing, so unbidden and all the while they could be trapped and controlled in a trifling container. The irony was laughable.
She swirled her cocktail gently so as to not break the surface tension, allowing the scent to flood her nose. The pale yellow drink in her martini glass smelled mildly of gin and lime – a gimlet. It was the third drink she had ordered for the night, right after the Daiquiri and the Gibson, both of which she didn't even sample. Charlie didn't drink, had never had a drink in fact. She prized her rational mind above all else, and any substance that could dull it or unhinge it was undoubtedly never entering her system. But she was curious. Much too curious and much too bored. And so she started with the As – Alexander, American Beauty, Americano. Then the Bs – Bacardi, Between the Sheets, Black Russian, Bloody Mary. She had a list of drinks, from the most complicated of cocktails to the simplest of shots, generated by an iPhone bartending app. There were 87 drinks in all and she was on her 22nd, two years after she had started doing this. Two years after she had moved out of her mother's house. She would order drinks and take a sniff, cataloguing it for future reference. How she would need this information in the future was a mystery even to her, but nevertheless she continued the practice.
Her eyes took in her surroundings, starting at her right, where the entrance was, then looking to her left. She was the only one sitting at the bar. Which was fine by her, since she'd rather be alone than make boring small talk about the weather. Fending off a man's advances was certainly not on her list of things to do for the night. No, she was here for two reasons only. And they were sitting in the far left corner of the room.
It would be inaccurate to say that Sherlock and John were having dinner at that very moment, considering that Sherlock thought eating was positively boring, a chore rather than a necessity. It was a Monday, and Sherlock had pointedly said "I'm good for a bit," when John had asked whether he would be eating or not. He was good for a couple of more days by his estimation, but both of them knew that John would probably shove two pieces of toast down his throat tomorrow at breakfast. So John left him be and ordered for himself.
As John slowly ate, Sherlock let his eyes wander across the room, trying to find a shred or a glimpse of anything that could pique his interest and rid him of his boredom. His eyes landed on a woman at the bar. Brown hair. Slender. And seemingly, just as bored as he was.
"Hmm… that's odd," Sherlock said.
"What is?" asked John, between mouthfuls of food.
"That woman."
John followed Sherlock's line of sight and observed. As often as it is when it comes to Sherlock, John had no idea what he was on about.
"Sometimes women fancy a drink alone. That's not really unusual behavior," he said, taking in Sherlock's focused expression and the unblinking stare he was fixing her with. John nudged him gently, indicating that what he was doing was a bit not good and was in fact bordering on stalker-ish.
Sherlock looked at him, registering the message in his wordless gesture. But he shook his head and went back to staring at her. "But she's not at all drinking."
Charlie could hear the conversation unfold where she sat. She could now feel the both of them staring at her, John trying to confirm what Sherlock had observed. She reached for her Daiquiri and swirled it before smelling. Rum and lime. She put it back down and waited.
Hmm, you're right. Maybe she's a recovering alcoholic? I think Harry does that sometimes.
Charlie could hear John speak as if he was right next to her. It was so easy now, to separate the voices in her head… to focus. And right now, she focused on what Sherlock was going to say next. She was waiting. Waiting for him to read her like an open book. Waiting for the incomparable brilliance she'd heard so much about. A proper genius.
No ordinary person could have that much control. And besides, there are three different cocktails in front of her, all of which are untouched, except for when she swirls them. If she was a recovering alcoholic, wouldn't she have a preferred drink?
Sherlock was definitely right. Charlie was no ordinary person. Not since she was two when she had almost drowned in a pool. Two minutes of painful watery breaths. Charlie had never thought water could burn. She could still remember the fiery sensation as water came into her and filled her lungs. She remembered flailing and struggling and spinning, and then the deafening quiet. The peaceful calm of almost dying. After that, she was never the same. The fascination with liquids began then, and so did the voices.
I suppose. What do you make of her then?
Charlie smiled. It was starting to get interesting. Let me hear you in action, Sherlock. She waited as Sherlock dissected her. Charlie could sense the thrill and the excitement in his mind, it felt very much like falling and finding out you could fly. It was exhilarating. It was pure adrenaline.
Hmm… black button down, with the sleeves folded up to her elbows. She's from abroad, just arrived. She obviously hasn't acclimatized to the weather yet or else she would have a coat or at least a scarf. There's no tan line on her wrist which means she came from somewhere warm, somewhere she didn't normally have to wear a jacket. She must like the cold then, if she's so tolerant of the weather here.
Charlie tried to hide her almost palpable delight. All of that from my top. I wonder what else you can dig up about me.
She runs her hands through her hair quite often. Her right hand through her bangs, and her left through the whole length. When she runs her left hand through her hair, she extends her hand longer than necessary, which tells me she had a haircut recently. She wanted a change. But why?
Sherlock hasn't been wrong about anything yet. But judging by how his stream of consciousness has slowed down somewhat since his deduction began, he must be running out of steam. Is that all then to the great Sherlock Holmes? She smirked.
You seem distressed. It was John.
I can't bloody deduce properly when the subject of my deduction is across the room. Sod it all. Would it be not good if I walked over to her?
And what? Scrutinize her as if she were under your microscope? That's more than a bit not good. You said she'd just arrived. I doubt she wants the world's only consulting detective to deduce her life story by looking at her thumb or something. You'd probably scare her off.
Charlie laughed inaudibly and stood from where she sat, heading for the left corner of the room.
John looked visibly shocked. And that was saying something. Because walking the streets of London with Sherlock means unexpected things happen to him all the time. Whether it's chasing cabbie killers, being stalked by Sherlock's melodramatic older brother Mycroft or being kidnapped by a madman, John has experienced it all. His threshold for surprise has certainly increased the more time he spends with Sherlock. He thought nothing short of Sherlock getting along with Anderson could surprise him anymore. That, of course, would occur right after hell freezes over and not before. Hell freezing over was more likely to happen.
She walked towards their table with precise steps. Skinny jeans and purple chucks, John noted. Sherlock had been right to say she hadn't been drinking since she didn't appear to be the least bit tipsy. She had dark brown hair, parted at the left side with a curtain of hair hiding her right eye from view. She had a gentle slope of a nose, and nice pink lips which turned up in a half smile, revealing a dimple in her left cheek. John suddenly thought it was all very odd. A young girl walking over to a pair of strangers' table and smiling at them in greeting. At the very least, she should be uncomfortably anxious or alarmed with Sherlock staring at her so intently, John thought. But she wasn't. She walked surely and confidently to their table, her hands on top of the empty seat and addressed the both of them.
"Would it be better for you if I sat down here?" She asked directly with no hint of sarcasm.
"Sorry?"
"Yes."
John and Sherlock spoke at the same time. At Sherlock's yes, Charlie sat. She looked at John first, his blue eyes betraying his confusion, and then at Sherlock. His eyes were scanning every inch of her in a way that should definitely make her feel violated in some way. But she took it all in stride and reached for Sherlock's glass of water, which had stood there untouched since John had started eating. She drew the glass to her lips and took a sip.
"Sorry about the staring. My friend is of the sociopath sort. He loves puzzles."
"A high-functioning sociopath," Sherlock drawled. The response was almost mechanical.
Charlie faced John and she knew before he could even think it why his eyes suddenly widened in response. My eyes. Central heterochromia. Definitely not boring.
"My coming to your table means I've handed him a puzzle then?" Charlie asked, though she already knew the answer before John could even form the words.
"Oddly enough, yes." John was completely taken in by her eyes. He had never seen eyes like those before. A purple to blue iris. Blue eyes with a ring of purple. It was downright distracting.
Charlie smiled at him in what she hoped was a polite manner and turned to Sherlock. "So… how are you getting on? Figured me out yet?"
"You've just gotten out of a serious relationship."
She nodded. She saw the worried look on John's face and said, "It's okay. I'm not offended or anything. I know you think people are not usually comfortable discussing an ex, or basically other people bringing up said ex, but I'm fine."
Still, John looked worried. Charlie just shrugged.
"It had to be fairly recent. Possibly why you wanted a change in the first place. Hairstyle. Scenery. There's a tiny band on your finger where a ring used to be, not a wedding ring, and you also used to wear a necklace. It is highly unlikely that you lost them or they broke at the exact same time, so you must have returned it to him when you broke up. Of course you could have had them cleaned, but it would be highly illogical to have your jewelry cleaned after you come to a foreign country rather than before."
"Brilliant," John said out loud.
Truly brilliant. Charlie thought.
Sherlock flashed John an indulgent and fond grin, before asking, "It is a he, correct? I had already made a mistake like that before, and there's no joy in repeating it."
"Yes. He was a jackass."
"The break up wasn't amicable then?" John asked.
"You have no idea."
"Shhh.. I'm still thinking." Sherlock said in a slightly irritated tone.
"You haven't said anything about my drinking. Or what I do for a living." And the voices in my head. Your voices. Your thoughts.
"You mean the not drinking? I haven't figured it out yet. I need more data," he glanced back at the bar and Charlie knew what he wanted to know.
"Daiquiri. Gibson. Gimlet," she supplied, answering the unspoken question she had heard.
"Arranged alphabetically, it seems. You have a list."
"Yes," she need not have confirmed. It wasn't a question.
Sherlock pulled out his phone and let his fingers fly. Research.
"Judging by the earbuds and bulge in your pocket, you probably have an iPhone. There usually are applications for numerous pedestrian things, like bartending. The highest rated app, which is coincidentally free, lists 87 drinks total. You're on your 22nd. You must have started this long before the break up."
He looked at her, and she didn't look away. She could almost see the neurons firing in Sherlock's brain. She knew he was seconds away from the big reveal.
"You order but you don't drink. It could be because you don't like to get immeasurably wasted, no, you seem to be a very practical and rational sort. You have a list, after all. Very organized and predictably dull. Boring."
At least she doesn't shoot walls, John thought.
"Could it be you're just bored?" Sherlock asked, contemplatively. "No, there's more to it than that. There had to be a trigger. Something you had done or something that had happened. Every drink is meant as a vindictive act. Your personal form of rebellion."
Charlie smiled again, absolutely riveted by Sherlock's unfolding of her. He's so close.
"It has something to do with your parents," Sherlock deduced. "You moved out."
"Yes. Two years ago. When I was seventeen."
"Hold on, you're only nineteen?" John asked, both surprised and a bit embarrassed. If he had been talking to a normal person, it would have gone unnoticed. But this was Charlie, and Charlie could read his mind as if it was laid out in front of her. She had definitely heard that passing thought that John had entertained before shaking it off. It would be kinder not to tell him. He must feel like a dirty old man, now he knows the age difference. Fifteen years isn't so bad though. Too bad he's taken, even though the two idiots don't know it yet.
"Brilliant deduction as always, Sherlock."
"How'd you… know his name?" John looked uncomfortable now.
"The same way I know you're John Watson. It's a very boring story, really." The boring story of how I can read minds.
"It's a bit unbalanced, isn't it? You know our names, and we don't know yours." Sherlock said calmly. He doesn't seem disturbed in the least.
"Oh, how very impolite of me. The name's Charlie."
"Charlotte, is it?" Sherlock asked.
"How do you know it's not from my last name?"
"Do people still do that these days?"
"People prefer to be called by their last names. Especially when your mother gives you a bloody name like Nymphadora."
"Your mother named you Nymphadora?"
"No, you idiot. She's referring to Tonks. You know, from Harry Potter? Never mind, of course you don't." John shook his head, obviously exasperated with Sherlock's lack of cultural knowledge.
"If I didn't know you were Sherlock Holmes, I would tell you to remove yourself from the bloody planet," Charlie exclaimed. After which, she took a deep breath to calm herself.
"So is it from your last name then?"
"No, you were right. It's Charlotte. But it was a lucky guess."
"I never guess," Sherlock said coldly.
"You just get lucky then?" Charlie teased.
Sherlock let out an audible, exasperated hmph.
"Anyway, we're done with all the introductions. Sherlock has deduced me thoroughly, and it appears that I know equally as much about the two of you," Charlie paused for dramatic effect. "So when can I move in?"
"What?" John let out loudly. He clamped his hand over his mouth and looked around apologetically. Sherlock just smiled, amused by the whole situation. It reminded him of a similar scenario. The memory played out in his head, and Charlie could feel the sentiment permeating it. Sherlock reminisced with a loving look in his mind's eye. They should just kiss each other and get it over with, Charlie thought.
"Why would you want to move in with us?" Sherlock asked, genuinely interested.
"I predict we'll be working together a lot. You see, I'm also a consultant." Charlie checked their thoughts on the matter and gave them the sweetest smile she could muster. I'm so in.