Chapter 1: Strange People and Peculiar Circumstances
You would probably assume that the death of a co-worker would be quite traumatic, but for Aimee, it was merely the end of a wasted life. Charles Barnaby, Aimee's editor, was in no way a terribly nice man. She worked at a very small but very posh, in the only way its funds could allow, art magazine publishing house. It was only a few years old, but it flourished given the roughness of the world's economy. She liked it there: the rooms always smelled of fresh paint from its constant office renovations to keep with the modern times and the smell of Earl Grey tea permeated every office around her own. She spent her days writing columns about new and upcoming artists, gallery openings, and even making some extra money for some of the writing she submitted to the magazine. Outside of work, she has published a few novels. None of them were works that she prized with her life, but she was proud of what she had put out into the world. Sometimes, all she wanted was to know that at least one person felt better for having known her. This was true among most her colleagues. They thought she was inspirational with her talent and charisma, and wondered what she was doing working on a miniscule art magazine in London instead of touring the world
Except for Charles. Charles was only in his early 30s and yet he acted as if the world had already destroyed his life. It seemed he only prided himself on being able to describe to a person in detail everything that was wrong with everyone in the world, with the exception of himself. Another writer in the office named Amanda, who wears purple tights every day and had asked Amanda to coffee a few times, told her that the only thing that he cared about was knowing that his life was already over and he was the only one who knew it. Amanda could tell you six things she liked about every person she had ever met, and would never say something like that unless she truly had a reason for saying so ."What a waste," Aimee usually thought to herself. It was the only thought she had ever really had about him. Even in meetings about her work, she tended to blatantly ignore whatever it is he had to say, which usually never pertained to the work itself. She'd drift off into the much more pleasant and vast meadows of her imaginations, as she referred to it, and did so until it was clear he was no longer speaking. She usually say something like "alright" or "better get to it," then run off to her office with the few actual notes he had and got to work. He was a decent editor, she thought, but not worth the hassle. And apparently, the world thought so too.
The reason Charles had died is still quite unclear: they say he slipped on some ice while on holiday in Lake Tahoe and cracked his head open. This seemed very unlikely for several reasons: first has never gone on holiday before as far as she was aware, second he absolutely despises the cold, and finally, he hasn't been somewhere outside of his home or work as long as she's known him. The man has never met a person he likes, lives with a cat in an apartment two blocks away from his office, and is the only child of his parents who live twenty minutes away. In addition to never leaving his home, he hated to travel. One day, the head of our company offered to take my department out to lunch in Reading and Charles refused with the motivation that he got car sick. Not unforeseeable, but not a good enough excuse to use on your own boss. The reason that Charles would travel all the way to Nevada in the middle of January escaped her completely.
She tried not to dwell on the issue too much, so she got off work, went to bed, and looked forward to the next day. It was Saturday, her day off, and she looked forward to working on her next novel and overall just allowing her mind to go to a more peaceful place. All this talk of death and work all mixed together was very tiring. She liked her work, a lot even, but the concept of such a useless death made her feel very uncomfortable. She had always hoped that she'd go out in some very artistic way: maybe she'd die of writer's block. She had always wondered what she'd do if she just ran out of ideas altogether. What could she do if her life wasn't filled with new and endless possibilities? It was the only time that she had ever thought suicide was even a possibility. She wasn't trying to be depressing or morbid, but the thought of not being able to make good art was the only thought that had ever truly frightened her.
She rose the next morning in the late morning, and threw open the curtains to let every inch of her apartment be flooded with light. She loved staying up late and letting her imagination tell her to run, but there was something very releasing about the mornings. It's like a fresh start that happens every morning. It doesn't matter what happened the day before, because yesterday was certainly not today, and never could be. She put on some dark maroon corduroy pants, a purple blouse, and a mint green trench coat: she was headed for a little coffee shop just a few buildings across from her apartment for coffee again with Amanda. It was so sweet that Amanda had invited her for coffee again. It was the third time in the past two weeks, and Amanda even paid for her the first two. Of course Aimee had insisted the last time, and would again, but she appreciated her generosity despite-less.
She greeted Amanda, who was no doubt in her purple tights, and the hugged warmly. They went inside and made their orders: a double shot of espresso for Amanda and a peppermint hot chocolate for Aimee. Aimee had never liked caffeine much or coffee for that matter, but clearly Amanda was quite the fan. It would explain why she has never had a dull moment sitting with her. They talked about this new artist who used his old kids clothes from his childhood to make works of art, almost like a mosaic, and then the matter of the investigation first began.
"I hear that they are bringing in 'specialists' for Charles' case. Weird, huh?" asked Amanda. Aimee didn't find it that strange, it did seem to be kind of an odd case, but she nodded politely anyway.
"Do we know who they are exactly?"
"I don't know that much, but I heard from Greg's wife that he's called a "consulting detective." He's brilliant, but not exactly the easiest chap to work with. That's why he's got an assistant or something like that. He used to be an army doctor, but now he works alongside him."
"Fascinating." Aimee was interested, but none of it seemed all that unusual. Amanda sensed that she wasn't that interested, but she knew she could get her attention.
"You know what the weird thing is though?"
"What?"
"The police... they don't pay him. They do it for free."
"Free? How could they possibly do it for free?" The thought baffled Aimee. A specialist that works for free? How absurd... She loves her work more than anything else, but she couldn't get by if there was no form of payout.
"They do some side work, but all the work they do through the police is completely unpaid. The enjoy it I guess. I heard the consulting detective has got a blog, but I don't know what it's called. As a matter of fact, I don't even know his name," Amanda said, "heard his friend was kinda cute though..." she said, almost having regretted saying it.
"His name is Sherlock Holmes," said a man sitting on a chair opposite of their table who had just sat down. He was reading a local newspaper and was wearing a long blank trench coat. "I here he's the most brilliant man that Scotland Yard has ever had the pleasure of working with. Brilliant. Resourceful. Dynamic. Enigmatic."
"I would say on time, for once." said another voice. The man who was suddenly standing beside him had a kind but carried himself with gravity. He wasn't very tall, but not necessarily short either. Taller than Amanda and Aimee, but certainly shorter than his companion.
"I'm sorry," he stated, "Sherlock isn't very good at being polite or um... talking with such lovely ladies, or anyone for that matter." Aimee could feel herself blush a bit: she wasn't used to being called lovely or a lady, and probably because the only man in her department was Charles...
"I'm John. John Watson," he told them, "Dr. John Watson, if you're being technical. And this is my... associate and occasional friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
"I'm perfectly capable of introducing myself, Doctor Watson..." Sherlock said miserably.
"Well you didn't, and I don't think... What are your names?"
"I'm Amanda, and this is Aimee," she replied.
John cracked a smile. He looked at Aimee, but quickly darted his eyes back to a neutral position. "Nice to meet you both."
"I assume you've already figured out why we're here..." said Sherlock, almost as if it were a rhetorical statement.
"Sherlock, just because you happen to..." John tried to say until he was cut off.
"No, I'm assuming you're here about Charles Barnaby's death. Its all very..." Aimee said not able to believe her own words, "tragic."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows slightly. "See Watson, not everyone is that dull... And this one wants to help." He have Aimee a look that sent shivers down her spine. Not threatening, but invasive. She felt as if in one glance he looked into her soul and ripped out all the information she had ever tried to keep secret and stuck it in his trouser pocket.
"How can you tell?" she asked, curiously.
"Your shoes told me." He said it with such pride, that not even a gold medal olympian could have been more cocky. John and Aimee were anticipating a follow up response, while Amanda stood there in disbelief.
"Her shoes? Really? Her shoes? How could her shoes have possibly told ya' that?"
"Its simple really. When I first sat down, her shoes were pointed towards you, my dear. When I first spoke, she shifted her torso, but her shoes remained pointed at you, probably because she didn't trust me. Understandable. A tall, dark, and mysterious man sitting in front of you who has been eavesdropping on you conversation all of a sudden seems to know more than you do. Obvious red flags. But then my associate, Mr. Watson, who is much more... approachable than I strolls up with his bachelor-like charm..."
"Bachelor-like charm?" John interrupts, "What's that supposed to mean?" Aimee looks at him, and wonders how one can be so collected even when upset.
"...and introduces himself." Sherlock says, having completely ignored John, "his charm draws you in and you're a bit attracted him."
"Sherlock!" John says accusingly. Aimee blushes a bit but shrugs it off. So what if she thought he was cute? It's not an unusual feeling, nothing to be ashamed of..
"So you naturally you begin to trust him, thus trusting in me, and once you pieced all the clues together as to why I showed up in the first places, you shoes had already began to face me. Not hard. Easy to grasp." Aimee was simply aghast at his ability to understand the basics of human behavior, while Amanda just looked as if she had been slapped in the face.
"Alright you got me. Congratulations…" she grumbled sarcastically.
Chapter 2: London's Finest Lunatic
There are few people in this life who truly see life for what it is: simply put, it is the chance to discover the mysteries of this world on your own. People always talk about death as if it were the only point at which you were able to learn about the world. These people are also wasted. Aimee always thought that life was the chance to extend your mind's reach as far as you could and absorb as much as you were able. Sometimes, the best lessons in life are found all on your own. Its not difficult to tell who sees the world this way: the eyes truly are the windows to the soul. Mr. Holmes was the type of man that never let anything go unnoticed. Aimee saw his eyes coating each and every inch of the room and all the information it held. He looked her up and down. It was clear by the way he held himself that he didn't mean anything by it, he just wanted to know what he was facing. It was as if he was facing an opponent and was trying to choose the right weapon. He meant no harm to her in any way, but it was clear that he was trying to choose his words carefully. And my, he saw right through her.
Sherlock now seemed distracted: a buzzing came from inside the right pocket of his trench coat. He pulled out a long, sleek smartphone and looked down at it. His face turned from a smug grin to an obviously unamused blank expression.
"Something wrong?" asked Aimee, brimming with curiosity. "Something interesting?" she said almost sarcastically.
"It would be so much more pleasant a morning if it was..." he said aggravatingly, "It seems that our little chat will have to wait for another 's Lestrade"
John's eyes seemed lost. He looked as if he was using anything to distract himself from the conversation. Sometimes, Aimee thought to herself, it's easier not feel. Why couldn't she just reject emotions like Mr. Holmes appears to be doing. He makes it look so easy. So simple. Then again, he seemed to do just about everything with ease. The way he walked and talked was fascinating: it was so effortless and flawless. But something about him was also very off, she thought. No one is that perfect, and anyone who thinks they are has issues so deeply rooted that it was almost to find himself. It was tragic, really... But there was something different about his partner, something very different. He seemed much more open, much more pleasant. He looked around like he was looking for something new among old faces. I guess thats why they work together, Watson wants to learn about the world what he cannot see himself and sherlock wants to know what it's like to be able to feel. She wondered if they were together or not... It would explain why it looked Sherlock had gotten a little jealous.
"Another time maybe?" John said with a half smile.
"No, I've got everything I need to know." replied Sherlock distantly.
"You know how Barnaby died based on what you gathered from their shoes and coats? Come on, even you aren't that good." Aimee sensed that Sherlock was trying to avoid them. Suddenly her jealousy theory seemed more and more likely.
"I've actually got to get going," Amanda interjected, "I've got to meet with... people."
"Gay," sherlock muttered under his breath.
"I'm sorry?" replied Amada, who was almost at the door.
"Nothing," he replied with just the slightest hint of sarcasm in his voice.
"Goodbye!" Aimee shouted as her friend hurried out the door. As fascinated as she was by this Sherlock character, she wasn't sure she entirely liked him. There was this profound arrogance that's she had never been able to understand. She was very proud of her accomplishing, but she preferred to seek out other people's accomplishments. She took pride in knowing that she was doing everything she could to find the best people had to offer; and in her mind, there was a lot lying under the surface. She again sensed that his associate, or boyfriend or whatever there relation was, was also difference. He held himself together well, but he's not searching for approval from people, or even from himself. And yet, he seemed not to mind whether or not he was approved above: he let the world pass judgement however it pleased. She wondered how he could be so collected and spend so much time with such an arrogant sod.
"Shall we get started then?" asked Sherlock with slight elation in his voice.
"I thought Lestrade asked for us?" said John.
"Oh no. I just knew that your..." glancing at Aimee, "friend wouldn't allow us to get anything done unless she thought we had gone. She's a bit too... defensive for my taste."
"Amanda isn't the defensive type. She's pretty open, so I'm sure she'd help in any way she could" she pleaded back.
"Ah! But it isn't herself that she's trying to defend... I'm assuming this is the third or fourth time she's asked you to coffee?" Sherlock remarked.
"Why yes but..." Aimee tried to say.
John calmly, as if he had said it a hundred times, told him: "Sherlock, leave this poor girl alone. I think the world has had enough of your misused intellect for one day. And besides, no one wants to help someone that just wants to insult them. I should know…"
Sherlock's face morphed into the face of a young boy who just realized they upset their parents in a way they couldn't quite understand yet: "It doesn't really matter anyways. Come along, I can think more clearly in my own environment." Sherlock waved down a cab and told him to take us to 221B Baker Street.
Before she hopped in the cab without realizing she was dashing off to the apartment with two complete strangers, she pulled John aside and asked calmly: "Is he always like this?"
"Always," he replied with a chuckle. It was kind of a cute chuckle, a sweet chuckle. The kind that occurs after you've done something absolutely mad that you know you won't regret for at least ten years.
She looked at him in admiration: "And you trust him?"
"With my life."
"Good enough for me." She flashed a little half smile and carelessly hopped in the cab anticipating the adventure that was sure to enfold .
The car ride was short but pleasant: initially Sherlock wanted to sit in the back with John, but after much coaxing from John himself using things like "how to treat a lady," he finally and grudgingly moved up front. There wasn't much talk in the car, but Aimee enjoyed the peace that silent company can bring. Just feeling even remotely cared for without saying anything was quite comforting, and something about John made her feel very warm inside. It felt as if she was wrapped up in him like a warm blanket.
The state of Sherlock and John's flat was different to say to least. In some ways it was perfectly normal: little kitchen, average sized, and perfect location. However, suspicion could be easily raised once you take a look around at the abnormally numerous amounts of preserved human body parts being kept in household appliances. Aimee had never been one to judge anyone in her life, but this was certainly an odd environment to live in. And yet, it was perfectly clear that Sherlock was completely satisfied and somewhat blithe. John seemed accustomed to his living conditions, but didn't seem to find any joy when he opened up the fridge to find an already half decayed human brain sitting on the top shelf. Mr. Holmes unravelled his violet, wool scarf, which was actually quite lovely, and laid himself down on the couch with his feet up: he was quite clearly in deep thought. Whatever that thought might be. She peered around the room waiting for some form of conversation to arise, being as starting social interactions was not her forte. She wasn't necessarily shy... she just wasn't entirely sure to begin with almost complete strangers.
She looked around the living room and sat down in a red chair adorned with none other than a union flag pillow. Something began to tighten in sherlock's throat. He looked as if he was either going to beat her or throw up. And personally, she preferred the second option...
"Something wrong?" she asked innocently.
"Move." he replied quite indignantly.
"I'm sorry?" she asked as politely as she was physically able.
"Sherlock, it's fine." John interjected.
"It isn't fine." Sherlock couldn't have possibly seemed more childish in that moment.
"There's another chair. And she's our guest." John implored.
Aimee was feeling somewhat responsible at this point, "I can move if you'd like. It's really no problem."
"No," John replied calmly until he turned back to sherlock, "You are being ridiculous and absurd. It's just a chair!"
"That's your seat when we solve cases," he replied quite lightly, as if he were a little mouse, "and that is where I like you to be when I think."
"Hold on," John said almost suprised, "did you say we?"
"Nevermind then..." Sherlock replied glumly.
"So I'm not your little trail behind pet?" John retorted a bit angrily.
Aimee got quite confused and concerned at this point. "Hey! I don't want to get caught up in between your battles," she said demandingly but with a certain element of softness in her voice, "and I am in your home, and I don't want to make anyone feel uncomfortable. I think I can switch over to the other chair." Sherlock was staring at her in shock while John seemed quite impressed by the maturity that he and his flatmate were clearly lacking in that point in time. "Now can we get to whatever it is you brought me here to do?"
Sherlock shook his head a bit and swung into a sitting position: he looked at her intentively. "Well," he began with a hint of reluctance but even more curiosity, "Where do you assume we should start from?"
She pondered the question for a few seconds, wondering whether there was some secret set of words he was waiting for her to say in order to get admitted into his secret spy club, and he definitely looked like a little boy playing spies with his best friend. It was almost kind of adorable, the child like nature of their friendship... "Well I assume that you'd be curious about Charles' habits, quirks, deepest fears...' she said finally.
The detective cracked the slightest half smile of amusement. "You're sparkling, but i'd hope you'd be a little more specific than that... Mr. Barnaby went on holiday, why?"
"To be honest, I have no idea. Mr. Barnaby is practically a recluse. Only goes out in public when it is completely necessary, and he is barely able to drive across town without passing out. He doesn't have any friends, as far as I'm aware, and he is the most boring person I've ever met. It is an absolute mystery to be as to how he got a job at an art magazine firm.
Sherlock grinned, "That's fantastic news!" He was almost giddy with delight.
John almost looked as if he had been insulted, "I'm sorry? Fantastic? Fantastic," he mocked, "a man dies thousands of miles away and you think that's just neat. Great. Probably means we have to go all the way to where he died to get anything sorted out."
"No," replied Sherlock while sending a text, "that won't be necessary."
"And we are supposed to solve the case, how?" John retorted.
"Aimee, did you um…. Publisher, where did he keep records?" Sherlock asked, shifting the conversation back to her.
"Records?" Aimee inquired.
"He was a recluse, a shut in. Most people would go mad without some level of social interaction, unless they kept something to keep their thoughts gathered in. A man who never talked to anyone would keep everything in a journal of some sort, with the assumption that no one would bother to read until he was deceased. Now all we have to do is find it! I hear Molly is doing his autopsy, shall we pop in and say hello?" he said returning his gaze back to John.
"Would you leave that poor girl alone? Hasn't she been through enough?" John pleaded.
"What did I do?" Sherlock replied.
"Yah, what did he do?" Aimee added, bubbling with curiosity.
"You seriously don't know?" John said frustratingly.
"Enlighten me." Sherlock said with contempt in his voice.
"She has cared for you ever since she met you and all you ever do is shut her out and shut her down. You're breaking her from the inside out."
"I have done no such thing to her. And what do you mean "cared for?" What are you implying?"
"You know what I'm implying. Good god, for someone who knows so much about everyone's private business, you seem to be completely oblivious to what's happening right before your own eyes"
"What are you talking about! What did he…" and in that moment she finally understood. Her tone became very grave. "Oh, Sherlock…" To love and not be loved back brought very haunting memories into Aimee's mind, memories from her college years. But, those times were behind her now, she thought.
"We can go to the morgue and talk to Molly," John blurted regrettingly, "But don't come running to me when you finally see the damage you've caused in that poor girl's life."
"Fine," Sherlock replied, still seemingly confused, "Shall we?" he suggested.
After a very brief visit to their apartment, called for another cab and waited a few minutes until it pulled up out front. Sherlock was already out the door and in the car before she could even get down the stairs, and it appeared that this was a problem for John as well.
"Is he always like this?' she asked him, "About cases, I mean."
"If he's interested, so usually yes. He gets off on it, in a manner of speak. He likes to think. I guess that's the only way of explaining it. But he is brilliant."
"He just moves and speaks so... fluently, but swiftly. And yet..."
"And yet? What?" he pushed, "come on," he said with an inquisitive glimmer in his eyes. He gazed up at the ceiling, clearly remembering something, "I'm sure I've heard worse." He looked like his thoughts had trailed off somewhere far off. It was kind of... adorable. She wished she could be there with him, wherever he was...
"He's clearly brilliant, granted. But the way he responded about this girl, Molly, the behavior is very..."
"Psychotic? Manic?" he interjected, half expecting her to nod in agreeance, half expecting her to impress him. He wasn't disappointed.
"I was going to say sociopathic. A manic or psychotic person recognizes how they affect the world negatively, and enjoy it. But a sociopath is very evidently unaware of it. And when you said that he had somehow hurt Molly, he looked shocked, not pleased. He tried to hide it, but he looked helpless. Like a little kid who doesn't know why their parents are mad at them. So... sociopath."
John smiled at her, "I'm very impressed. Most people jump to their own conclusion before really looking at him."
"Well, I've never been that way... At least not for a long time. You eventually learn that what you see at first glance is not what is actually there at all. And some people learn it the hard way..." She regretted saying it as soon as she said it.
John began to form a question, but they were already out front. Sherlock was laying in the back of the cab in the same position he was in back in the flat... This must be a common things for him, Aimee decided. How very peculiar... and interesting. He was rather good looking. But there was something about his eyes that told her that he was more than she could endure. He was the type to push people away and shut them out in any way he could. Tragic.
John tapped on the glass, knocking Sherlock out of his trance, and yelled at him to get back into the front.
"No. You sit up front," he directed him, sitting back up, "I will sit in the back with her." He cracked a wicked smile at John and flashed a look at Aimee then immediately back at John. Something was going on, but she was very confused as to what. She felt helpless herself. She screamed internally: "WHY CAN'T I EVER PICK UP ON THESE THINGS. WHY DOES EVERYTHING MAKE SENSE UNTIL I GET INVOLVED. GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH... What would the Doctor do in this situation? God I'm such a nerd... Oh wait, YAY I'M A NERD." All of these thoughts were percolating in her brain while her face, somehow, remained perfectly expressionless. She could barely resist cracking a smile, and she was surprised that Sherlock hadn't jumped down her neck, accusing her of having thoughts she can't gather answer for. But nothing happened. John reluctantly hopped up front, not wanting to continue the storm that Sherlock was brewing.
The car ride over to the morgue was mostly silent. Sherlock was staring out the window, but his mind was far from that of the view. John was quiet for a little while, not really sure how to start up conversation. Aimee was beginning to wonder why she was still running around with them. At least, that's what it felt like: she felt as if she was jumping from place to place without even questioning what was actually going on. She was never a very organized person, but not knowing where she was is no something she is entirely comfortable with. Never the less, she thought it was better she didn't ask. Even in the silence, she was having more fun that she has had in a long time. Something about the uncertainty of the whole things was exhilarating and almost... erotic. She wasn't sure what she was thinking anymore. She felt embarrassed, and couldn't resist blushing this time.
The morgue was as pleasant as you'd expect a morgue to be: you're blinded by white rooms reflecting light in every corner, and there are lots of dead people. It reeked of preservatives and overly sanitized rotting flesh. Aimee started to doubt her "just go with it" attitude. All the same, Sherlock and John looked completely accustomed to the ambience, even a little excited by it. They reached a small room at the end of the hall, and as they approached a relatively tall and slim woman in a long white lab coat was hurrying out the door with a clipboard in her right hand and a light brown ponytail resting against her left shoulder. She was quite pretty, but she looked like the type of girl that could barely look you in the eye without getting embarrassed.
Her gaze remained on the ground until the very last moment when she looked up just in time not to run into Sherlock. Her face became instantly flushed when she realized whom she almost plowed into. So this must be Molly. She seemed very flustered and out of place, like she realized she was in the wrong building or something.
"oh... um... hi, uh... Sherlock. How goes things?" she barely made out. she let out a little nervous laugh. The apples of her cheeks were cherry red.
"Actually I was wondering if I could take a look at a..." as if he'd already forgotten, "Charles Barnaby." Aimee scoffed internally: he thinks he's so cool. I see right through you Mr. Holmes, she thought.
"I don't know, Sherlock..." she said meekly, "My boss has been giving me a hard time for letting you into private property for so long." She seemed to mean it, but Sherlock ignored her plea and played with her words.
"Then we'll only be a couple minutes," he replied with a fake sincerness that made Aimee uncomfortable, "Shall we?"
We followed Sherlock, who seemed to know exactly where to look, into a small, brightly lit room that smelled like you'd expect it too, with a slight hint of rose perfume. "It must be Molly's," she thought to herself. That brought a frown to her face. She's so sweet and kind... Aimee couldn't fathom the thought that Sherlock has no idea the impact he has on her. She assumed that if she confronted him about it, he'd plea ignorance, but she just doesn't believe it. "I should tell her," she thought, "but I can't..."
Her thoughts trailed off, until John saw her and tapped her on the shoulder: "Are you alright?" She managed to fake a smile, which turned into a real smile when she realized how hard he was trying to make her feel happy. Much to her content, she answered honestly: "I'm doing just fine, thank you." She looked down at the ground, feeling like was a little too enthusiastic about his answer. She looked back up, and he was still grinning. Even a little bit brighter than before, she noticed. He, too, suddenly looked a little flushed
"I was wondering," he began, "Sherlock is probably going to be a while, and he's got Molly to help him. Would you like to... go grab lunch, uh... with me?"
She was almost stunned at this point, and could barely contain her excitement, but was somehow able to answer cooly: "With me? Are you sure? You don't want to wait for your friend? I'm really nothing special." She regretted the last part, but to some degree meant it. She was always quick to see the greatness in others, which was both an advantage and a disadvantage.
"Believe me when I say that if you weren't special, Sherlock would have gone to any length to get rid of you, especially by now," John said. Aimee then looked deeply into his eyes and smiled as bright as the sun. In an attempt to flirt, Aimee replied coyly, "So where are you taking such a special lady?" She assumed it sounded better in her head, but was clearly effective because he retorted playfully; "That's for me to know and you to find out."
Chapter 3: