CHAPTER 1: "I am Dopple-Locked" Part 1

Sherlock sat in his usual chair cross-legged, arms resting on the sides. His crystal blue eyes darted directly into the pupils of the young woman sitting across from him. In Dr. John Watson's seat. Where was John you ask? Well at the moment, he stood between the two, a mug of prepared tea in his right index finger for their unexpected guess. Why he allowed the silence to prolong? He himself had a mountain of questions scrolling through his mind.

He continued to stand there, baffled at the two's staring contest. The girl's legs were also crossed. Her hands folded neatly on her lap, her back against the chair. A suspiciously large suitcase rested at her side.

John looked at Sherlock, his best friend. His features; curly brown hair, bright blue eyes with a freckle just above his left pupil. Long face, high cheekbones, and a straight nose.

John proceeded to look over at the girl sitting directly across from him. Medium long curly brown hair, the exact shade of Sherlock's; bright blue eyes, free from the freckle, slightly long face, high cheek bones perfectly constructed for her face, and a straight nose.

Back to Sherlock. Always carried himself with confidence, and had some certain strange behaviors. His expression was emotionless, as usual.

And to woman; her head was up; giving off the impression she had high credence in herself. Her eyes showed the same bored form in them, the rest of her emotionless.

"Charmaine."

"Sherlock."

Different pitches; same tone.

"I thought your name was Charlotte?" John interrupted; tea still in his hand.

"Second middle name." Sherlock stated. "Her first name is Charmaine."

"I prefer to be referred to as Charlotte."

John nodded, realizing he all but forgot the mug was in his hand. He strode towards her and held it out for her to grab. "Here you go." Charlotte looked up at the white cup in recognition and nodded, clasping it on her hand.

"Thank you very much." She said politely, holding it in her longs, feminine fingers. There was the difference, at least she was polite.

Once again, stillness in the air. No talking, no explanation, just a staring contest. The silence only made John more curious. He remembered the events of that morning.

-AN HOUR EARLIER-

He stepped through the door after doing a bit of shopping and carefully closed the door behind him. John Watson had re-entered the flat he shared with one of the most brilliant minds in the world, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Holding the paper bags in his arms, he quickly walked up the squeaky steps, sidling through the door and straight into their kitchen, placing the bags on the counter.

There across from him was Sherlock, playing a beautiful melody on his violin, facing towards the opened window. Something he tended to do whenever he was in a thinking mood.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes had many peculiar behaviors and methods, so many it got quite hard to keep track of them all. Like how he had been playing violin for a half an hour before John decided to go grocery shopping. He was still standing there, in that exact same spot, playing the violin. Not that John minded, but it did concern him a bit.

"Have you moved from that spot?" John leaned to his side, questioning the consulting detective. No response; just music.

John sighed, deciding it would be best to leave his friend to his melody. After all, the majority of Sherlock's life was thinking. His hobby was thinking, even his profession was thinking. Though John would be fibbing if he said he wasn't curious as to what was going on in that audacious head of his.

Knowing Sherlock, probably several strings of thoughts the 'average' human would be incapable of keeping up with.

Knock knock.

The blonde's attention drew towards the hard noise coming from below. Someone had beaten upon their flat door. "Who do you think that might be?" John decided he'd put the groceries away after he checked. Sherlock's melody stopped abruptly at the sound, catching John's attention. He watched as Sherlock carefully put his violin away in the case.

Knock knock knock.

"Yes just a minute!" John shouted to the downstairs, jogging down the steps and to the door. He gripped the doorknob and opened it, his eye's deceiving him the first second he saw the figure before him.

A teenage girl. A teenage girl who was very familiar looking. She wore an indigo, somewhat baggy knitted sweater with black skinny jeans that seemed to have self torn knee holes in them, black leather boots with buckles on them, a matching scarf to go with her shirt and a black duffle coat; opened with a thick fur rim around the collar.

He thought he had seen a shorter, more feminine version of his best friend. He blinked the thoughts away and squint his eyes. "Yes uhm… Can I help you?" John unknowingly dismissed the large suitcase she held behind her, assuming she was just a traveler and was asking for directions… Maybe.

"Does Sherlock Holmes live here?"

He blinked. "Yes, he does." A client maybe?

"May I come in?" She asked simply. John nodded and stepped to the side, letting her walk into the flat and closed the door behind her. As she went to walk up the squeaky stairs, he saw the heavy suitcase in her palm. He approached her, taking the luggage.

"Here, let me help you with that."

Without a word, she let him haul it up the stairs, standing there and staring at his back for a moment. A few steps up, she finally asked him,

"How many years did you serve?"

John stopped, whirling around to face the young lady. "I'm sorry?"

"In the military. How many years?"

John was experiencing déjà vu. Blinked, inhaling, and trying to brush off the resemblance that was nagging at him. "How did you know that?"

"Well it's obvious, isn't it?" She placed her hands in her open black duffle coat pockets, traipsing up the old wooden staircase passed John. He shook his head and followed her up, both seeing Sherlock standing there with his hands in his pockets. Almost as if he had been expecting her. Knowing him, he probably did.

The two gazed at each other, Sherlock's eyes quickly skimming over the girl. He was observing again.

"Hello, Sherlock." The girl said.

"Hello, Charlotte Holmes. Or should I say little sister?" Said he.

John came to a halt in his footsteps. Little sister?

-PRESENT-

And there they were, the three sitting in silence. Well, the Holmes siblings were. John had finally taken a seat in the client's chair. He leaned his elbows on his knees. Looking up when the two began to converse again.

"Well, Charmaine-"

"Charlotte." She interrupted.

"It's been a while."

"Five years to be exact."

John traced his thumb alongside his bottom lip, and then clasped his hands together, facing Sherlock. "So, you have a brother and a sister."

"And another brother. Charmaine happened to be a late one."

"Charlotte." She slightly glared at him.

"Right." Sherlock traced his eyes off to the side. There was silence again.

John made an attempt to break the ice. "So, Charlotte. How old are you exactly?"

She turned her neck towards him. "Seventeen."

"Oh, so you're in college now, right?" He gave a kind smirk to her. Charlotte looked down at her buckled leather boots, taking a deep, silent breath. She went to drink her tea.

"No, she's not." Sherlock asserted, glancing back at his younger sister. "Well, not anymore at least."

Charlotte's lips stopped just centimeters away from the tip of the mug. She slowly made eye contact with her brother. "Really? Go ahead; tell me how you got that." She took a sip.

"There's a fresh bruise under the left of your jaw line," He began one of his many long explanations without hesitation. "Very dark; barely noticeable with your hair hanging over your shoulders, but when closely looked at you'll see it would have taken a certain amount of force to acquire such a color and shape, enough force for a young healthy man I presume. A slightly faded spot beneath your right bottom lid, very close to it, imperceptible to the average person but still there both located around or on your face. Couldn't have fallen, both injuries are in tricky spots to fall on or any other type of injury unless directly attacked so there's only one reliable possibility. That you had been getting into fights while at university quite a bit which is why you had to drop out."

Charlotte rubbed the side of the mug with her thumb, gripping it tightly between her palms. "Somehow I feel I haven't missed this side of you." She stated somewhat hushed.

"You're not the only one." John added.

"That's not all." He continued. "Not only did you get into fights at school but you also never fought back. With that many fights and for someone who easily bruises due to blood thinning prescriptions, the condition of your knuckles are perfect and clear. There would be some speckles on them if you had been fighting back, especially since it seems you have been in a fight recently."

Charlotte looked away, letting her curly bangs hang over the left side of her eye, like she always had. John looked in surprise at her. Her reaction seemed to make his analyses true.

"You let them hit you." Sherlock said.

"So you've deducted." She quickly responded in monotone.

"Why did you let them hit you?"

"It was less trouble that way."

"So you let it continue until our parents got suspicious and had to pull you out."

"Glad to see you catch on."

"Why?"

Another trait they shared. Both replied at impossible speeds. They're brains definitely moved to quickly for John, as did their conversations.

"It's bothersome when they fuss over me. I don't like it." She took another sip of her tea. John stared at Sherlock. Though emotionless, there was still a little sign that Sherlock was irked; something bothering him.

"Do you know why they treated you this way?"

"Because I was different." Charlotte sighed. "Though I play piano, study, and read like any normal person, they don't seem to like my interests in dissection, or that I can watch a slasher film with ease. They think I'm a freak. An outcast so to speak. Not like I care what they think. I already know I am."

"I understand all too well..." Sherlock mumbled to himself.

Another sip.

Looking at her, John felt slightly heart-broken. From what Sherlock said, the poor girl had been beaten up a lot. He wasn't given the chance to say anything, since Sherlock continued to speak.

"How many?"

"How many what?" She raised a brow.

"Beat you. How many?"

"An estimate or the exact number on every occasion?"

"The number of every student who ever attacked you there."

"Fourteen."

John's eyebrows popped. Sherlock's eyebrows simply rose. Usually there was one or two people who'd start a physical fight, but fourteen? "I'm sorry, fourteen people beat you?"

Charlotte gave him her attention. "Sometimes five, sometimes one, sometimes all of them on separate occasions." She had verbalized it so blandly, as if it was normal for her. As if it didn't matter.

"Their names." Sherlock somewhat demanded.

"I'm sorry?" She tilted her head.

"Their names. And addresses. All of them. What are they?"

"I'm not one of your clients, Sherlock, don't treat me like one." She folded her arms.

"I'm not." He responded, free from hesitancy. "Their names."

"What makes you think I know their names and addresses?" She challenged him.

"For someone who has gotten all high marks since first placed in the education system and has almost as an incredible memory as myself, almost, I'd be disappointed if you didn't know."

"What makes you think I'll tell you?"

He placed his fingertips together. "Well you're not visiting, oh no, not with a suitcase of that size, and you were sent alone, you yourself wouldn't willingly make a trip by yourself to see your siblings unless our mother and father were with you or they sent you here which could only mean one thing. You plan on moving in with me, or more accurately, us."

John's eyes widened. "You mean she intends on staying here?"

"Why else would she pack her life and bring it here? The commute to your previous college was already far enough, the next one over would be even longer, which I am sure our parents would have been willing to do that commute but you didn't want to cause them any more trouble so you suggested living with me, and not Mycroft because you knew he wouldn't take you. You're plan was to transfer here until you could live on your own. You can't live in dorms because of your health, so it's much more convenient to stay at home. Am I right so far?"

Charlotte tapped her finger on her arm. "Fair enough... I'll write it down later."

"Write down what?" John had forgotten what they were originally discussing after all of that explaining.

"They're names and addresses."

"Why bother?" The sociopath queried.

"Because you're terrible with names."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I only came here to ask. Though taking care of a sister with a fairly large age gap who might be imposing on your work here, I wouldn't be surprised if you rejected me. That and you have a flat mate. It would seem very inappropriate."

"We don't have an extra room to spare you." He said honestly. "I would keep you in my room but there's not enough space."

"Alright." Charlotte stood and grabbed her suitcase, handing John the mug. "Thank you for your hospitality. Sorry to intrude." She started towards the door.

"Wait, where are you going?" John asked.

"Back to the airport. I bought a connecting flight just in case this happened. I'll tell dad to come pick me up." She extended the handle on her suitcase and continued. "You could have at least said happy birthday..."

Sherlock took a moment, and then stood up. "Wait."

Charlotte stopped, whipping around to face him. "What?"

He folded his hands behind his back, contemplating something. "It's not often you get to visit London. Why don't you stay the night? John and I can give you a tour around town."

She scoffed. "Where?"

"My room, of course."

"You said there was no space."

"I won't be using it tonight. Someone may as well."

She stared at him in silence. He gave her a small grin. "Just down the hall, the door that's opened. Go ahead and put your things in there."

Charlotte glanced at him for a few more seconds in confirmation and finally made her way down the hall and into his room. John stood from the seat and made sure she was out of hearing range before quietly talking with Sherlock. He crossed his arms. "Alright, what are you thinking?"

"What do you mean?" He said nonchalantly.

"No, you know. Are you really considering letting her stay?"

Sherlock exhaled. "Well she's right. Mycroft won't take her, and not because he doesn't want to, but also because of his occupation. That last part she's unaware of, however."

"Where will she sleep? Not the sofa."

"I'll discuss that with Mrs. Hudson; see if she'll be willing to make room downstairs for her."

"But will she agree to that?"

He looked into his friend's eyes. "If she goes back she'll have to go uneducated until she can support herself and where my parents live is not the best place to find a job. Of course I could always just expel those specific students..." He uttered that last part.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You know, I didn't peg you as one to show this much concern for someone." John made an observation. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I never said I felt it wasn't tedious. But I do what I must." He looked away. "After all… She is family." Was his cover up excuse.

Charlotte exited her brother's room, approaching the two. She was free from her coat, boots and scarf. Nothing but her jeans, baggy sweater and pink socks. Sherlock took note of the large bruise on her collarbone, furrowing his brows in confusion of its location.

"So..." She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. "When will this tour begin?"

"Give me an hour." He walked into his room without explanation, closing the door behind him. Charlotte took a seat on the sofa while she waited. Sitting patiently and quietly. John sat down next to her, attempting to make conversation. It wasn't everyday you got to have a conversation with the female version of Sherlock Holmes.

"So, you play piano."

"I do." She examined her nails, painted over with black nail polish.

"How long have you been doing that?"

"Nine years." Charlotte nodded.

"And, you said something about a birthday. Is it your birthday?"

"Was. Three days ago. Ironically the day I was pulled out of university."

John Watson nodded. "Now, I hope you don't mind me asking... But what health problems do you have?"

"Why? Because you're a doctor?"

"... Again, how did you know?" He wasn't even surprised at this point.

"Well I'm related to Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes for one." She shrugged. "I have a bad heart. Been admitted to the hospital more times than I can count since childhood."

"What was your diagnosis?"

"Rheumatic heart disease. I got rheumatic fever as a child and paid for it. Whenever I get sick, it always seems to result in one form of fever or another. In this case it was strep throat." She pulled her knees in, her focus straight ahead. They really did resemble each other. It was like putting Sherlock in front of a mirror that lead to a parallel dimension.

John nodded, rubbing his hands together. "Well if you're ever in pain or feel sick, just let me know."

"You talk like I'll be staying here." She joked.

Oops.

He changed the subject. "Well, he's going to be in there for a while. We don't have much to do here. You can read the news or borrow my laptop if you'd like. I'm going to put those groceries away." He stood up and headed towards the kitchen. Charlotte stood and walked towards the window, staring outside of it. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She opened it, seeing the collar ID and picking up.

"Mum? Yes I made it. Yes. I don't know... Soon hopefully. Yes I feel fine; I'm not in pain anywhere. Okay. Bye." She hung up, staring out the window. Leaning against the wall, she became lost in thought. She stood there thinking for the remaining hour...

"You're not coming?" Said the curly haired detective, question in his blue eyes.

John and Sherlock stood in the living room, talking quietly to each other as Charlotte went to retrieve her coat and boots from her brother's room. Sherlock threw his coat on, listening closely to his companion.

"You haven't seen her in five years, her birthday wasn't too long ago, go spend quality time with her."

Sherlock stared down John, suspicion glinting in his pupils. "Are you going on a date tonight?"

John sighed, looking over into Sherlock's room. "Yes, I am." He admitted.

"I knew it."

"Look, you haven't seen each other in ages. She's been having a hard time; you go spend time with that young lady. Okay?" John looked Sherlock directly in the eye as he ordered him.

Sherlock skimmed back and forth between the two in his vision. He clicked his heels. "Fine."

Charlotte approached the two; bundled up in her coat and scarf. "Well…" She shrugged, "Shall we go?"

"If you mean we as in us two then yes, John won't be accompanying us he's busy." Sherlock swiftly tied his blue scarf around his neck into a perfect knot and opened the door to the downstairs for her. "We'll be off now."

"Alright." John nodded in approval towards them.

As the two made their way down the stairs, Sherlock quickly ran back up and opened the door, looking directly at John. "Leslie Parks?"

John blinked. "What? Yes how did you-"

"She wants to be a part of our publicity, cancel the date." With that, he shut the door and jogged down the stairs, leaving the apartment with Charlotte and hailing a taxi.

-

"-So." Charlotte started, bringing Sherlock back to Earth. The siblings walked side by side, legs almost completely in sync. His hands behind his back, her hands in her coat pocket. It had been a very silent walk on the pavement; Charlotte finally decided to say something in the midst of it. Neither of them knew how to have a normal conversation, but she thought she'd try.

"So." He responded after a moment.

Charlotte fumbled for something to say, until finally giving up. "Yeah I've got nothing."

"Me as well."

"Where exactly are you taking me?" She looked up at him. Sherlock took a minute to find the right words - especially since he had been lost in thought the entire time they were sauntering along the old concrete beneath their shoes.

He had completely forgotten which way they were headed.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No it really isn't."

He had a hunch she'd respond that way. He decided to take this moment and change the subject until he remembered where he was taking her. Plus, he still had many unanswered questions.

"So, who's the leader of this little pack?"

"Pack?"

"Of the embryonic group that dare lay a hand on you."

"Oh, you mean the dumbest of them all." She snickered to herself. "Owen Tylers. He was the one who started everything."

"His profile in exact detail?"

Charlotte found her feet had ceased its pattern. As Sherlock stopped to face her, she looked at him in uncertainty. "Why does it matter? He's just a bully. A king among the bullies, but still a useless bully. I don't see why you're so set on this anyway. After all this should be the least of your concerns considering your job."

Awkwardness swept across both of them, so Sherlock decided to evacuate the topic, not knowing how to handle such strangeness in their relationship. He continued to walk, and she followed behind.

"You're right. Moving on." He was still going to look into it.

"Yes, speaking of, where are we heading, Sherlock?"

"The National Gallery."

"We passed that minutes ago."

"So we have." Suddenly a small rally of people were gathered up ahead, one woman screaming as she walked by. It caught the Holmes's attention, and there between the people was a body face down on the ground, bleeding the last of its life out. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Stay here." He dashed towards the scene. Charlotte quickly followed behind despite his direct mandate towards her.

"What's going on?" She struggled to keep up. After all his legs were a lot longer than hers.

He pushed passed the people. "Move, let me through." He knelt down beside the body, taking his gloves off and rolling it over. A red haired woman with glazed over eyes. Pupils not reacting to the light, unpleasant tiny pieces of bone around her head, disturbing fluids and blood all over her face from the shattered skull. A horrific sight to the average person.

Definitely dead.

Charlotte ran beside him as he pulled out his phone. When she went to cross over on the other side of the body, he stood and put his hand over her eyes, twirling around and acting as a wall to shield her vision. He released his hand and grabbed her shoulder.

"Whatever you do don't look. Turn away now and call an ambulance." After dialing a specific number, he then proceeded to stand in front of her while Charlotte backed off and called the emergency line.

"Come on pick up…!" He said through gritted teeth.

"Hello?"

"Lestrade, There's a body lying on the pavement. It's most certainly dead; a young business woman, fractured skull." He looked up at the office building she had fallen from. There was an open window on the eleventh floor.

"What? On my way. Until then describe what you see."

Sherlock then spoke words he thought he would never repeat. Especially since it wasn't his doing this time.

"She fell out of a window."