Chapter 1
I glanced at the sheet of paper again. It said the current residence of Mr. John Watson is 221B Baker Street. I hadn't seen John in years.
I rang the buzzer.
_
"John, go get that?" Sherlock demanded. They weren't expecting anyone today.
"Why don't you ever get the door?" John questioned as he got up from his seat and closed his computer. Mrs. Hudson was out doing some errands. Sherlock ignored him.
John opened the door to find someone standing there that he thought was gone. Permanently. He hugged her. "I haven't seen you in – "
_
"Ten years," I finished for him. "How have you been?" I asked in a steady, calm voice. Honestly, I didn't know what else to say.
He released me, staring me in the eyes. "Why don't you come inside and have some tea and we can talk?" he offered. That's when he noticed my singular suitcase. "You can bring that up too, if you want. Actually, let me take it."
"No, it's fine, I can carry it. I would love to have some tea, it's been a long flight," I said, accepting his offer.
Once upstairs, we were greeted by a tall man with dark hair and light eyes. I glanced at John warily.
"Scarlett, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Scarlett, my niece. Be nice." A staring contest had started between us, and I knew he could feel the tension. "Both of you," he finished.
I held my hand out to the man. "It's nice to meet you," I said. He didn't take my hand, I dropped it.
"You're from America, somewhere where there are agriculturists judging from your unclear pronunciations. Also, you just got off a plane that is clear from your hunched shoulders and suitcase. Ah, the suitcase, either you haven't gotten the chance to drop it off somewhere, or you're still looking for a place to stay," Sherlock ranted.
"I told you to be-" I cut my uncle off.
"More," I said, eager to see this man's skills. He raised an eyebrow.
"Judging by your slight – but muscular – frame, you were a gymnast. But, you were never professional because you're too tall and robust. You were adopted because John's sister had a wife, not a husband. You're left handed. You ran away from home and worked hard, the lines and scarred calluses on your hands indicate that. Also, you play a string instrument. You wear a turtleneck to cover something on your neck. "
"You only do surface work, I see. You're wrong on three accounts. I was professional, though only in college, I can use both hands for anything – though I prefer my left – and I wear a turtleneck because I like the fit because it contours to my shape. That's all you can do? I can do better," I challenged.
I heard a, "You can?" and a, "I'd like to see that," from two different people at once.
"Let's see here. You get your hair dyed black, by the way, you need to go in for a touch up, sweetie, your roots are showing. You wear contacts. You probably got bullied in school because of your wit, glasses – I can see where they used to sit – and because you were probably in something like chess club. You're obviously ADHD because of your clear lack of organization, you ramble, – from what very little I've heard of you – you space out a lot, not noticing when someone is gone or missing, and you are incredibly eccentric and don't like to sit still. Are you on medication? Wait, don't answer that, if you were you'd be a little more mellowed out. Not only that, but I can't see any pill bottle around here. Uncle John, you should prescribe him something. From your looks, you're in your early to mid-thirties. On the bright side, I like your fashion sense, it goes well with you."
They were both baffled. Actually, I think Sherlock was insulted and John was awed. He never knew that I could do this much. Honestly, I only learned how to do it after Clara and Harry had adopted me, when they enrolled me in gymnastics. It helped to have a clear and observant mind while doing tricks and flips like that.
"I think I'll make that tea now," John said awkwardly. Sherlock and I continued to stare each other down as my uncle left the room.
"I'm not ADHD, I just know how to be observant."
"I don't have unclear pronunciation," I retorted. "You just assumed from less than ten words."
"You don't like tea; you wrinkled your nose involuntarily when John mentioned it."
"I'll survive, I always have."
"You still have the unclear pronunciations and a southern drawl," Sherlock evoked.
"I don't have one and you obviously don't know what you're talking about."
"I think I do."
"Stop it and shut up," I said angrily.
"Sorry, I can't understand you. Could you say that again, more clearly?"
I punched him.
And Uncle John walked in.
"Does no one know how to do what I ask them? Why did you punch him?"
"Sorry, uncle, you know I was never and good at following the rules. Oh, and he provoked me. He was teasing me about not pronunciating clearly enough," I replied with venom in my voice, though the venom was only directed at Sherlock. Uncle John shook his head like he was trying to wrap his head around some strange thought. He helped Sherlock off the floor.
"Well, at least now you can pronunciate clearer," Sherlock commented as he worked his jaw.
"Maybe you could clean up your place to see if you've got the attention span to do it," I answered, pursing my lips.
"You'd make a great couple," Uncle John said sarcastically. At least, I hope he was being sarcastic. "The tea's ready. Sherlock, would you like some?"
"I think I'm going to go out and get some air," he said, grabbing a trench coat and scarf and shrugging them on. "I'll see you later, John."
He walked out the door.