John Watson's fingers flew quickly over the keys on his laptop, his eyes glued to the document in front of him. This was the way he had been for nearly an hour. "We need an intern," he proclaimed suddenly, turning in his chair to glance at Sherlock as he scrubbed a hand down his fatigued face.
"A what?" Sherlock questioned, in his usual armchair with his nose in a book.
"An intern," Watson repeated, knowing full-well that Sherlock knew the meaning. "You know, some eager young upstart from the university. Someone to hang 'round and do all the meaningless tasks we don't want to do."
"Why on earth would we need an intern?" Sherlock questioned, setting the book in his lap and lifting his face to look at Watson.
"The notes," Watson answered simply, gesturing to his laptop.
"You do the notes," Sherlock returned, sounding bored.
"Yes, I write the notes," Watson responded. "But the problem is transcribing them electronically. We've been so busy as of late that I've fallen behind. I've lost track of some pages completely. It makes it hard to write my blog when—"
"Not your blog," Sherlock interjected, making a face. "You're telling me we need an intern for the purposes of your blog?"
"Well…yes," Watson replied, somewhat reluctantly. He sighed out and angled himself completely toward his friend. "Admit it, it helps the case load. We've only been as busy as we have because of the popularity my blog has gotten you."
Sherlock scoffed. "Please." He took up his book once again.
Watson sighed and turned back to his laptop, continuing his typing.
"We can barely afford to live, how are we supposed to pay an intern?" Sherlock questioned sometime later, breaking the relative silence.
John smiled to himself in triumph, but didn't dare turn to Sherlock as he answered. "Most interns work for free. That's the beauty of it."
"Why would somebody possibly work for free in this economy?" Sherlock questioned.
"That's students for you," Watson answered. "They'll do just about anything so long as it looks good on a CV."
"Hm," Sherlock grunted, repositioning in his chair slightly.
John waited a moment. "So, I'll post the ad, then?" he inquired.
"Hm?" Sherlock muttered, as if forgetting what they had just spoken about. "Oh, yes. Do as you wish. I doubt anyone even shows up."
The next morning when Baker Street opened its doors to potential clients, it was met with an influx of hungry-looking 18-24 year-olds clutching CVs.
An hour later, after two-dozen 'interviews,' Sherlock let out a ferocious sigh and stood, clomping over to the door. "Mrs. Hudson, I need a break!" he bellowed. "Don't you dare let another one of those ingrates in until I say!"
He slammed the door to their flat and turned to John. "Well, I hope you're pleased," he growled. He moved to stand by the window, looking out onto the line of hopefuls that still stretched around the side of the building. "You've invited the entirety of the Under 25's fan club into our home."
Watson sat in his armchair, looking overwhelmed. "Sherlock, believe me when I say I didn't realize you had such a following," he responded. He leafed through a few of the CVs they had collected already and then set them decisively on the side table with a frustrated sigh. "Rubbish. All of them. Absolute rubbish."
Most of the applicants they had seen already had seemed more interested in getting a bit of face time with Sherlock Holmes than with the internship itself. Sherlock had taken one look at most of them and turned them away, and the ones who were allowed the space to speak were terribly disappointing.
"What's a selfie?" Sherlock asked pointedly, walking back to his armchair with his brow creased.
Watson let out a snort of laughter. "Are you serious?" he asked.
"Of course I'm serious," Sherlock responded, narrowing his eyes slightly. "That last one asked me for a selfie, and I would very much like to know what it is."
Watson was opening his mouth to reply when the door knob turned and Mrs. Hudson poked her head in.
"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock admonished. "I told you, no interruptions."
"Sorry, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson responded. "But this young lady is demanding to see you at once. She's on a bit of a time crunch."
"Meaning?" Watson asked, raising his eyebrows.
"Meaning I have class in an hour, and I've still got the tube to contend with," another voice chimed in, sounding slightly annoyed. Mrs. Hudson opened the door further to reveal their candidate. She was a young woman, red-haired, freckled, and tall. She politely shouldered past Mrs. Hudson and walked decisively toward the chair in the center of the room. She sat down and un-shouldered her bag, letting it plop to the floor at her feet. "Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Hudson, but I really can't be waiting around all day."
Mrs. Hudson flashed her a smile. "You're very welcome, dear. I'll let you three get to it." She bobbed her eyebrows and closed the door.
The young woman leaned forward to hand her CV to John, then sat back in her seat, adjusting her blazer as she did. She crossed her legs at the ankle and folded her hands in her lap, raising her face to stare expectantly at Sherlock as John pored over the page in his hand. "Well, aren't you going to ask me something?" she wondered expectantly. "This is an interview, isn't it?"
"That's John's bit," Sherlock replied, scrutinizing her. "I already know everything I need to know."
"My name, even?" the young woman asked, looking impressed.
Sherlock tried not to scowl. "I suppose not," he answered. "Would you mind doing me the honor?"
"Charlotte Green," the redhead introduced herself, a confident smile gracing her lips. "Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr. Holmes. As I'm sure you have already deduced, I think I'm an excellent candidate for the internship."
"Which brings me to my first question," John spoke up, putting the CV in his lap as he addressed his candidate. "Why do you think you're a good fit for this position, Charlotte?"
"For starters," Charlotte said, meeting Sherlock's eye briefly as if they were sharing in a private joke, "I'm not one of the hundreds of fanatics I just line-jumped to get in here."
"Hm. That bodes well," John responded, scratching something down in his notes. He looked back up at her. "But how did you get past them?"
"I walked," Charlotte stated simply. "By the time they realized what I was doing, Mrs. Hudson had already let me in." She shrugged a shoulder. "They may be willing to wait in line all day for a glimpse at the magnificent Mr. Holmes, but I have a schedule to stick to."
John nodded. "So, if you're not a fanatic, then why are you here?" he wondered.
"She's interested in the work," Sherlock answered for her. "You study psychology, if I'm not mistaken."
"Yes," Charlotte replied. "And I double in economics."
"I saw that in your CV," John responded, before Sherlock could. "Couldn't quite figure out why, though. Seems like two very different areas of study to me."
"If I devote my life to psychology, I still want to know how to handle my money," Charlotte explained. "And if I become some sort of economist, well…you have to know people to know money."
John seemed satisfied with that answer, even impressed, but Sherlock shook his head slowly. "You study economics because you've never had money," he said. "Your parents did the best they could, but drugs are expensive and job prospects for addicts aren't exactly bountiful. When ends stopped meeting, they pawned you and your younger sibling off on an unwilling relative who gave you beds to sleep in, food in your mouths, but nothing in the way of affection. As soon as you were of age, you moved out, taking said sibling—a sister, I think—with you. You've been working minimum-wage jobs ever since to support the two of you. Some time ago, you got yourself a scholarship so you could study what you've always taken interest in but never understood—the psychology of the caregiver and how it was possible that yours could have gotten it so horribly wrong." He sat back in his chair, tenting his fingers and looking very pleased with himself.
"Jesus, Sherlock," John said under his breath. He rubbed at his chin and looked nervously at Charlotte. "He—we—I am deeply sorry, Charlotte. My God, I—"
"It's a brother," Charlotte interrupted, seeming unperturbed. "My younger sibling."
"Drat," Sherlock said, snapping and looking disappointed in himself.
"Don't be too hard on yourself, you got everything else right," Charlotte responded.
Watson looked between the two of them, almost perturbed. "Hang on. You're saying that none of that bothered you?" he asked Charlotte incredulously.
"It's nothing I don't already know," Charlotte responded, shrugging a shoulder. "Gets that part out of the way. No need to shell out for a background check. And it saves us all the awkward personal conversations that could have been had." She cracked a smile. "Besides, I figured you would probably make deductions to test me."
John eyed Sherlock, one corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. "Someone's been doing her research."
"If you call reading your Yelp reviews research," Charlotte joked.
"What is a Yelp?" Sherlock asked pointedly, looking to Watson.
Charlotte chuckled. "You can get my entire life history from a look, but you don't know what Yelp is?" she wondered.
"I only keep valuable information," Sherlock informed her. "Weeding out the useless helps keep my mind functioning at an optimal level."
Charlotte nodded. "I see." She glanced at John. "Next question?"
"Yes, of course," John moved forward. "Do you have any experience with this sort of work?"
"You mean typing?" Charlotte responded. "Well, I—"
Sherlock interjected with a scoff, rolling his eyes. "She's twenty-something, Watson, of course she can type."
Watson gave him a peeved look. "Right," he grunted.
"My question is, given your current circumstances, do you anticipate being able to keep a job that's unpaid?" Sherlock asked.
John looked embarrassed, but Charlotte took it in stride. "I've recently come into some money," she shared.
"I knew it!" Sherlock exclaimed.
"What gave it away?" Charlotte wondered, cocking her head to the side.
"Your shoes," Sherlock confessed. "The rest of your outfit is old—well kept, but it's clear your clothes have seen use. Even before all the washing, ironing, and folding the brands are modest. Your shoes, on the other hand, are brand name and brand new—an extravagant purchase. You would never waste your salary or savings on money that could pay the bills or put food in your brother's mouth." He smiled the slightest bit, knowing he was right. "My guess is inheritance from aforementioned unwilling caretaker. A relative you aren't attached to and money your hard work didn't earn. I believe they call it mad money."
"Just the shoes," Charlotte said, almost defensive. "I put the rest in savings, but…"
"Hardly something to be ashamed about," John interjected sensitively. "It sounds like you've worked hard over the years." He cleared his throat and offered a half-smile. "So what if you want a pair of shoes?"
Charlotte grinned back appreciatively. "I have," she accepted the credit. "Point is, I'm ready to finally work at something that I'm interested in. That's why I'm here."
"What makes you so interested?" John wondered.
Charlotte paused for a moment, assuming Sherlock might give the entire interview for her. When she realized he wouldn't, she pressed on. "I really did do my research. After I saw your job posting last night, I read some articles from the paper and your blog, Dr. Watson." She sat up straighter in her chair, making eye contact with Sherlock. "I think what you do is fascinating, Mr. Holmes. I've found myself considering criminal psychology more than once and I figured, what better place to find out more?"
"So, since you've considered the field of criminology before, I assume you know the nature of the work," John responded. "You understand that some of the things in the notes you'll be transcribing will be…unpleasant?"
"I understand," Charlotte answered, nodding. "It might take some getting used to, but I guess that's part of the game."
Watson wrote something down in his notes, nodding to himself. "And how many days a week would you be able to work?" he asked.
"The ad said two, right?" Charlotte clarified. "Two of my choosing?"
"That's correct," Watson replied. "Any two days of the week. The criminals don't exclude the weekends and neither do we."
Charlotte laughed softly. "I doubt I'll be spending my weekends here. I am a university student, after all. I have a social life."
"Noted," Sherlock deadpanned.
Charlotte's phone began to buzz in her bag.
"And that will be your reminder to leave for class," Sherlock conjectured astutely.
"It is," Charlotte confirmed. "But I can stay if…"
"Quite all right," Watson responded. "I think we have everything we need." He flashed a smile in her direction. "Thank you, Charlotte. We'll be in contact."
Charlotte smiled back and nodded. "Thank you again," she told them, rising to stand. She adjusted her trousers and then bent to pick up her bag. "And good luck with the rest of today. I have a feeling you'll need it." She smiled again as she turned and walked out of the flat.
The sound of the door closing echoed up the stairs as Charlotte left. Mrs. Hudson's footsteps were heard ascending the stairs before the door re-opened. "Shall I send the next one up?" the landlady inquired, poking her head into the room.
"Give us a minute, would you, Mrs. Hudson?" John requested. "I'd like to discuss the previous candidate before we move on."
"Move on?" Sherlock inquired incredulously. "Send the rest of them home, Mrs. Hudson. We've found our intern."
Mrs. Hudson turned to leave.
"No! Mrs. Hudson, do not send anyone home," John ordered, putting a hand up.
"Oh, dear," Mrs. Hudson tutted, turning back to them and putting her hands on her hips. "What shall I do, boys? I don't enjoy being yanked about."
Sherlock let out a harrowed sigh and rolled his eyes, switching his gaze to Watson. "What is there to discuss, Watson?" he demanded. "She's qualified, intelligent, and—more importantly—hiring her will save us from having to converse with the rest of the imbeciles waiting outside."
"Yes, but…" John made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. "She might be too…"
Realization washed over Sherlock's face. "You're afraid she's too attractive," he stated, sneering slightly. "That's it, isn't it? I'm right, aren't I?"
Watson turned red, spluttering denials in Sherlock's direction. Mrs. Hudson began to giggle, clamping a polite hand over her mouth. "Mrs. Hudson!" John scolded, swiveling to give her a betrayed look.
"I'm sorry, dear," Mrs. Hudson apologized, trying to suppress her laughter. "It's just so obvious, isn't it?"
John placed his face in his hands and let out a groan.
"Shall I go downstairs and bring back all eight men that I've picked out in the line?" Sherlock questioned, raising his eyebrows. "It will absolutely emaciate our options, but if you don't feel able to control yourself—"
John's head snapped up and he gave Sherlock a scathing look. "It's not about 'controlling myself,'" he argued. "But, if we look at historical fact, I'm terrible at talking to beautiful women. She will be my responsibility, since you don't bother yourself with the notes or the blog—or people, for the most part. If can't talk to her, how am I supposed to work with her?"
"Perhaps this will be a good exercise for you, Watson," Sherlock mused, peering at his friend over his steepled fingers. "Maybe being in Charlotte's presence two days a week will be helpful in curing this bizarre…affliction of yours." Watson gave him another look, but Sherlock put his hands up in surrender. "I will run interference as much as I can," he offered. "I'll do anything, so long as I don't have to waste another minute of my valuable time on the fanatics queueing downstairs."
Watson sighed out, coming around to Sherlock's side of things. "I can't take another one, either," he admitted. He ran a hand through the side of his hair as he thought to himself.
"Oh, and I do so like her," Mrs. Hudson spoke up, looking hopeful. "She's got moxie. Something I like to see in a young woman."
"Mrs. Hudson has spoken," Sherlock said, clapping. "It's decided." He stood from his chair. "I'm going to tell the other hopefuls to get on with their pathetic little lives." He practically skipped out of the flat and down the stairs, eager to send the others home and get back to work.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi, readers! I have recently discovered the beauty that is Sherlock. Might be a one-shot, might not. Who knows! Let me know what you think, especially if you want to read more :)
