PART I

Chapter 1 - The Detective

Everyone who knew Sherlock thought he was crazy. Granted, he already was, but agreeing to be a 'therapist' of sorts for some random girl was insane, especially for someone as antisocial as he was. His brother had practically blackmailed Sherlock in order to get him to allow the strange arrangement, which had been vastly ineffective. The only reason the consulting detective had accepted the 'case' was because he was curious as to who this mysterious girl was.

According to Mycroft, his 'client', or, rather, 'patient', was a female of approximately 20 years who worked as an analyst for the government, (a.k.a. Mycroft). Her sister was an immediate co-worker of Mycroft's, and she had asked a favour of the older Holmes.

You see, while Sherlock's 'patient' was practically normal in most ways, she hadn't spoken a word in about ten years. She wore socially acceptable clothes, according to Mycroft, anyway, and she showed up to work at the exact same time every day. She never took any holidays or sick days, and she never performed poorly while on the job. She was an expert at her profession, and the only reason she wasn't the head of the department was because she couldn't recruit new workers or conduct interviews with potential employees.

This was the basis of what Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective and self-proclaimed High-Functioning Sociopath, knew about his first-ever patient. He was anticipating meeting the young woman, learning everything about her, spewing off the facts, and scaring her off so she wouldn't ever come back.

Yes, he had been willing to meet the girl, but he never promised Mycroft anything about continuing the 'therapy sessions'. No, it was in his best intent to get rid of this nuisance as soon as he had figured her out.

The only problem he could think of was the language barrier. If she truly wouldn't talk, he would have to work harder to figure her out. Not that he wasn't up for the challenge. He was bored that day anyway.

It was exactly five minutes before 1 p.m. when Sherlock heard a knock, just one, at the door. He had been sitting in his chair by the fireplace with his fingertips pressed together, forefingers barely touching his lips. His eyes opened as he snapped out of his Mind Palace, and from below, he overheard Mrs. Hudson trying to have a conversation with his patient.

Her footsteps were medium weight upon the stairs, meaning she was neither timid nor overly extroverted, merely confident within her own body. That was good. Very healthy. At least, that's what Sherlock guessed. He didn't really have any clue what he was doing, pretending to be therapist. I mean, honestly. A man with hardly any empathy at all was told to try and open this young woman up.

"Sherlock, you've got a client." Mrs. Hudson called as she led the girl up to the sitting room of Sherlock and John's flat.

"She's a patient, Mrs. Hudson, according to Mycroft." Sherlock replied just as Mrs. Hudson stepped into the room. The guest, a young woman who looked more like 23 or 24 years old, glanced about the cluttered dwelling place as she crossed the threshold.

Dull red hair, almost auburn but not quite, hung in loose curls down to the middle of her back. Parted crookedly on the left side of her head, from Sherlock's point of view, her hair was obviously not as important to her as most female humans her age. A beauty mark, clearly natural, rested high on her cheekbone, which lacked makeup of any kind, as well as her eyes. There was a residue of something on her lips, probably a lip balm of some sort. Not coloured. She wasn't one for impressions, then.

She wore a dark green jumper, slightly too large for her, so that she could pull the sleeves over her hands comfortably. No jewelry, not even earrings, though she had places for them in her ears. Black skinny jeans with gold threading were loose around her legs, meaning she either was really skinny or she didn't like the skin-tight feeling of smaller sizes. Sherlock determined it was the latter.

Black Converse trainers topped off the look, along with a black leather purse that contained the following; mobile phone, lip balm, a set of keys (house), a plastic ID card on a lanyard (work), a cheque book, a small change purse (empty), a money clip (at least five, no more than ten, pounds), and a few other plastic cards (identification, debit, credit, gift, membership, etc.).

"Have a seat, Miss…" In all honesty, Sherlock had absolutely no idea as to what this young woman's name was. He guessed it was something ordinary, like Jane Edwards, or another generic name of some sort. He didn't really care. He wasn't planning on spending too much time with her.

The young woman in the doorway smiled in thanks to Mrs. Hudson before entering the room further than the threshold.

Nails neatly trimmed, clean, but not manicured. Small paper cut giving her trouble on the inside of her left pinkie finger ½ centimetre in length. Redness and minor swelling in the area. Miniscule, hardly noticeable shift in her step, most likely due to a previous leg injury, somewhere below her right knee cap, about 5+ years old.

Almost unsure of herself, she hesitated before lowering herself to sit on the hard wooden chair between Sherlock and John's seats. He was sure his calculating gaze was making her uncomfortable, but Sherlock didn't lesson his stare in any way. He needed to get everything on her so that his later spew of discovery would impress and terrify the woman, to a point where she would flee in fright and never return, hopefully shivering whenever she recalled the exchange in her later years.

When Sherlock's examination reached her dark green eyes, he blinked. To his surprise, and he didn't get surprised, the young woman was inspecting him just as intensely as he was.

Her jade gaze was currently travelling up his left forearm, which was the closest to her. A small tug at her lips eventually formed into a smirk. Curious as to what caused such a reaction, Sherlock raised an eyebrow in question. She just smiled knowingly at his silent query.

"So, how long have you been decidedly mute, Miss?" Sherlock began, hoping she might open up at least a little bit during the 'session'. It was a long shot, he knew. Objects in motion tend to stay in motion. If she had really been silent for the past ten years, even at home when she was alone, the chances of her talking now were slim to none. Sherlock knew that. He wasn't stupid.