"You're friends," she begins, excitement trickling through every word, "And flatmates, but everyone assumes you're gay." Her irises are dancing, twitching spontaneously; flickering like candle flames in a indecisive wind; glistening with mirth—it's obvious she loves this. The oversized shock-blanket pools around her, forgotten.
"John, you've got a… sister. Older. You don't get along with her because, what is it, gambling? Drugs? Drinking? Ah, that's the one. She's an alcoholic. She's also homosexual, isn't she? But you have nothing against that. And you're a doctor, obviously. Invalided home from the army. You had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and by extension a therapist for a bit… But you met him," at this, she nods her head towards Sherlock and smiles knowingly, "and he made you better. Not completely though. You… have nightmares."
Her eyes look empty, almost haunted, in the glaring streetlights for a split second. Barely skipping a beat, she whips her head back round to the detective, shuffles back further into the ambulance, and continues, grin back on her face, "You don't like your brother, because when you were young, he was so unattainable, always smarter, better, and you despised it. He's older, obviously. A wide age gap, I'm guessing 7 or 8 years, just old enough to be infuriatingly far ahead. You idolized him though, however much you rebuffed his advice. Your father was absent a lot. He liked your brother better. Your mother was…" She casts her eyes downwards for a moment, as if berating herself for a slip of the tongue, before carrying on. "You're smarter than all these people, Sherlock; you're a genius. But let me tell you one thing. So am I."
John opens and closes his mouth repeatedly; looks at Sherlock for help. He suspects the taller man finds his reaction mildly amusing, judging by the slightest affectionate smile on his otherwise emotionless face. There are a myriad of questions, confusions, and John, resigned to the fact that Sherlock is perfectly content with not speaking, fumbles to form a coherent one. The words are a flick book, and John lunges clumsily for the first thing that drifts across his stricken mind.
"How did you know our names?"
It's feeble, but John is far too occupied with composing his thoughts to care.
"I read the blog."
"Oh."
Sherlock's expression immediately contorts with distaste until she says,
"Both of them, actually."
He tilts his head, the slightest upturn of an unintentional smile appearing upon his lips.
"And how do you find them?"
"Yours is informative. John's is entertaining. Why'd you take down the tobacco analysis?"
"Most are not as… inquisitive as us two."
Sherlock pivots with his usual grace as a frowning Lestrade appears beside them.
"What is it?"
"We—We can't seem to identify the victim. She's nobody, according to our database. There's nothing on her, not one file. She practically doesn't exist."
"She's right there." John says, profoundly.
All three men glance contemplatively at the girl, and John is startled to find her in an utterly different character. She is sat with her knees tucked in against her chest, blanket wrapped defensively around her shoulders, head in her hands. He wonders how she was so confident and gleeful just minutes ago. Sherlock glares at her skeptically, scrutinizing.
When she looks up, her eyes are orbs of unshed tears.
A soft whisper from the ambulance, "My name is Aspen."
"And?"
"I can't remember."
"What?" Sherlock says.
"I— I can't remember… who I am. It's all just dark and I won't— I can't see anything."
"That's ridiculous! Stop being dramatic, you were fine."
He starts to pace irritably, but John reaches out; grabs his arm to stop him in his tracks. Sherlock yanks himself away.
"She's a kid, Sherlock," Lestrade attempts.
"Stop it." Aspen says, gripping her head in shuddering hands.
"John, tell her she's being absurd. You saw her, she was normal! Unnaturally normal, in fact."
Flustered, the entire scene going far too fast for comfort, John goes into full-on doctor mode.
"It could've been a temporary reprieve. She might be traumatized, as far as we can tell. Maybe her… deducing took her mind off things. Like how it does for you."
"Deducing?" Lestrade interjects, the frown only growing deeper by the second.
"Aspen?" John prompts, pleasantly. She raises her gaze, willowy hands falling like paper snippets to the ambulance floor. "Could you show the Detective Inspector that thing you like to do?"
She closes her eyes for a minute, seemingly composing herself. When she opens them, they are bright and aware, alongside the smallest quirk of a performer's smile.
"I'm sorry about your wife, Inspector. How is the divorce case going? I expect she wants custody of the children."
Lestrade's face barely shows a flicker of surprise, set as it is in a world-weary grimace. He looks from a wary Sherlock to a pleased Aspen; rolls his eyes and his remark towards John.
"God, another one?"