As the weeks passed and Christine and John began to get close again, Sherlock found himself feeling very strange. At first, he thought it could be an emotion, but Sherlock didn't think he had those. Christine got to be alone with Sherlock whenever John had a date. She kept him occupied and kept him from disturbing John. Sherlock never stood a chance when he was alone with her. She'd take his phone and wallet and put them where he wouldn't be able to get them. He would pout for a while, but stopped when she asked him to play his violin. One night, though, John came home from his date early and found Christine and Sherlock on opposite sides of the room, noticeably annoyed with each other.

"What'd you do, Sherlock?" he asked.

"Why do you automatically assume I did something?"

"It's almost always you in one way or another."

"Why are you home so early, John?" Christine asked softly.

"Went downhill pretty quickly after that text Sherlock sent. Anne and me…we're done."

"What else did he do tonight?" she asked, glaring in Sherlock's general direction.

"Rather not discuss it at the moment. Will you come up to my room with me for a moment so we can talk?"

Christine was by no means stupid and she'd learned a thing or two from Sherlock, though she hated to admit it.

"I can't John. Arguing with him has drained me completely. I don't think I'd make it up the stairs. I'm sorry about you and your girl." she answered, kissing his cheek and walking past him to go shower. She took Sherlock's robe from the hook on the back of his door, and then went to shower.

Christine walked back into the sitting room about half an hour later wearing nothing but Sherlock's thin, silky, navy-coloured dressing gown. Sherlock glared at her for a moment, then left the room in a huff; John was nowhere in sight.

Now that she was finally alone, Christine stretched out on the sofa and watched crap telly for a while. She heard banging in the detective's room for a few minutes, but he quieted down quickly. He'd left his violin out; Christine picked it up and began trying to play the instrument the way he did. She managed to play half of "No One Would Listen," an outtake from Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom of the Opera, when she heard soft breathing from the hallway behind her. She stopped and looked at the figure shrouded in darkness.

"How do you know how to play?"

"Thought you were mad at me." She said, putting the violin down on the coffee table.

"Answer the question."

"I watched you play, remember? Certain movements of your hands produce certain sounds. I've memorized them and, well, you know the rest. Honestly, I think you knew all of that already."

"You're right; I did know all of that. I also know that you're naked under that. Why? Trying to seduce me?"

"Now, if I was trying you would know. So, no. And if I was trying how could you be sure you were my intended target? I'm not trying at all, but let me tell you something. Sherlock, one day you're going to get curious. You're going to want it; you're going to want to know what it feels like. When you do, I'll be here."

Sherlock smiled as she left the room, "Oh, we'll see…"

Oh, she's clever…very clever, he thought as he walked back to his room.

John woke with a jolt; he was being shaken awake by a woman in a familiar robe. He rubbed his eyes and squinted up at her.

"Christine? What are you doing? Why are you wearing Sherlock's dressing gown?"

"Yes. Waking you up. Stole it from him."

"When exactly did you steal it?"

"Before I showered. Is that really important?"

"Guess not. Why'd you wake me up?"

"Can I sleep in your bed?"

"Um…sure, I guess."

Christine smiled and climbed into the unoccupied side of the bed and wrapped herself in the blankets. John looked at her for a moment, smiling and shaking his head. She was truly a confusing woman.

John woke up a few hours later and almost panicked when he saw the robe curled up next to him. He wondered if Christine had worn the robe to mess with him. He got out of bed, got his clothes together and went to shower. The morning carried on as smoothly as possible considering Sherlock had nothing to do. Christine stayed in bed until she got bored; she dressed herself in some of John's clothes, trying to look as feminine as she could in them, and plodded downstairs. She'd left Sherlock's robe lying on the bed. The detective was slumped in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin; the doctor was on the sofa with a cup of tea reading the paper.

"Morning, boys." she said sweetly.

Sherlock didn't reply or acknowledge her presence, but she'd come to expect that of him. John, however, gave her a pleasant smile and a warm 'good morning.' Christine sat down with John and read the articles with him. There wasn't anything that interested her, but she read anyway; she didn't have anything else to do. It took John a while, but he eventually noticed what she was wearing. The grin on his face stretched from ear to ear. He didn't say it, but he thought she looked quite good in his clothes. Sherlock, on the other hand, paid her no mind. His eyes were closed; he didn't know what she was wearing and he didn't care. All he wanted was something interesting to do.

Around one in the afternoon, masculine footsteps could be heard bounding up the stairs toward the flat. Moments later, a man with graying hair entered the sitting room. The man had Sherlock's full attention.

"What's happened?" the detective asked.

"Double homicide. No apparent murder weapon, no forensic evidence, and-oh, hello. I didn't realize you had company." the man answered, getting side tracked when he caught sight of Christine.

"She's not important, Lestrade, ignore her. Text me the address I'll meet you there."

"Oh, come on, Sherlock! Won't you introduce me to your friend?" she asked, trying to get on the detectives nerves.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, "This is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, and he's no more my friend than you are, Christine."

The young woman grinned sweetly, "Somewhere deep down you know you like me, Sherlock."

"No I don't…" he mumbled irritably.

"Sure… It's a pleasure to meet you, DI Lestrade."

"The pleasure is all mine, Christine."

"Can we go now?" Sherlock asked, sounding a bit like an impatient child.

John got to his feet and began to leave, "Want to come, Christine?"

"No, John, thank you. I'll be fine until you two get back."

He shrugged and left with Sherlock and Lestrade. Christine settled in for a long, quiet afternoon alone and intended to enjoy it.

Night began to fall and Sherlock and John hadn't returned. Christine knew that they could take care of themselves, but she was beginning to feel uncomfortable. She felt a bit like she was being watched. The room was well lit and the telly was on, but she didn't feel comfortable moving from the sofa. Heavy, masculine footsteps pounded up the stairs suddenly, startling the small woman. Oh, thank goodness, she thought, they're home. The man who burst through the door moments after the footsteps reached the landing was not who she had expected at all; Christine screeched, startled by the stranger.

"Wh-Who are you?"