Just to clarify, no, the sister is not Irene as her name is Anne Hopkins, which I thought was clear in the last chapter! Don't know how you came to that conclusion, haha. :)

Another little chapter, my Sherlockians! Have fun and good luck for those of you doing exams!

After a horrific afternoon-tea with Anne – she's big on being posh – I decide to go to a little pub down the road to recuperate. I've been in there before, and it smells entirely British – a mix of beer and food. Much more comforting than my sister's polished house with its constant vases full of flowers and Febreze smell that the maid uses.

I'm always relieved when I leave my sister's house, kind of like that after-exam feeling. It shouldn't be like that, should it? Sisters should be laughing and smiling with each other, but instead, maintaining contact between us is almost viewed as politeness and a great deal of necessity on her part. She feels that since she doesn't like me, she should keep watching over me in case I... well, I don't know why, to be honest. It's not like I'm going to leak information about her to complete strangers, is it? But that's probably what she thinks I'm going to do.

Anyway, my walk is kind of chirpy when I'm on my way to the pub. I love how I'm free from her clutches, even if only down the street.

When I get inside, it's beautifully warm. A classic English pub, it's wallpaper is a deep burgundy with polished tables, men watching the football. In fact, it's packed with men watching football, but they're all standing. No football enthusiast ever sits down while their team plays, apparently.

I get a cup of tea, not like that awful green tea my sister makes us drink, and move over to a seat to relax. I spy a cushioned ledge, next to the window panes, and curl myself up in it by reading my book balanced on my tucked-up knees.

Ooft, it's nice and cosy over here. I'm tucked away from the football-fanatics – perfect.

I'm about three pages into my book when I feel a presence standing next to me, and a shadow flows over the beige pages of my worn-out book. I look up, wary that it might be my sister, and instead see the man from earlier.

"Ah, Miss Bethany Hopkins, nice to see you again," he smirks.

Instantly, I sit up and place myself in a normal sitting-position, not taking up all the ledge. I smile back at the surprising company, a little bit shocked. Has he been in here since leaving my sister's? No, he couldn't have been, I would have seen him when I was at the bar.

"Hello again... sorry, I don't know your name?" If there's one thing my mother taught me, and she didn't spend enough time with me to teach me much, it would be manners.

"Richard Brook," he says, after a slight hesitation. He smiles again and asks if he can join me. I was actually having a pretty good time by myself, but I don't want to appear rude, so I say of course he can.

I don't quite know how I manage to hold down a good conversation – like Holmes, I'm a bit of a social-freak too. Not that I'm rude like he is, but it takes me a long time to warm up to a person in a conversation. Somehow, I manage to actually enjoy the conversation, and it drifts from topic to topic with his opinions coming in: the book I'm reading (he's always wanted to read Jack London, but has never gotten round to it), how football is a catalyst to male-bonding (he hates the sport, too much noise), and finally, my sister.

"How did you know we were sisters?" I ask, confused. We've been talking for a while now, so I'm comfortable enough to ask questions.

"You have a resemblance. She's obviously rather stern and pompous, completely different face and body, but you both have the same eyes – though yours are different, they twinkle," he winks, adding on the difference between us when my face looks slightly stricken when he says we share a resemblance. I do not want to look like her, but if we just have the same eye shape I guess I can live with it.

But at his compliment, I flush. He laughs at the reddening of my cheeks.

His phone, or I presume it's his phone, bleeps. Annoyed, he apologizes and whips it out of his pocket. A BlackBerry. Businessman? I think so.

After exchanging a few clipped words with the person on the other line, he turns back to me and the corners of his mouth turn up.

"Sorry, duty calls. It's been nice speaking to you, Bethany, I'll be in touch," Richard winks one last time, and for one second I think he's contemplating kissing my cheek, but then he's gone.

My mind is left in kind of a whirlwind. I'm extremely glad he didn't kiss me, as I would have probably turned into a beetroot as I barely know him. I'm fine with someone kissing my cheek in a greeting or farewell, but only if I actually know them and feel comfortable with them. Secondly... he said he'd keep in touch, but I never gave him any of my contact details...?

But would I have given him it if he asked?

My experiences with men have been short – usually they see some leggy brunette who wears more make-up than me and they go after her – and I'm usually referred to as the "cute girl they gave up, the one with the soft skin and curves in all the right places". I don't understand that bit. If I was hot, then why did they leave me? Bigger boobs must be the answer. I'm proportional everywhere with curves in all the right places, but maybe it's because of my petite figure that whenever they see a girl with tits the size of watermelons, they go running.

I can't believe that just happened. I just can't. To me, of all people.

One thing I know for sure though: my sister will kill me for even looking at one of her business associates.