A Note to Readers: Make sure you have read all of The Great Game before beginning A Scandal in Belgravia! I may have added to it since the last time you read.
It seemed that Charlotte's first day on the job was indicative of how things would be at Baker Street from then on. Following "The Great Game"—as Dr. Watson had titled it—the blog took off, plunging Sherlock's work into the public eye like never before. The phone rang off the hook, potential clients queued around the block, and the media seemed to have set up a permanent camp outside of 221B.
Now eight weeks into her internship, Charlotte had become accustomed to the frenetic nature of her workplace. She found herself looking forward to the sixteen hours per week that she would get to be on the sidelines of whichever case Sherlock and John happened to be working on, listening intently as she typed away in the corner.
Sherlock had never followed up after alluding that they would take her into the field with them—she suspected Dr. Watson had had some say in that. However, the detective had also been incorrect in his estimation of her workload. It had taken her nearly four weeks to make sense of the red folder and accompanying paper stacks. By the time she had organized them all by case, sorted the pages chronologically, and typed them out, there was already a backlog of notes from more recent weeks.
During her previous Tuesday shift, she had nearly gotten caught up to date on all of the notes. That's why, on Thursday, she walked toward 221B Baker Street with a preemptive feeling of triumph, knowing she would certainly complete her task that day. She had a bounce in her step as she ducked into the bakery around the corner to buy a box of pastries. During her third week on the job, she had taken it upon herself to provide sustenance on Thursday mornings. Though John and Sherlock seldom accepted the odd scone or croissant, she found that many of the potential clients appreciated the gesture, grateful for a small kindness when many of them were facing horrific circumstances.
As she walked up Baker Street, she checked her watch, noting that the stop at the bakery had cost her a few minutes. She knew John and Sherlock would already be sitting down with their first client. She held the box of pastries more closely to her chest and put her head down, shouldering past the reporters, as she had become accustomed to doing in past weeks.
"Charlotte!" they called, trying to get her to look up. But she had grown accustomed to their tricks.
Then came the questions. The ones she didn't mind so much were the ones about Sherlock's cases. Many of the reporters were curious what he would be working on next. The other questions she absolutely abhorred, most of them stemming from a single photograph taken a number of weeks before.
That particular day three weeks in the past, her brother had phoned her toward the end of her workday to warn her that the internet was out in their flat, knowing she had a big research paper due the following day. She had become exasperated, realizing she would have to hole up in the university library all night. When John offered to let her stay on and work in their flat, she said yes without hesitation. She worked until late finishing the paper and, upon completion, decided to reward herself with a quick rest on the sofa before catching the train back to Barking. When she awoke to the sound of her alarm the following morning, she left in a terrible hurry, disoriented and worried about being late to class. During her hasty departure, some low-life with a camera phone had captured her leaving 221B in yesterday's clothes. The rumors caught like wildfire.
"Charlotte, what's the nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"
"Are you at the center of a love triangle?"
"Is it true that Dr. Watson hired you for more than typing?"
Charlotte had gotten very good at ignoring the reporters, but she hadn't always reacted so calmly to their badgering. At first, she had been irate. She was serious about her job, as were Sherlock and Dr. Watson. To suggest they had hired her on as some sort of prostitute was as ludicrous as it was offensive.
Matters were only made worse when students in her classes began asking questions, or giving her strange looks when they passed her on campus. It seemed the picture had circulated, and even people who hadn't been aware of Sherlock Holmes before were roped in with the idea of a sex scandal.
She had taken to keeping her head down. She knew the truth, as did anyone with an opinion that mattered to her. And with only a few weeks left in her final term, she was focused on matters much more important than gossip.
When she finally made it through the barrage of questions, cameras, and bodies, she opened the door to 221B with a flourish and closed it immediately behind her, dulling the roar coming from outside.
"Dreadful, aren't they?" Mrs. Hudson sniffed disapprovingly, meeting Charlotte at the bottom of the stairs.
"Truly," Charlotte responded, rolling her eyes. "Don't they have anything better to do?"
"Unfortunately not," Mrs. Hudson replied. "And it's just awful what they're saying about you in the papers, dear. I hope you don't read them."
"I don't, as a matter of fact," Charlotte said, with a snort. "But I'm sure I'm Mrs. Holmes by now and secretly carrying Dr. Watson's baby."
Mrs. Hudson let out a peal of laughter. "Oh, you're bad," she scolded, still tittering. When her laughter had subsided, she said, "By the way, when you've put your things down upstairs and checked in with the boys, come down to the kitchen. We'll have a cuppa."
"Will do, Mrs. Hudson," Charlotte told the landlady, slightly confused. She had never asked her down for a cup of tea first thing before.
"And bring me a danish, would you?" Mrs. Hudson requested. Without waiting for an answer, she bustled back into the kitchen.
Charlotte climbed the stairs and opened the door to the flat, stepping inside and closing it behind her. John and Sherlock had indeed begun their first consultation of the day. The man sitting in the chair turned to look at her as she came in.
"Sorry," Charlotte whispered. "Don't mind me." She stepped lightly across the room to her desk.
"Good morning, Charlotte," John greeted, smiling pleasantly.
"Good morning, John," Charlotte returned. The transition to using her boss' first name had been rather seamless. It seemed the more acquainted they got with each other, the easier it was to lose the title. He was simply John to her now.
"Have you brought pastries?" Sherlock wondered.
"Every Thursday, Mr. Holmes—er, Sherlock. Sorry," she stammered. Sherlock had outright requested that she call him by his first name two weeks prior, without explanation. It was as if he had eventually noticed that she was no longer calling John 'Dr. Watson,' and felt inclined to drop the formalities as well.
"It's no bother," Sherlock replied. "It will take time, no doubt."
"I'm Charlie," the client introduced himself, swiveling in his chair to extend his hand to Charlotte. "Charlie Anderson."
"Charlotte," she replied, shaking his hand. "Pleased to meet you." She smiled kindly and couldn't help but notice the blue of his eyes.
"Charlotte is our intern," John informed Charlie.
"Yeah, I've read about you in the papers," Charlie responded, releasing Charlotte's hand but never taking his eyes off her.
"Fantastic," Charlotte said, the sarcasm evident in her voice. She blushed slightly.
"I don't believe any of that rubbish," Charlie assured her, snorting. "The papers do no one justice. Especially you, it seems." He smiled, with the twinkle of flirtation in his eye.
Charlotte's blush deepened and she suddenly became very aware that she was standing in front of London's most perceptive man and her boss. She quickly cleared her throat and opened the box of pastries. "Can I offer you anything before I go downstairs?" she asked Charlie.
"Sure, why not?" Charlie replied, carefully picking out one of the assortment.
"Mrs. Hudson's asked me to come down for tea," Charlotte told Sherlock and John while their client was distracted. "I'm sure it won't take long."
"Very well," Sherlock grunted. He sat up straighter in his seat and watched Charlie carefully, observing him while his guard was down.
"I'll actually take a scone this morning, Charlotte," John told her. She stepped over to let him choose.
"And you, Sherlock?" she asked. "Anything?"
"No, thank you," Sherlock declined.
"All right. I'll be back," Charlotte said. She turned and walked out of the room and back down the stairs, taking the box with her.
Charlie watched her go and then turned back to Sherlock and John with a starstruck expression. "Wow," he breathed out. "I mean…wow."
John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearing his throat softly.
"Care to elaborate?" Sherlock mused.
"I mean, of course neither of you can say anything," Charlie snorted. "Would be inappropriate, wouldn't it? It's gotta be difficult, though, in such close quarters all day. I wouldn't be able to help myself." He bobbed his eyebrows and shook his head.
Sherlock let out a burdened sigh. "Do you have a case for us or not, Mr. Anderson?"
Downstairs, Charlotte was seated across the kitchen table from Mrs. Hudson. "What was it you wanted to discuss with me, Mrs. Hudson?" she asked curiously.
Mrs. Hudson sipped her tea. "John told me you had asked for some days off for your graduation and it got me thinking," she began. "I'd like to have a dinner one night to celebrate your accomplishment. It doesn't have to be a big do. Just you, me, John, Sherlock, and you can invite your brother, if you'd like. I can cook just about anything, all you have to do is tell me your favorite." She smiled eagerly over the rim of her teacup.
Charlotte was at a complete loss. When Mrs. Hudson had invited her down for a cuppa, she had not expected this to be the content of the conversation. "Mrs. Hudson, I…" She put down her coffee cup with shaking hands. "I don't know what to say."
"Well, you don't have to know straightaway," Mrs. Hudson reassured her, seeing how flustered she had become. "Give it some thought and you can tell me when you've come up with it. Like I said, I can cook just about—"
"Thank you," Charlotte blurted. "Really. Thank you." She felt the pinpricks of tears, and worked desperately to keep them at bay.
She hadn't even thought to do anything to celebrate her graduation. Of course, she would go out to the pubs with some of her classmates, but that was about it. When you didn't have any family or money, parties were out of the question.
"You can't imagine how much this means to me," she expressed genuinely. She had successfully swallowed back any outpouring of emotion, but something about the way Mrs. Hudson looked at her told her she had sensed it.
"It's my pleasure, dear," Mrs. Hudson responded. "You've worked so hard, it would be a pity to see it go by unnoticed." She smiled kindly.
The two of them finished up their tea and pastries, discussing potential dates and times for the dinner. When Charlotte rose to return upstairs, she felt the strongest urge to hug Mrs. Hudson, but thought better of it.
When she stepped out into the hallway, she nearly collided with Charlie as he came down the stairs.
"Excuse me," Charlotte said, moving to step around him.
"Do you mind waiting up for a moment?" Charlie asked.
"Sure," Charlotte granted. "What's up?"
Charlie smiled. "I was actually hoping to run into you," he confessed. "I kept talking up there, in the hope that you would come back before I was inevitably shoved out." He laughed self-consciously.
"They didn't take your case?" Charlotte grimaced.
"Unfortunately, no," Charlie replied. "But that's the way it goes, I suppose."
"Why were you hoping to run into me?" Charlotte questioned, raising her eyebrows.
"I wanted to give you my number," Charlie told her. He took a pen and a piece of paper from his bag and scrawled down the digits before handing her the paper. "If it's not too forward to say, I'm quite taken with you."
Charlotte smiled and blushed once again. "Well, thank you," she responded.
"Give me a call sometime," Charlie invited. "I'd love to take you out."
"Maybe I will," Charlotte flirted, taking a step around him and up the stairs.
"See you soon, Charlotte," Charlie called softly after her, before turning and making his way back out through the front door.
As soon as Charlotte reentered the sitting room, both Sherlock and John went silent. The intern snorted. "Very suspect, you two," she joked. She walked over to her desk and took a seat, hearing the paper in her back pocket crinkle.
"Aha!" Sherlock exclaimed, shooting to a standing position and snapping his fingers. "I was correct."
Charlotte stiffened and kept her eyes fixed on the laptop. "Correct about what, may I ask?"
"Settle a bet for me, would you Charlotte?" Sherlock queried. "Did he or did he not give you his phone number?"
Charlotte turned around to give Sherlock a look. "Sherlock Holmes, my personal life is none of your business."
"I'll split my winnings with you," Sherlock promised, raising his eyebrows in an appeal.
With an exasperated sigh, Charlotte ceded. "Yes, he did," she stated plainly. "Now, what's my reward?"
"Me being right," Sherlock replied. He turned to his partner. "Honestly, John, I don't know why you even try."
John looked at Charlotte, shocked. "He couldn't have," he claimed.
"I'll pretend I'm not offended by that remark," Charlotte deadpanned. She took the paper out of her back pocket and showed him as proof.
"That rat," John scoffed.
"I'm clearly missing something," Charlotte stated, raising her eyebrows in question.
"You're missing the entire ten minutes he was in here weeping over his missing girlfriend," Sherlock informed her.
"Oh, ick," Charlotte responded, making a face. She was suddenly looking at the piece of paper in her hand as if it were used bath tissue. In an instant, she had crumpled it up and hurled it toward the bin.
"Do you think he did away with her?" John inquired, curious. "Based off your impression."
"Can't say," Charlotte admitted. "But I certainly wouldn't be handing out my number if my girlfriend were missing."
"Clever girl," Sherlock commended.
"Thank you," Charlotte replied, turning back around to face the laptop screen. She typed the password in and waited for John's desktop to load.
"You're still intrigued," Sherlock observed, coming off as surprised.
"Get out of my head, Sherlock," Charlotte scolded.
"Your head aside, it's all about body language," Sherlock continued. "You're turning away from us, no longer wanting to converse on the subject in fear that we might find you out. Too late."
"You can't be serious," John said. "Charlotte?"
Charlotte wheeled around with an exasperated sound. "I'm clever, not blind," she defended. "I mean, did you get a good look at him?"
Sherlock was chuckling, rather pleased with himself. John, meanwhile, wore a deeply disapproving look.
"Leave her be, John," Sherlock coaxed, clearly in a good mood now. "It's not as if you're impervious to physical attraction. You drool at the heels of every woman in the street."
"You think this is very funny, do you?" Charlotte asked of Sherlock sassily. "Just wait until the day you fancy someone. We're never going to let you hear the end of it."
"No, we are not," John agreed, cracking a teasing smile.
"I have no time for attractions," Sherlock stated, as if above them somehow. "Emotions only—"
"—slow you down," John and Charlotte drawled in unison.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the two of them, his sunny mood evaporated. "Mrs. Hudson!" he shouted. "Let the next one up!"
Charlotte and John exchanged a grin, sharing in their triumph.
The following Tuesday, Charlotte arrived at 221B Baker Street, put her head down and shouldered through the crowd of reporters as usual. However, as she did so, she noticed the questions shouted at her had changed.
"Charlotte, have you called Charlie Anderson?"
"What does Sherlock Holmes think of your relationship with Mr. Anderson?"
"Will this mean the termination of your internship?"
Charlotte trudged on, not looking up until she was safely inside the flat. Mrs. Hudson was there to greet her, as usual.
"Good God, Mrs. Hudson, what are they on about now?" she demanded with a harrowed look.
Mrs. Hudson looked worried. "You mean you haven't seen the papers? Oh, dear…" She bustled into her kitchen to snatch up the paper, bringing it back to Charlotte.
The redhead's eyes pored over the article, her brow furrowing further and further with each line she read. "He was a reporter," she stated, flabbergasted.
"Undercover," Mrs. Hudson confirmed, with a shake of her head and a disapproving look. "Ruddy awful trick he pulled."
Charlotte looked back down at the paper, continuing to read. She had to read the final passage aloud, or else risk bursting into flame:
"While his intern appears impartial, the detective himself was clearly smitten. Blinded by jealousy at my very mention of her beauty, Mr. Holmes could not even deduce that I was from the media. He's either not the master of deduction he claims to be, or he has an achilles heel by the name of Charlotte Green."
She threw the paper down with a near growl. "This is absolute rubbish!" she exclaimed.
"Like I said, an awful trick," Mrs. Hudson agreed, looking vengeful. "I didn't think I had to worry about who I let into the house, you know? I figured that Sherlock would…" She politely trailed off, looking apologetic once she realized what she was saying.
"It's quite all right, Mrs. Hudson," Charlotte responded. "I'm sure he just thought he was another boring sod off the street. He'll know to look out for it in the future."
Mrs. Hudson nodded and offered a smile. "I think he's a bit upset. Been in bed all morning" she informed Charlotte. "You know how he hates to lose."
"I do," Charlotte admitted with a knowing look. "Hopefully we'll get a case. Really morbid one. That always seems to cheer him up."
"Well, I'll leave you to it," Mrs. Hudson said, gesturing her up toward the stairs. "I'll be up with the tea and coffee in a moment."
"Oh, hang on a moment," Charlotte told her. She had almost forgotten why she had woken up excited that morning. She opened her bag and took out an envelope. "It's a ticket for the graduation ceremony," she said, suddenly bashful as she handed it over. "I figured, you know, since you're nice enough to cook me dinner, I would extend the invitation. You don't have to go, of course. It's going to be boring. Pomp and circumstance, and all that. Don't feel obligated. Really." She grimaced slightly.
"You can count me in," Mrs. Hudson replied simply. "Wouldn't miss it."
"Great," Charlotte responded with a smile, relieved.
"How many tickets were you given?" Mrs. Hudson asked curiously. "I know two someones who might feel very left out if they're not invited."
Charlotte guffawed. "I think not inviting them is a great service," she joked. "It saves them the time of coming up with an excuse. They'll probably be busy, anyway."
"Suit yourself," Mrs. Hudson said. "You can't say I didn't try."
"No I can't," Charlotte agreed. She blew out a breath. "Well, I had better get upstairs. They'll start thinking I'm slacking."
"Hurry on, dear," Mrs. Hudson encouraged, turning to walk back to her kitchen.
Charlotte mounted the stairs and opened the door to John and Sherlock's flat. She was used to walking into the middle of an argument, and easily went about her business. "Good morning," she said breezily as she walked past them and over to her desk. She set her things down and turned on the laptop, listening to the bickering over her shoulder.
"Watson, this is a six. We agreed I don't leave the flat for anything less than a seven," Sherlock was saying.
"I was assuming that meant you wouldn't take a case unless it was a seven or above," John flung back. "Now, you're expecting me to carry you around on my laptop, like some—"
"Can I go?" Charlotte inserted.
Sherlock and John both turned and looked at her with a certain degree of surprise, as if noticing her presence for the first time.
"Beg pardon?" John requested.
"I mean, if you're taking the laptop, I really have no business being here," Charlotte reasoned. "And if it's a six, it can't be all that dangerous. I could be helpful, even."
John looked unsure, but Sherlock saw his argument won. "Excellent. Yes. Take Charlotte with you," he instructed.
"I'm great company," Charlotte said, giving John an ingratiating smile.
"Yes, fine," Watson ceded. "This once. Only this once."
"I won't push my luck," Charlotte promised, though she simultaneously felt that a door had opened wide for her.
"We had better get going then," John grumbled. "Let me grab my coat." He walked from the room.
"And what, may I ask, are you doing with your morning?" Charlotte wondered, appraising Sherlock with a hint of judgment.
"Resting," Sherlock answered, more bristly than usual.
Charlotte hummed in response and turned to begin packing up the laptop.
"He was saying degrading things," Sherlock said, out of the blue.
Charlotte glanced over her shoulder, confused. "John, you mean?" she wondered.
"No," Sherlock said. "The bloke from the other day. The reporter."
"Ah," Charlotte responded, not quite knowing what else to say. She kept her eyes fixed on the laptop case, zipping it up.
"He didn't 'mention your beauty,' he talked about you as if you were a something to eat. It made me angry," Sherlock explained, sounding angered at the mere mention. "It distracted me from my deductions."
Charlotte felt the need to turn around and look at him directly. "Sherlock, you don't have to explain anything to me. He's just some idiot from the papers. He fooled us all."
"Yes, but you're you and I'm me," Sherlock responded sullenly. "I should have seen it. I could have prevented all this nonsense."
"You didn't lose, Sherlock. He cheated," Charlotte established. "How could you sit by calmly after he openly flirted with me, then proceeded to plead his girlfriend's case? Any friend would be concerned—upset, even."
"Are we friends?" Sherlock questioned, arching an eyebrow.
"Lack of a better term," Charlotte remedied. "All I'm saying is, he didn't play it fair. He showed me one side and you another."
"Indeed," Sherlock responded. It was apparent that, even with Charlotte's attempts at cheering him, Sherlock was still deeply perturbed.
"Ready to go?" John questioned, popping back into the sitting room.
"Er, yes," Charlotte answered, a bit taken off guard. "Just the laptop then?"
"And whatever you need," John told her. "Might be cold. Do you have a coat?"
Charlotte nodded, plucking her jacket off the back of the chair.
"Have a peaceful morning, Sherlock," John told his flatmate sarcastically, looking thorny. "We'll see you when we return."
"See you," Charlotte chirped, suddenly thrilled at the thought of going out on a real crime scene. She paused in the doorway as John plodded down the stairs. "Is it a waste to ask you not to get too in your head about this?" she asked, eyeing Sherlock.
"Entirely," Sherlock answered honestly, his eyes fixed ahead of him.
"Figured as much," Charlotte responded, one corner of her mouth slanting down slightly as she ducked out of the room.
She caught up to John just as he had hailed a taxi, thankful not to have to wait amongst the mob of reporters. John opened the car door for her and she climbed inside. As the taxi driver pulled away from the curb, she watched the reporters fade away behind her, feeling more at ease the further they got. Even after they were clear of them, she continued to stare out the window, letting out a sigh.
"Not the sound of someone who's excited to go on her first case," John teased.
Charlotte turned her head to look at him. "Believe me, I'm excited. It's just…"
"Sherlock," John guessed, sounding like he knew exactly what she meant.
"He's really distraught over this whole reporter thing, isn't he?" Charlotte said.
"Yeah, he is," John replied, nodding. "He's been a grouchy bastard ever since it hit the papers. You know how he hates to—"
"Lose, right," Charlotte cut him off. "But that's not all this is."
John nodded sagely. He was quiet for a few moments, contemplative. "If I knew what went on in Sherlock Holmes' head, I would be a billionaire," he led off. "But, if I had to guess, I'd say he feels like he let everyone down."
"Sod the reporters," Charlotte sniffed. "And since when does he care what the public thinks?"
"Not the public," John corrected. "I mean us—you, me, Mrs. Hudson. I think he feels that he endangered us in some way. You, especially."
Charlotte snorted. "That's ridiculous," she stated, shaking her head disbelievingly. "What was Charlie Anderson going to do to us? Stab you with a pen? Give Mrs. Hudson a paper cut? Quote me?"
John cracked a smile. "Be serious," he encouraged.
"I'm trying," Charlotte assured him, the corners of her mouth twitching up.
"Look at it this way," John tried again. "What if Charlie Anderson were a murderer instead of a reporter and Sherlock had missed it?'
Charlotte thought that over for a second and slowly began to nod. "Okay, I guess I can see it that way. But he wouldn't have missed it."
"He has before," John told her.
"Oh?" Charlotte queried.
"You can't tell him I told you this—it would do damage to his ego beyond repair," John said. "But he met Moriarty at the morgue one day, face to face, before we knew he existed. He was posing as Molly's boyfriend. Sherlock had no idea."
"Wow," Charlotte commented. "This Moriarty must be good."
"Apparently, about as good as Charlie Anderson," Watson said with disdain. "What a piece of work he is."
Charlotte paused, thinking over what Sherlock had said. "Was he saying lewd things about me?" she asked.
"More like implying," John replied. "Did Sherlock tell you that?"
Charlotte nodded. "Said it made him angry," she elaborated.
"It certainly made me uncomfortable," John admitted. "He was so open about it, like he enjoyed saying it right to our faces. Made my blood boil a bit."
"Then why only mention Sherlock in the article?" Charlotte wondered.
"Because I'm not the famous sleuth," John joked, chortling. "I'm only useful when they want to put you in the middle of a love triangle."
"Guess you're right," Charlotte replied, rolling her eyes. "I've about had it with the media, to tell you the truth."
"Comes with the territory now," John said, sounding most displeased. "I wanted people to know about Sherlock's work, not obsess over his personal life. This is my fault more than anyone's, if you think about it."
"But without your blog, I wouldn't have an internship would I?" Charlotte mused. "Things happen for a reason, Dr. Watson."
"I suppose they do," John replied pleasantly, smiling over at her. "You've become an excellent addition at Baker Street."
Charlotte felt her face heat up slightly, taken off guard by the compliment. "Thank you," she uttered, turning her face to the window. She picked at a loose thread on her blouse. "You know…I was thinking I might increase my hours over the summer. I won't have classes, and I imagine I'll become quite bored."
"Bored without classes?" John questioned, his tone laden with teasing.
Charlotte shot him a look, but then cracked a smile. "What do you think? Could you use me three days per week? I know the notes need very little maintenance nowadays, but I was thinking of updating the website."
"Really?" John asked. "What about it needs updating?"
"Everything," Charlotte responded, snorting. "You need a new color scheme throughout, better organization of your posts, new headshots for the bio pages—"
"Can you do five days per week?" John interjected, chuckling.
"Don't tempt me," Charlotte replied, bobbing her eyebrows.
"I'm serious if you are," Watson told her plainly. "Free labor 40 hours per week? Fine by me."
Charlotte grinned broadly. In the back of her mind nagged her common sense, knowing she should be working to save up for her graduate studies. However, the prospect of spending her summer at Baker Street was too tempting. She foresaw more opportunities to get out into the field.
"You know, I really am sorry we can't pay you for your time, Charlotte," John told her apologetically, as if reading her mind. "Minimum wage for your work ethic would be a farce. No salary is practically an insult. And I know inheritance doesn't last forever."
Charlotte gave him a reassuring look. "I've budgeted," she told him. "I've got a year's rent, food, and tuition for my brother's undergraduate studies taken care of. As long as I can find a large enough scholarship for my graduate studies, I should make it out all right. And by the time I'm done there, I'll be the most in-demand criminal psychologist there is, and I'll want for nothing." She grinned. "Realistic, right?"
John looked pleasantly surprised. "You hadn't told us you were pursuing criminal psychology," he said.
"Haven't I?" Charlotte wondered, cocking an eyebrow.
"No, I would have remembered," John replied. "I thought we mightn't see much of you after you graduated, to tell you the truth."
"You're not getting rid of me that quickly," Charlotte joked. "Do you know how jealous my classmates will be that I'm apprenticing under Sherlock Holmes?"
"Apprenticing," John guffawed. "If that's what you call it."
"That's what I'll call it when they ask," Charlotte assured him with a sly smile.
"Oh, by the way," John said, looking as if he had just remembered something. "Did Mrs. Hudson get onto you about the graduation dinner?"
"Yes," Charlotte answered. She looked at him confusedly. "You knew about that? I didn't think she'd roped you in yet. I don't graduate for another three weeks."
"Roped me in?" John questioned. "The dinner was my idea."
"Yours?" Charlotte responded, astounded. "You're full of it now."
John laughed. "I am not," he defended. "Look, I…" He fidgeted in his seat and grew quiet. "I know what it's like not to have family around for big events—birthdays, holidays, graduations."
"Oh, so this is a pity party?" Charlotte ascertained, raising her eyebrows suspiciously.
"No, it's not," John argued gently. "I'm just saying that you should be celebrated, even in some small way. You've clearly worked very hard to get where you've gotten and I doubt you've ever stopped to thank yourself for that."
Charlotte sat in stunned silence, not thinking John capable of such candor with her. A few beats passed before she cleared her throat softly. "Will you come to the ceremony?" she asked. "There's plenty of tickets to go around." She glanced over at him and smiled shyly.
"Course I will," John replied. "I'd be honored, Charlotte."
"Great, because Mrs. Hudson's going to need a date," Charlotte stated.
John let out an offended noise. "You asked Mrs. Hudson before you asked me?" he demanded. "After all that bleeding heart rubbish, the land lady got an invite before I did? If you tell me Sherlock has one—"
Charlotte was laughing. "He doesn't. He doesn't, I swear," she reassured him.
John snorted, an amused look on his face as he shook his head.
The taxi had come to a stop. Charlotte looked out the window onto the open field beside the road. It would have been majestic, had it not been for the officers swarming the scene.
"This looks like the place," John confirmed with the driver. "Thanks, mate." He opened his door and ducked out of the car.
Charlotte got out as well, slinging the strap of the laptop bag across her chest as she followed after John eagerly toward the scene.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi, readers! Hope you enjoyed this installment. I've decided to split A Scandal in Belgravia into two (possibly three) parts, since it's such a loaded episode. Make sure to read on to Part II! Thanks for reading. xx