After Sherlock hailed a taxi, Maggie and John had to rush out of the flat to keep Sherlock from leaving without them. Although Maggie doubted he would have, she wasn't going to leave it up to chance. The taxi was silent for a few minutes as Maggie sat across from the two men and Sherlock kept his eyes locked on his smartphone. Soon after, however, he seemed to finish whatever he was doing and lowered the phone, sliding it into the pocket of his greatcoat.

"Okay," he murmured. "You've got questions."

John and Maggie both nodded. Sherlock pointed to John. "You first."

"Where are we going?"

"A crime scene. Next?" he asked, now to Maggie.

"Umm…" she said, looking down so her hair hid some of her face. "I guess, what do you do? And why am I being 'tested?'"

Sherlock clicked his tongue. "What do you two think I do?"

Neither answered immediately, but John spoke up hesitantly a few moments later. "I'd say private detective…" he trailed off.

"But?" Sherlock asked.

"But the police don't go to private detectives," Maggie answered.

Sherlock sighed. "I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job."

"What does that mean?" John asked.

"It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

John stared at him for a moment. "The police don't consult amateurs."

Sherlock threw John a slightly venomous look. Maggie raised an eyebrow. So he was prideful as well as dramatic.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" You looked surprised."

John turned slightly in his seat to look at Sherlock. "Yes, how did you know that?"

"I didn't know, I saw. Maggie did as well."

Maggie looked up ever so slightly. "Hmm?"

Sherlock looked at her. "You could tell he was an Army man, couldn't you?"

John looked at her in surprise. Slowly, she nodded.

"What, is there a sign on me or something?" he asked.

She shook her head. "It's.. your haircut, and the way you hold yourself - your posture. It says military."

Sherlock nodded. "Of course you saw that." He turned back to John. "And I knew you were a doctor because of your conversation as you entered the room. Do you remember what you said?"

John shook his head.

Sherlock frowned. "Well, that's no good. You really should try to remember what you say to different people. It may be very helpful in the future, since you never know whether -"

"Sherlock," John interrupted, "what did I say?"

Sherlock sighed. ""Bit different from my day", is what you said, as you looked at all the equipment. You were trained at Bart's, so not just in the Army but an Army doctor - obvious. Anything you'd like to add, Margaret?"

She scowled, although he probably couldn't see it through the curtain of her hair. "Maggie, please," she said with annoyance. "But there's also the factor of your tan."

John looked confused. "My tan?"

Sherlock nodded. "So you caught that too. Your face is tanned, John, but no tan above your wrists."

Maggie nodded. "I noticed it when you held my hand earlier. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing."

Sherlock continued. "Your limp is rather bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair while standing, like you've forgotten about it."

Maggie nodded. "So I'm guessing psychosomatic."

Sherlock tilted his head, biting his lip. "Well, at least partly. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then."

"Wounded in action, suntan," Maggie murmured. "So…"

"Afghanistan or Iraq," Sherlock finished, emphasizing the k sound at the end of the word.

John stared at him. "But you also said I have a therapist."

Maggie chuckled. "You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you have a therapist."

Sherlock smiled at her before turning back to John, his face once again serious. "Then there's your brother."

John's eyebrows scrunched together. "My brother?"

Sherlock held his hand out. "Your phone." John handed it to him and Sherlock began turning it in his hands, examining it. "It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player," he rattled off.

"But wait," Maggie said. She was actually finding herself to enjoy this conversation, something that rarely, if ever, happened. "You two have a flatshare. How could you afford that, John?" she asked, pointing to the phone in Sherlock's hand.

John opened his mouth to answer, but Sherlock cut him off. "Yes, I was getting to that," he said. "You're looking for a flatshare," he practically repeated Maggie's words, "You wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then." He turned the phone over, examining the scratches in the screen and back plate. "Scratches," he said. "Not one, but many, over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys, coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

A look of understanding came across John's face. "The engraving," he said.

Sherlock turned the phone over, and Maggie caught sight of the engraving in question.

Harry Watson

From Clara

xxx

Sherlock smirked as he read it again. "Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone, but not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to stay, so it's unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so, brother it is. Now Clara. Who's Clara? What do you think, Maggie?" he asked, not bothering in showing her the phone.

She scrunched her eyebrows together. "Well, three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. But the expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend."

Sherlock nodded. "She must have given it to him recently - this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then - six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he'd have kept it. People do - sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it."

"He left her," Maggie cut in.

"He gave the phone to you," Sherlock continued, as if she hadn't spoken. "That says he wants you to keep in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help - that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife -"

"Maybe you don't like his drinking," Maggie finished.

John looked between them both. "How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

Sherlock smirked. "Shot in the dark. But a good one. The power connection," he says, flipping over the phone to show John. "Tiny scuff marks around the edge of it."

"Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking," Maggie murmured.

"You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them," Sherlock said, handing the phone back to John. "And you," he said, pointing to Maggie, "So far your test is going brilliantly. You're attention to detail is quite impressive."

"That was… amazing," John said quietly, holding the phone.

"You were right, John," Maggie said.

John's eyebrows shot up and he looked at her. "I was right? Right about what?"

She smirked and looked up at the ceiling of the cab. "The police don't consult amateurs."

Sherlock was staring at John. "You really think that was amazing?"

John looked at him. "Of course it was. That was extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do they normally say?" Maggie asked.

Sherlock looked out the window. "'Piss off.'" he said, turning back to the two and grinning. John grinned as well and looked out the window, and Maggie couldn't even help the infectious smile on her lips.

"So, now to you, Margaret."

She groaned. "It's Maggie."

He chuckled. "Sorry, I guess I'm just so used to my brother. He's absolutely appalled by nicknames."

Maggie frowned. "Well, sorry to disappoint, but I'm not your brother."

He frowned. "Well, that's fairly obvious considering your gender," he said. John smirked.

Maggie sighed. "Anyway, what about me?"

"Well," he said, "considering your behaviour, and your obvious avoidance to most conversation, eye contact, etcetera, I'd say you have some sort of social anxiety disorder that has lessened through the ears but still affects you somewhat. Going from what I know on the subject, I'd say it was caused by a traumatic experience in school."

Maggie looked away, unconsciously rubbing at her arms.

"You were bullied, correct?" Slowly, she nodded. "What happened?"

She stared out the window, as she often did. "I was picked on throughout school, but in Secondary School I made some friends. But it was only a joke to them, until I trusted them. Then they jumped me in the parking lot, beat me to a pulp."

John stared, wide eyed at her. "Why?"

"I don't know," she said quietly, pulling at the fabric of her sleeves.

"They left you there," Sherlock said quietly. She nodded again. He gritted his teeth. "And since then?"

"I've had social anxiety. People hurt you when you get close to them, so I choose not to."

"And how long have you been self-harming?"

She gave him a shocked look. "H-how -"

"You're pulling at your sleeves, trying to hide the scars."

She looked down. So she was.

"How long?" he asked.

"I started three years ago."

"Is that when it happened?"

"What?"

"When someone close to you died?"

She froze.

"There was nothing to tell you that -"

"Another shot in the dark, like the drinking, but I was right. Who was it?"

"My dad," she whispered. "The only family I had left."

"No siblings?"

"My mom died when my brother and I were young, and he ran off soon after. He was older than me. We never heard from him after that. I'm pretty sure he's dead."

"No you're not."

She gave a sad smile. "Knew I couldn't get that by you."

"Where is he?"

"That I don't know."

Sherlock nodded. "Right. Well, going by the amount of dirt on your clothing and the state of your hair, I'd say you haven't been on the street long. What caused you to go to the street anyway?"

"Fire in the flat below mine that spread up. Lost everything I had," she said. Good God, she was telling this man everything. She was usually more careful than this. Why did she feel so comfortable giving everything away to him? Surely she didn't trust him.

"So, after a fire destroying your flat, I'd guess you spent a few more weeks there before coming to London, likely in search of work, although I'm sorry to inform you that you won't find much here either. You arrived from your home in Winchester yesterday, and happened upon the doorstep of the sandwich shop right next door from me. How convenient," he mused.

Maggie looked up. "How did you know I came from Winchester?"

The man smirked. "Your train ticket fell out of the hole in your left pocket as you left the cafè yesterday," he said, holding up the ticket in question. "You should really get that fixed up."

She scowled and snatched it from him, shoving it this time into her right pocket as she turned to stare out the window at the passing lights.

"Why were you following me?" she asked.

John stared at them. "Wait, you two have met?"

Maggie shook her head. "It's more like we passed one another in a coffeehouse yesterday. Although he apparently stalked me afterward."

Sherlock clicked his tongue. "No, no, I merely followed you a few blocks until I could tell the general area in which you were going to be. I was going to find you later today, but Mrs. Hudson saved me the trouble."

"Why were you going to find me?"

"Because I had already deduced all of this - well, other than the anxiety, although I did have a feeling - in that shop, and I thought you could be useful. Now that I know some of your abilities, I think so even more. But there's still one final test I have for you, Maggie," he said as the taxi pulled to a stop and he dashed out. She quickly followed after him.

"Oh, I'll just pay the cabbie, then," John yelled after them sarcastically, reaching for his wallet.

Maggie barely caught up with Sherlock's long strides as they turned a corner and came across cars with flashing red and blue lights and police tape. She suddenly grabbed his elbow, stopping him.

"You said I would be useful," she whispered. "What for?"

He gave her a half smile, leaning close to her ear. "Pass this next test, and you'll find out," he said, leaning away as John caught up with them. With that, he turned and started leading the way towards the crime scene.

"John," he said as he walked, "did I get anything wrong? In my earlier deduction?"

John shook his head. "Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago, and they're getting a divorce - and Harry is a drinker."

Sherlock looked rather impressed with himself. "Spot on, then," he said. "I didn't expect to be right about everything."

Maggie frowned and rolled her eyes. Yes, you did, she thought to herself.

"And Harry is short for Harriet."

Sherlock and Maggie stopped dead in their tracks.

"Harry is your sister?" Maggie asked.

John nodded. "Yeah, she never liked Harriet, and she had us call her Harry instead."

Maggie frowned. She thought she and Sherlock had been right, and no matter how much she didn't want to feed the man's obvious pride, she had hoped they'd been right.

John looked from Sherlock, to the crime tape, to Maggie, and back to Sherlock. "Look, what are Maggie and I supposed to be doing here?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Sister!" he said in frustration.

Maggie looked at the female officer standing near a police car, forgetting about Harry for now. "No, seriously, what are we doing here?"

Sherlock ignored them, suddenly deciding to continue on toward the crime scene, muttering to himself.

"It's always something!" he grumbled, clenching his fists.