When he woke up, she was sitting, patiently, in a chair by his bed, totally engulfed in a book.
She hadn't even noticed he had woken up until the nurse stepped in and cheerfully announced, "Look who's awake!"
Emily looked up and saw Sherlock looking at her.
"Yes?" she asked, confused as to what exactly he was looking at.
"Just seeing what you were reading. As I Lay Dying. Never heard of it."
"It's a Southern novel, a classic," she answered. "Plus, I thought it might be appropriate for the occasion." She smiled at her own joke.
He couldn't help but crack a smile as well, but only for a second. He didn't want her to see.
After a whole day of continuous whining and asking when he would be allowed to go home, the doctor finally discharged Sherlock. Emily helped him into her car once more, asking for directions to his flat.
They rode in silence until Emily broke it, thinking aloud.
"You know Mr. Foster did it."
Sherlock nodded, "Obviously."
"But you know who you haven't thought about? The gardener. Who do you think was in London at the time of the murder, spending all of Mr. Foster's cash? You know the gardener had to be in on it. Besides, between you and me, I saw him and Mr. Foster getting a bit too close the night they were both called in for the first round of interrogation."
Sherlock gasped. "Stop the car," he commanded.
"What? What is it?" she asked, panicking.
"Just stop the car."
She pulled over to the side of the road and put her car in park. "Mr. Benjamin, what is the meaning of all this?"
Sherlock said something he had never said to someone else before. "You're brilliant. I didn't even think about the gardener!" He was half impressed and half angry that he hadn't seen it before. "Where did you learn to do that?"
She answered meekly, "I studied to be a lawyer at university for a bit."
"Yes, but skills like that only come naturally. I should know."
She shrugged. "I thought it was obvious. I mean, what gardener can afford to wear a Prada shirt on his salary? He had to have been sleeping with Mr. Foster. Then Foster wanted his wife out of the way, so he tries to set up an alibi for himself by giving the gardener his credit card and sending him to London, making it look like he was the one who was there. The gardener lived on their estate and only worked for them, so no one would have known he was gone. Besides, it was rainy in London all last week. The gardener was suspiciously pale for someone who should've been out in the hot sun day after day."
Sherlock breathed in deeply, knowing he shouldn't do this, but not being able to help it. At least she couldn't be one of Moriarty's connections, he thought, this girl was far too innocent and didn't have an IQ corresponding to her percentage of body fat.
"Do you enjoy this kind of thing? Solving cases?"
She nodded. "That's why I work where I do. No one but you has ever listened to my hunches before, though."
"How often are you right? Give me a percentage."
She thought for a second. "Probably 95%. I sometimes hear the detectives talk about how they regret not listening to me. They still think none of it is any of my business, though. To them, I'm just there to answer the phone and get everyone doughnuts."
"You want to be important. You want some excitement, correct?"
She nodded once more.
"Well, I think I have a job for you…" he smirked.
"Oh?" she looked hopeful.
And so it began.
The next night, a Saturday, she came over to his flat, a pile of books in her arms, almost completely covering her face.
"Thank God you live on the first floor," she joked as he took the numerous books out of her arms.
He inspected each book as he put it away. Books on deduction, rhetorical skills, forensic science.
"You've read all of these?" he asked, slightly shocked.
"Oh yes," she answered. "Some of them several times."
"Emily, how old are you?" he questioned, not realizing how improper it was to ask a woman such a thing.
"27," she responded, hanging her coat up on the rack, not even noticing his lack of tact.
"Must've taken some gap years," he thought. "How could I have been wrong about her age as well? You're slipping, Sherlock," he chastised himself.
She came face to face with him. "How old are you, Mr. Benjamin?"
"34."
"You look so much younger," she thought aloud. "Look at that baby face!" She pinched his unhurt cheek, teasing him.
He tried his best to ignore her comment. "Alright, shall we get to it?"
"Lay it on me," she implored.
"Alright, well, we have several cases here. I've ordered them by level of interest. We have a 9, two 7's, a 5, a 4, and a 3. Where would you like to start?"
"I say we start with the simple ones and work our way up."
"Agreed. I don't leave my flat for anything less than a 7. That way, we can save the best for last," he grinned.
He handed her the file for the 3 and he took the 4 as they both sat on opposite corners of his couch. Within minutes, both of them were done, the cases solved. Emily agreed to write up the case summaries for them before the weekend was up. They continued on, agreeing to share the rest of them.
"Mr. Benjamin, where do you find all these cases?" she asked, barely looking up from the 5 they were both reading.
"Some of them are from work, others I just hear about," he replied absentmindedly.
For the next thirty minutes, they took turns writing on a white board, trying to see the most probable answer. Within the hour, they had it.
They then left his flat and solved one of the 7's by one in the morning. Once back, after celebrating their victory with some champagne and fitful laughter, she collapsed on his couch, exhausted, while he started talking to himself, beginning work on the other 7.
After ten minutes of silence, he turned around. "Emily?"
He saw she was curled up in a ball on his sofa, sound asleep.
He covered her up in his coat and silently went back to work.
At 5, he, too, was growing tired. He decided to give Emily his bed, picking her up gently and silently.
Halfway there, she stirred. "John?" she asked groggily.
He shushed her, telling her to go back to sleep. She seemed to agree, but not before wrapping her arms around his neck and nuzzling into his chest, getting quite a confused reaction from the silent detective.
When they got to his bedroom, he pulled back the old duvet and sheets with one arm, laying her down with the other. He took off her shoes and laid them neatly by the bed. He covered her up, turning around to leave.
"John?" she asked once more. "Stay with me? It's not fair I'm kicking you out of your own bed."
He opened his mouth to protest, but then he thought about the way she had taken care of him at work and at the hospital. She was his only friend here. Besides, like Jameson had said, he should at least try to be normal. Showing an interest in women was normal, and he felt like Emily was a much better choice than some of the other women he had met thus far.
So, he took off his jacket and shoes and got in bed next to her.
"Where do I put my hands?" he thought, unsure of whether to keep them to himself or to touch her in some way. He finally decided to wrap his arms around her, clasping her tightly to him. She smelled of cold cream and sweet perfume and the champagne they had drank hours ago. It contrasted to his usual smell of cigarettes and coffee and cologne.
She was incredibly warm, he noted, as compared to his usual iciness. He liked being around her. She was one of the most intelligent women he'd ever met, and even though he technically didn't need help on any of his cases, it didn't hurt to have a second opinion. Besides, for the first time since Irene Adler, he felt attracted to someone. Irene was more of a curiosity, someone who had vastly more sexual experience and knew how to use it to her advantage, but in the end, emotions were her downfall…but, Emily…now she was smart. She didn't play games, but she still kept Sherlock guessing. He didn't know anything really about her, and he was always yearning to learn more than she revealed. He wasn't even sure of how she felt about him, if she even did. She could just think of him as a friend, a partner, but their recent closeness had suggested otherwise. He chastised himself for even thinking about this. All these emotions were so new and foreign to him. Irene Adler was like a schoolboy's first crush, or a teen's first glimpse into a Playboy. But love? He didn't think so.
He thought of Emily's dark, raven hair, light blue eyes, creamy, porcelain white skin, tiny yet curvy frame...he had looked. He could look all day. Still, her mind was what got him. She could fire off clever thoughts almost as fast as he. After her first deduction in the car just the day before, he caught himself looking at her more and more, wondering what it would feel like for him to press his lips against hers, even for just a second. After all, brainy was the new sexy.