Hola, amigos! :D Sorry for the week long interval thing. There were a lot of directions this could have taken and I sort of wrote them all then chose the one I most liked. ^_^ So, here it is. The aftermath of Sherlock finding out that Amelia Pond is his kissogram.

I'd also like to remind you that I own NONE of the characters depicted in this story!(: Ooh. And I'm doing song lyrics for titles now. Because I'm hip and cool and stuff. This one is from "Ultraviolet" by The Stiff Dylans.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, stupidly, though it was quite clear what Amelia was doing at the bar.

"Working," she shrugged, like it was nothing. He deduced that she wasn't new at this. The confidence that Scottish redhead had brought into that room when she had first swung the door open, not to mention the flippancy about it, seemed to indicate that Amelia Pond was quite used to her job as a kissogram and the passing remarks. "Bad news for you, though" she sighed, fake pity on her face, bottom lip jutting out in a pout. Sherlock tried blocking out the memory of how soft her mouth had been against his. This was Amelia and though he may be drunk, he knew it wasn't suitable to think of her like this, to think of anyone like this. He was married to his job. Emotions and relationships just complicated things even more and made things all the more difficult. Hence why he put himself above all that.

"What?"

"Your friends are cheap," Amy smirked. She couldn't help but remember that that was much more than a kiss. The fact that it was Sherlock made it all the more confusing, though she wouldn't necessarily call it a bad thing. Unlike Sherlock, Amy wasn't thinking about how wrong their kiss was. She was just plain stupefied that he even knew how to kiss, let alone so bloody damn well. She'd had her fair share of kisses, but that was definitely one to beat.

The redhead leaned back over Sherlock, who was still slightly cowering in what some would call shock and what others would call slight fear. The people on the force had stopped watching the man in the dark coat and mussed up, blue scarf, and all eyes were glued to Amy as she bent over, the tight skirt giving them a good idea of what could be underneath. Sherlock, as he always did, had taken notice, but was too preoccupied with the lack of proximity of the two. He wondered if Amelia was doing this on purpose, looking so irresistible to all the males in the room (not including himself, of course). Moments later, after a pale arm had snaked up his leg and over to his hand, Amy swiped her hat, giving him a devilish grin as she turned her back. It was then that Sherlock began to realize what she had meant. This idea was probably Donovan and/or Anderson's, but it was Lestrade's money that went into it. Sherlock had observed that the grown man was on a bit of a tight budget, what with the calls that usually turned into stressed fights with his wife over the phone, the cheap knock-off cologne he wore, and the reluctance he had with helping pay the tab at the bar that very night. Amelia's job was done. She was leaving.

It took him a few seconds to piece it together, to wonder whether or not he should chase after her, because he should be glad Lestrade had only paid for a kiss. And he was, but something inside Sherlock told him to go after her. Maybe it was the mystery, the questions that popped up into his head, demanding to be answered and all concerning a young Scottish woman that had just walked out of the door. "Wait!" Sherlock cried, running towards the door to catch up with her in the parking lot outside, "Amelia!"

"You can't take her home with you, mate!" Anderson joked from the other side of the room, beer bottle in hand as he leered over at Sherlock with his rat-like face that Sherlock was really starting to despise. He threw him a glare before he exited the bar and was greeted by a cool gush of air on that London night.

"You following me, Holmes?" a Scottish voice called, and he immediately followed the sound to a car a few spaces down, window rolled down and Amelia's face beaming at him. She was really enjoying this, he could tell. "By the way, it's Amy now."

"What was wrong with 'Amelia'?" he wondered aloud, breathing slightly ragged as he jogged to the car. Sherlock was mystified by this redhead, and he knew that he always loved a mystery, but this felt different somehow. What would be the point of solving her? Would it benefit him any? The answer seemed to be "no," but that didn't stop Sherlock from accepting the ride home.

"A bit fairy tale?" he repeated, looking at Amy with the oddest expression, "No, I will not call you 'Amy.'"

"Why not?" she asked, mouth agape in slight offense, "It's just as good as 'Amelia'!"

"Wrong."

"What if I stop calling you 'Sherly'?"

"You're not going to," Sherlock said, knowingly, scowling at the memory of the name no one but Mycroft called him anymore. It never seemed to really bother him when Amelia said it, but it also did in a complicating way. The name irritated him, but the fact that it was her alone that called him by that name made it seem a bit comfortable, especially if you were young and making your first and only friend you'd ever had.

"Yeah, you're right," she grinned, turning her head to look over at her old friend.

"Who's car is this?" Sherlock asked, suddenly, "It's not yours. It smells like hand soap and hospitals in here. Not to mention the décor. A personality as… Loud… As yours would be expressed somewhere in here, would it not? And the seat and mirror are all wrong. You've had to readjust it more than once just in this one car ride. Your handling on the turns suggests you're also not used to the steering wh-"

"You are such a show off," Amy laughed, totally interrupting his rant. He usually did that silently, but now that he was slightly intoxicated, Sherlock was starting to feel a personal mission to prove that he was still very clear-headed. "It's Rory's car, if you must know. He let me borrow it for the night, even though he says I'm a complete maniac on the road."

"Ah, Rory," Sherlock muttered, already feeling the irritation for the idiotic boy start to flare up again. But now there was a twinge of something else, something quite foreign to our young detective. He couldn't quite put a name to it, seeing as feelings weren't really Sherlock's department, but felt as though something was at the pit of stomach, trying to fight its way out of his throat. The name for it, unbeknownst to the man, was jealousy. "He doesn't mind your… Occupation?"

"Uh, well, sort of," Amy replied, glancing toward Sherlock with a clever look in her eye, "But it's none of his business. Besides, you of all people should know, Sherly, I don't take orders."

"I just assum-"

"You're always assuming," she interrupted, teasingly, "And if you're so good at noticing things, then tell me how you never saw Rory was gay?" Amy had been asked on more than one occasion if she were more than just friends with her childhood friend, Rory Williams. Mostly it was Mels that was teasing or her aunt that was sort of pressuring her to be with him. Aunt Sharon was definitely a Rory fan. He was normal with dreams of becoming a proper doctor, not one that flew around in a blue time machine, a man made completely from the mind of a bored, little girl who was new to town with no other friends to play with. Still, Amy knew that her friend wasn't into her like that, so she had never entertained the idea of her being interested in him.

"Wrong," the man in the passenger seat sighed, shaking his head. Amy peeked from the corner of her eye, the movement of his black curls catching her attention for a brief second before she returned to looking at the road. "Tell me, what evidence have you gotten?"

"He's never actually been with a girl," she pointed out.

"Obviously. Have you seen his nose?" Sherlock said, "Or did his face catch up?"

Amy tried to stop herself from laughing, but Sherlock could see her pearly whites lit up by the streetlights out on that busy London street. "But he's never even liked a girl," Amy argued, "He's never talked about one he fancied or anything."

"So? The same thing could be said about me and I'm not-" Sherlock saw her smile grow wider. "Did you think I was?"

"No, it's not that!" Amy quietly laughed, "I just- I always sort of saw you as… Asexual. Now the mystery's gone." That image was blown after she had kissed him. Because no one was that good the first time. There were no signs of inexperience or sloppiness on his account, and the fact that it had made the redhead so weak in the knees so fast… Anyways, Sherlock had definitely had some experience. She felt a little miffed when she had first realized that he was just as good, if not better, at kissing than her. She had known Sherlock when he was a teenager and he had never expressed any interest in the older girls that hung about Leadworth and tried flirting with him when they were in town buying something or on their way to go get Rory or Mels. So, he finally gave in, did he? Amy wondered what kind of woman could have been the one to get him out of his shell. She had to be absolutely smart and brave and witty and beautiful, a girl that would definitely set the bar high for anyone else that wanted to give it a go. N-not that Amy would, of course.

Sherlock gave a small smirk, one that he had been holding in the whole night. "Sorry to spoil the mystery for you, Amelia. I can tell you one thing, though. Rory isn't gay."

"And what makes you say that?"

"Your attempts at using the science of deduction is really rather cute and endearing, but let's not forget who the real consulting detective is. There's the fact that Ror-"

"Oi, speaking of which!" Amy cried, interrupting Sherlock. Again. She turned a corner that he had indicated with a pointed finger. "I made up the name! Don't you think I deserve a little payment? As the creativity department?"

"What on Earth does the name have to do with anything?" Sherlock replied, expression incredulous, "It's not like I'm selling the title or anything. I'm the consulting detective, the one and only."

"Let's not forget the best," she murmured, taking another corner. She hadn't thought Sherlock had heard it, but he did. The smirk that he had been holding in all night broke from his lips, unable to control itself. As if it were calling to her, Amy turned to look around, her own smile returning. There was nothing like Sherlock's smiles. They were small and fleeting, gone as soon as they appeared, and happened ever so rarely. During that summer, little Amelia had tried to see how many times she could get him to do it. Sometimes, they were failures and not even his icy blue eyes would light up with amusement, and other times she would find him lifting both corners of his mouth into an almost grin that stayed on for about 4 seconds before it went back to his neutral expression.

"I have another question..."

"Of course you do," Amy said, throwing in an eye roll, "What is it?"

"Why are you doing this? You could do anything you set your stubborn mind to and you know it. So why a kissogram?"

Amy's smile remained. She knew what he was doing. Sherlock was trying to analyze her. It was stupid, because they both knew that Amy just loved keeping people on their toes. Sometimes, she even surprised herself with the stupid things she'd do. Of course, none of it was as crazy as the stunts that Mels pulled, but it would be a lie if Amy were to be called innocent. "Why not?"

"But you had all those dreams when we were kids," Sherlock went on, "You always talked about that Raggedy Doctor of yours and how you were going to go up in space with him."

"Yeah, and?" The young detective noticed that her smile was gone and her grip was tightening on the steering wheel. This was a bad subject for her. Why? Did the psychiatrists finally get to her? No, because then she wouldn't be having such a reaction. If they had finally gotten to her, Amelia would have just laughed it off or something. But she wasn't. Sherlock could tell this was getting into the feeling department, a place just as foreign and unknown to him as the lingerie section in a clothing store. "He never came back. He was just this... This stupid thing I did when I was a kid. None of it was real, and it's... It's all over now."

"You're lying."

"What?"

"You're lying," Sherlock repeated. He could see it. Amy still believed. And she was still waiting. But she wasn't waiting for him to come and pick her up in his time machine. She was waiting for him so she could yell and throw punches at him. "Besides, what with the recent events in the past few years indicating alien existence, I'd say you believe it more than you did before." Sherlock had been in London that Christmas when everyone went on top of roofs, ready to jump, when a large spaceship towered over all of the city. He had been in London for all the attacks, somehow surviving them as his brain tried to wrap around the idea that Amelia was never lying. Of course, he hadn't ever thought she was, but it was all weird now that he got to see something otherworldly for himself.

"Well, even if he is real, I don't think he's coming back for me, Sherly," she sighed, Sherlock quietly pointing at another turn, "I mean, it's been eleven years. If I had a phone box that went throughout all of time and space, I don't think I'd come back to Leadworth either. It'd be the last place I'd go."

"And what would be the first?"

Amy paused for a moment, contemplating her answer. "Anywhere else but there, I guess." Her hatred for the town was apparent, and they both knew why. It was a place of torment for her, little Amelia practically the town crazy. And Sherlock was sure that there were comments passed about her new occupation. It was a small town and people were probably talking. After all, they did little else. Amy's voice broke him out of his reverie Sherlock was just finding himself in. "This is your place, yeah?"

Sherlock peered out the window, realizing they had come to a stop. Right outside of his flat. How had they gotten there so fast? It was a one bedroom place; small and lacking a lot of natural light seeing as it only had two or three windows total in the whole place. The outside of the building was a dull gray, looking quite boring in Amy's opinion. Sherlock had said that her car should show her loud personality. So where was his?

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock said, unbuckling his seatbelt. He knew what she must be thinking, that she must be wondering how someone who had country mansions for summer homes would live here when he could afford so much more. But the consulting detective liked his home well enough. It was purely functional, big enough just for him to work in. Actually, no one else had been inside it other than himself and the grumpy old landlord that didn't really like Sherlock all too well. Anyways, it had everything he needed, some food (preferably non-perishable, seeing as the milk would sour before he even got around to drinking or using it), a bed (queen size, not very comfy. It came with the place), a kitchen (very small. Sherlock used it as more of a lab than anything else), a small living room (with walls thick enough that the neighbors didn't have to hear him play his violin when his mind needed its quiet time), and a bathroom (not much to say. It's a bathroom).

He got out of the car, stopping in front of Amy's window as she rolled it down, looking up at him with those bright, brown eyes filled with as much wonder as when she was a little girl. "Amy" may have given up on her childhood fantasy, but little Amelia was still there somewhere, underneath all that psychotherapy. "Not going to invite me in?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Wha-? Well, I mean, you ca-" Sherlock stammered for the correct response. He didn't want to lead Amelia on, especially not when he wasn't thinking as clearly as he should. He had to constantly remind himself that he was married to his job, that romance and lustful follies only got in the way. With legs like that, it was hard to keep focused, though. Which brought him to his next worry .This was Amelia. She was still so very young, despite her… Well, her womanly aspects that she had acquired over the years that proved the redhead wasn't a mere child anymore, but still. She was the little girl he used to babysit, the only friend he had ever had. Sherlock wondered if they were friends again, if this counted since they were meeting one another again. Something told him no. The Amelia he knew would never have become a kissogram. This Amelia, Amy, was so very different from the girl he had gotten to know, and Sherlock wondered how her life had changed from A to B so drastically. And that was what intrigued him most, what had always intrigued him. Amelia Pond had never made any sense, so impulsive and her imagination beyond the boundaries of the planet. "You can. If you want," he finally managed, "It's not very tidy, though. I don't really have a housekeeper. But I do have some te-"

"Hey, Sherly?"

"Yes?" Why did he have to sound so casual to that name, like it was a normal, okay thing that she should do on a regular basis, not that she didn't already.

"I was just kidding," Amy grinned, even though she was sort of debating taking him up on his offer. She didn't care if it was a mess, seeing as her room always seemed to be littered with papers or dirty clothes that just hadn't reached the laundry bin. The idea of going inside Sherlock's flat seemed exciting and forbidden, making it all the more fun. Amy had been to the large home he'd lived in during that summer, though Sherlock usually made a point to never be there, as Mycroft was usually about, watching his brother with an amused expression as the pair played a game of some sort. Amy was sure he made fun of Sherlock when she left, teasing him for hanging out with an 8 year old. The older sibling had always been kind to her, but she couldn't say the same for the two brothers, their hostility rolling off them in waves as she stood against a wall, drawing in a breath and waiting for the first person to explode. Neither did, though. Not ever.

"Oh." Was that disappointment he felt? Why on Earth was Sherlock feeling disappointment?

"It's late," she nodded, continuing on with the list of reasons why she shouldn't go in, talking a bit to herself. Amy was never one to be responsible, but this was Sherlock, a man she hadn't seen in ten years. This was her best friend and though he was a great snogger, she wasn't about to go and attack his lips with hers again. She'd give it a few more days. "Rory needs his car in the morning and Aunt Sharon will think I'm up to something suspicious if I get home too late."

"Can't you just tell her you're with me?"

"Oh, yeah!" Amy cried, "Wouldn't that be lovely? 'Hey, Sharon. Won't be home for a while. I'm with one of my clients right now. He's a grown man, tipsy, and invited me to come over to his place. Don't worry, it' just Sherlock. Remember? My babysitter that put dead animals in our freezer?'"

Sherlock smiled again, him also noticing how foreign it felt. Twice in one night? He blamed it on his alcohol levels, ignoring that voice that reminded him that it really wasn't that significant of an amount. "So now what, Amelia Pond?" he asked, shoving his pale hands into his coat pockets.

"Now, I drive off," Amy replied, "And you'll watch me go, trying to decide if our kiss was wrong or not. You won't be able to decide, though, so you'll just store it in that big brain for later. That's what you always used to do when you faced a problem you couldn't solve."

"I can solve any and every problem I am faced with, Miss Pond. It's just you that I can't quite figure out yet," he chuckled, before looking down at his sleek, black shoes.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Amy beamed. Predictable was no fun at all, especially where Sherlock and Amy were concerned. Maybe that was why they had become such good friends when they were younger, how it seemed like, now as she was leaving, they were starting a whole new friendship. They were so similar yet so different from how they were as kids, making it all seem fresh and new, yet familiar and comforting at the same time. "Predictable" was never a compliment in either of their books.

"How will I find you again?" Sherlock asked, "There has to be some way of reaching you other than through your place of business. Don't you have a phone or live in town or something? Or do you still live with your aunt?"

"You're the man who sees everything, Sherlock Holmes. You'll find me if you try hard enough."

"But what's the point, then?" Sherlock asked. He was the man who saw everything, who made sense out of every problem he came up to. Except her. Except for Amy. "If I'm just going to find you anyways, why don't you just tell me now?"

"Because," Amy answered, simply, giving him a shrug and a playful smile, "Where's the fun in that?"

And so, the night ended, Amy speeding away in Rory's little car, Sherlock standing by his front door, watching her leave as his brain began to analyze every little piece of that night. After ten minutes, he went inside to get warm, still thinking. It wasn't until he got into bed and pulled the covers over him that Sherlock decided that he was much to tired and not sober enough to think coherently anymore and filed it in his big brain for later. Maybe Amy wasn't that bad at analyzing. He just wished he could do the same to her.

Subscribe. Favorite. Review(: And get a sneak peek!