The next morning, Charlotte awoke naturally, hearing Sherlock's metered breathing at her back. She rolled over carefully, not wanting to wake him. However, as soon as she so much as twitched, his eyes blinked open.
"What time is it?" Sherlock asked, his voice coarse from sleep.
"I don't know," Charlotte responded. "I just woke up."
Sherlock turned away from her to check the clock on his nightstand. "Nearly eight," he said, flopping back onto his side to face her, his blue eyes searching hers. "We're still in the safe zone. I don't expect John back until ten, at the earliest." In no time they were pawing at each other, a frenzy of hands and lips.
The dynamic was different this time around—Charlotte was less the teacher and Sherlock less the student. He kissed and touched her with a newfound confidence that she responded to. Just like the night before, Charlotte didn't make a sound unless Sherlock earned it. And even so, when they were in the heated throes of sex, Charlotte had to muffle her moans behind a hand, not wanting the noises to carry downstairs to Mrs. Hudson.
Afterwards, Sherlock tossed their used condom into the bin beside his bed, sweat glistening at his temples and on his chest. When he rolled back over to fling an arm over Charlotte, he found that she was already sitting on the edge of the bed in preparation to get up.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock inquired, looking rather disappointed.
"We have to stop messing about now," Charlotte told him matter-of-factly, looking at him over her shoulder. "John will be home within the hour."
"And what of the next fifty-nine minutes?" Sherlock wondered, lifting his eyebrows and flashing her an appealing smile.
"Well, I have to shower, for one," Charlotte answered.
Sherlock looked unconvinced. "That will take all of, what? Ten minutes?" he questioned.
Charlotte shook her head and smiled to herself, turning more fully toward him. "I think I've created a monster," she said.
Sherlock chuckled. "I think I've always been one, darling. You've just set me free."
"Oh dear," Charlotte replied, rolling her eyes.
"Charlotte, really," Sherlock's voice had turned sincere, and he reached out to stroke a segment of her spine. "Thank you."
Charlotte moved to cup his chin in her hand. "Don't say thank you unless you're going to pay me, Sherlock," she tutted, her lips twitching up. "I've already told you it wasn't pity. It was—quite literally—my pleasure." She let go of his face and stood.
"I'm happy the first time—and second—and third were with someone I trust," Sherlock confessed candidly. "It made all the difference and I suppose that's what I'm thanking you for. For being that someone."
Charlotte walked as far as the bathroom doorway and then turned back to look at him, smirking playfully. "Well, if you want your fourth time to be with someone you trust in a shower, you had better hurry along." She bobbed her eyebrows and then continued inside.
Charlotte and Sherlock's tryst remained a secret, something undiscovered by those closest to them, and something they were not assuming to revisit. It was, by all intentions, a one night stand.
The next time Charlotte visited Baker Street was in the morning of New Year's Eve. She and Mrs. Hudson were to have tea—something she had the luxury of doing while school was out for winter holidays.
As she strolled up the street, she saw John climb into the backseat of a black sedan. She figured this was one of Mycroft's usual abduction check-ins. It made sense that he would be summoning John a few days after Irene Adler's death.
She walked up to the door and raised a hand to knock, but didn't have time before Sherlock had swung it wide. He seemed to be on a mission, stopped in his tracks at the sight of her. "Charlotte," he greeted, head tilting to the side in confusion, "what are you doing here?"
"I'm having tea with Mrs. Hudson," Charlotte informed him. She shifted to the side, giving him a way through. "Carry on."
Sherlock nodded curtly and rushed past her into the winter afternoon.
Charlotte continued on into the flat, shutting the door against the cold. "Mrs. Hudson," she called. "I'm here."
"Do come in, dear," the landlady's voice floated out from her kitchen.
Charlotte headed toward the kitchen, withdrawing a small bag from her purse. "So, don't laugh," she prefaced. "But I got the baking bug yesterday and decided to make cookies."
Mrs. Hudson chortled. "Why would I laugh?" she wondered.
"Because they look like this," Charlotte said, stepping around the corner and holding up the burnt remains of her baking excursion.
Mrs. Hudson's laughter grew louder. "Oh, dear," she said. "Well, that's no good. Next time you come 'round, I'll teach you how to do those properly."
Charlotte snorted. "I don't know what went wrong," she admitted, shaking her head. She set the bag down on the table and took a seat, watching Mrs. Hudson rummage through the fridge.
"Drat," Mrs. Hudson cursed, her head obscured from view behind the refrigerator door. "I forgot to get milk this morning."
"I think there was a carton upstairs," Charlotte informed her. "I can't guarantee it's fresh, but I can go check."
"Will you?" Mrs. Hudson wondered. "That would be lovely. Not many shops open on New Year's Eve."
Charlotte exited Mrs. Hudson's kitchen and made her way up the stairs toward Sherlock and John's flat. She was standing in the light of the open fridge, searching for an expiration date on the milk when she heard the front door forced open downstairs. Her first instinct was to call out to Mrs. Hudson, but she thought better of it. Instead, she listened until one of the intruders spoke, betraying an American accent. As soon as she heard, there was only one thing on her mind—Irene Adler's phone. She made her way quietly to Sherlock's bedroom, easily finding the phone in the pocket of one of his coats. She was slipping the mobile into her bra when she heard a crash and a scream downstairs. "Mrs. Hudson!" she hollered, unthinking. Before she could stop herself, she was thundering down the stairs in pursuit.
When she came skidding into the kitchen, she could see that there were three American agents. She recognized the broad, blond agent who called the shots and the agent who had held the gun to her head. The third held Mrs. Hudson roughly by her upper arms, restraining her. The kitchen table was overturned, the source of the crash from before. "Let her go!" Charlotte demanded. "She's done nothing wrong!"
"I'm okay, Charlotte," Mrs. Hudson reassured her, though she shook and sniveled.
"We'll let her go as soon as she tells us where the phone is," the blond agent sneered at Charlotte. He snapped his fingers, alerting his men. "Grab her, too," he ordered. "We'll bring them upstairs and see if they can't be persuaded to tell us."
Mrs. Hudson winced as the man holding her tightened his grip, and all of the sudden, Charlotte was seeing nothing but red. As the other agent attempted to grab her, she swatted his hand away and advanced on the agent restraining Mrs. Hudson. She attempted to pry his hands from the landlady but he kicked her powerfully in the stomach and it was everything she could do not to collapse. She held onto the counter for support as she tried to regain her breath and then spied the kettle sitting on the stove beside her.
When the agent advanced in another attempt to restrain her, she grasped the kettle's handle and swung at him, connecting with the side of his face. The agent roared in pain, careening backwards and holding his cheek. Using her momentum, Charlotte clicked the cover off the spout and sloshed some of the water into the blond agent's face. He blocked most of the water with his hand, yowling in pain as the water scalded his knuckles. Charlotte continued to act quickly, knowing it was only a matter of time before her luck ran out. She moved swiftly, getting behind the agent who held Mrs. Hudson. She pulled the collar of his suit out, giving her just enough space to tip the kettle in and empty the rest of its contents down his back. The agent released Mrs. Hudson immediately, shrieking in pain as his back was burned.
"Come on, Mrs. Hudson," Charlotte urged, ushering the older woman out of the room in front of her. She was almost to the doorway when she felt someone take hold of her ponytail, yanking her back painfully. "Go! Call Scotland Yard!" she called after Mrs. Hudson.
"I wouldn't suggest it, Mrs. Hudson," the blond American seethed. "Or I'll shoot her."
Mrs. Hudson froze in the doorway, turning around slowly with a look of dread, then clapped her hands over her mouth with a whimper. Charlotte looked to see that it was the agent with the bruised face who had her by the hair, but the blond stood parallel, his gun poised to shoot at her temple.
"You're quite the wild card, Ms. Green," the blond agent taunted. The other agent jerked Charlotte around until she was staring down the barrel of the gun. "Too unpredictable, I'm afraid," the blond continued, sounding regrettable. With one swift movement, he reeled back and brought the gun across Charlotte's face, with enough force to render her unconscious.
When Charlotte awoke, it was mid-afternoon.
As she came to, she became aware of a dull throb emitting from her temple. It was all she could manage to blink her eyes open into slits. She glanced around at the familiar room, grateful that the only light was the lone lamp on the nightstand, and even that had been covered with a scarf. Her vision was clouded behind her eyelashes, but she saw a shape seated at her bedside.
"John, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock's voice rumbled, calling out toward the sitting room. "She's awake!"
Charlotte winced and let her eyes fall shut, bringing a hand to clutch at the side of her head.
"Sorry—sorry," Sherlock remedied, dropping his voice to a whisper. He placed a hand on Charlotte's bicep. "Forgot."
Charlotte felt far away, as if her head were a helium balloon on the end of a long string.
She heard footsteps enter the room and Sherlock's hand removed. Her eyes inched open again and she could see the figure of John standing at Sherlock's shoulder. She felt the bed sag slightly on one side as Mrs. Hudson seated herself. A warm hand caressed the good side of her face and smoothed her hair back. "She looks dreadful," the landlady whispered. "Are you sure that doctor knew what he was doing?"
"I had a look at the scans myself, Mrs. Hudson," John whispered back. "No damage. She's just had her bell severely rung."
"I'll say," Sherlock hissed. "A pistol to the side of the head—not to mention the knock she got when she hit the kitchen floor."
Mrs. Hudson made a noise of disapproval and reached down to take Charlotte's hand. "Well, he got what he deserved," she murmured in a righteous way.
"Three times out the window ought to teach him," John agreed.
"What you did was admirable, dear," Mrs. Hudson complimented. "Scalding them with the kettle was something I never would have thought of."
"A nice touch, indeed," Sherlock commended.
"I just wish you hadn't gone through all that trouble for me," Mrs. Hudson said quietly, sounding sad. She squeezed Charlotte's hand a little harder.
As they all spoke, the events of that morning were slowly trickling back into Charlotte's memory.
"Charlotte, do you remember any of what happened?" John asked softly, seeing her brow crease slightly in the middle.
Charlotte rolled John's words over and over in her head, attempting to find their meaning.
"I would take that as a no," Sherlock replied.
"Amnesia's a fairly normal symptom," John admitted.
When Charlotte was finally able to gather that John had been asking her a question, she attempted to speak, but it felt like her mouth was full of cotton.
"What was that, dear?" Mrs. Hudson wondered, looking at her in confusion.
"Some," Charlotte finally succeeded in pushing out, though it exhausted her.
Indeed, it was all coming back to her slowly, in flashes. The blond agent clubbing her in the side of the head. The scuffle in the kitchen. The sound of Mrs. Hudson screaming coming from downstairs. But what had she been doing upstairs? When realization dawned on her, she began to fidget in bed.
"Charlotte, what's wrong?" John asked, sounding concerned. "Are you comfortable?"
Charlotte's limbs were about as coordinated as her mouth and memory, but she somehow managed to plunge a hand down her shirt and retrieve what she had remembered. She pulled out the camera phone, much to everyone's surprise.
"You have the phone," John stated the obvious, finding it harder to keep his voice down. "You have the bloody phone, how is that possible?"
"She was upstairs when they broke in," Mrs. Hudson informed him. "Must have thought on her feet. Clever girl."
"I need to get to this to the lab," Sherlock said at once, taking the phone from Charlotte and rising from his seat. With a second thought, he bent at the waist and kissed her forehead before departing in a flurry.
"I think you've just made his night," John commented. "He figured The Woman came back to claim what was hers."
Charlotte thoughts swirled. Wasn't Irene Adler dead? Her getting her head bashed didn't suddenly erase that, did it?
"John, I think she needs her rest," Mrs. Hudson murmured. "She looks taxed."
"You're right," John responded. "Charlotte, we'll shut the light and leave you to it. Sherlock's offered his bed to you for as long as you need it. Goodness knows he won't sleep for days, now that he's got that phone."
"And don't worry, I've called Ollie," Mrs. Hudson informed her.
The lamp was clicked off and Charlotte listened as John and Mrs. Hudson shuffled out of the room. It was only a matter of seconds before she was entombed in a deep sleep once again.
Charlotte awoke in the wee hours of the next morning. At first, she thought she had awoken naturally, but the more conscious she became, the more she realized that wasn't the case. There was someone in the room with her; she could sense their movements. Whoever it was was fumbling around by the foot of the bed. Charlotte sat up, groping for the lamp.
"Who's there?" the intruder asked sharply, startled.
Charlotte succeeded in switching on the lamp, but she knew who the newcomer was before the dim glow hit her face. "Irene?" she questioned in a hushed tone. Now that her brain was back working at near-full capacity, she could piece together just how bizarre this encounter was. "Aren't you supposed to be dead?"
"I've been back from the dead for nearly 24 hours now. Where have you been?" Irene asked, looking almost offended.
"In and out of consciousness," Charlotte informed her. "Your American friends paid Baker Street a visit."
"Did they?" Irene queried.
"But you knew they would, didn't you?" Charlotte replied sourly. "You practically baited them, sending Sherlock your phone."
"I had no other choice," Irene defended coolly. "I knew he would keep it safe."
Sherlock looked at Irene suspiciously. "If you're here to steal it back, you're out of luck. I have no idea where Sherlock's hid it now."
"I'm not here to steal," Irene insisted. "I have an appointment with Sherlock in the morning, whether he knows it or not. My home is under surveillance, but no one would ever think to look here. I've been up for hours and I'm looking for somewhere to lay my head."
"You were probably expecting to find Sherlock," Charlotte guessed. "Have a cuddle with your favorite sleuth, perhaps?"
Irene rolled her eyes. "You'll do. Just shove over."
"I beg your pardon?" Charlotte inquired, looking alarmed.
"Oh, come now, I'm not going to smother you in your sleep. I haven't the energy or the motive," Irene scoffed. She began unlacing her boots.
"Not the most reassuring statement," Charlotte breathed out, though she scooched over to make room for Irene. She rolled onto her side and tucked her chin under the covers. "You had better not snore."
Irene snorted out a laugh and climbed in beside her.
The next time Charlotte awoke, it was to the sound of Sherlock's voice.
"John, I think we've got a client," he said, standing in the doorway to his room.
"What?" John questioned, his hurried footsteps making their way down the hall. "Oh," he sighed in relief. "I thought something had gone wrong with Charlotte."
Charlotte batted her eyes open, staring out past the foot of the bed at Sherlock and John. Irene barely budged, still deep in sleep.
"I'm fine, thanks for asking," she responded, her voice groggy.
"You look much better," John said, converging on her bedside.
"And you're able to form coherent sentences, so that's a plus," Sherlock added, bobbing his eyebrows.
Charlotte scowled at him, not in the mood for his humor. "I need to use the loo," she announced. She climbed out of bed on wobbly legs and stumbled her way toward Sherlock's bathroom.
When she reemerged, both John and Sherlock had left. She found them in the sitting room in their usual positions, John sipping tea and Sherlock looking deep in thought. Charlotte squinted against the light streaming through the curtains, but was happy to feel it was just normal sensitivity, not as it had been the afternoon before.
"Are you all right?" Sherlock inquired, snapping out of his reverie to look at her.
"Fine," Charlotte grunted, taking a seat on the far end of the sofa. "I'm really fine. Just groggy. I've been sleeping for nearly a day."
"Happy New Year," Sherlock responded, one corner of his mouth lifting into a sarcastic smile.
Charlotte rolled her eyes. "Just tell me you found something," she said. "At the lab, I mean."
The corners of Sherlocks mouth turned down and he shook his head.
Charlotte let out a disappointed sigh, slumping against the back of the sofa. She lifted a hand to rub at her forehead.
"Your head hurting again?" John asked Charlotte, watching her carefully. "Can I get you any water? Tea, maybe? I can call you a cab home, if you like. You must be dying to be in your own bed."
"I'm not going anywhere," Charlotte said, giving John a look as if he were crazy. "Irene Adler is in Sherlock's bed," she stated. When John remained unmoved, she looked at Sherlock in disbelief. "I am the one who bumped my head, right?"
Sherlock sniggered appreciatively, but John looked sour. "You didn't bump your head—somebody smacked you across the face with a pistol," he reminded her. "You've had a rough go of it, Charlotte. You should go home."
Charlotte shook her head. "I appreciate the concern, John, but I'm not leaving you two alone with her," she asserted. "No way."
"She's spoken," Sherlock said, giving John a look. "She's perfectly capable of making her own decisions."
John let out a huffy breath, rising to his feet. "I'm getting you some water," he grumbled. "You should at least be hydrated."
While John was in the kitchen searching for a clean glass, no doubt, the door to Sherlock's room creaked open. "Morning," The Woman greeted with a devilish smile. Her hair fell around her shoulders—a contrast to her usual updo. She also wore plainclothes rather than the clothes she typically wore for business. These two adjustments gave her a softer look, but Charlotte knew she couldn't be fooled.
"Morning," Sherlock returned, nodding in her direction.
Irene walked over and took a seat gingerly on the sofa opposite Sherlock and Charlotte. "I need your help," she stated, staring pointedly at Sherlock.
"You'll have to wait until John returns," Sherlock brushed her off. "We do these things as a—"
"Oh, I don't think you'll want Dr. Watson around for what I have to say," Irene cut him off, a sadistic grin spreading across her face. "In fact, I think it's in your best interest to let me speak before he returns."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly, crossing his arms over his chest as he tried to figure her out. "Go on," he invited.
Irene stared back, then her eyes began to drift between the Charlotte and Sherlock. "Something's different about you two," she observed, one corner of her mouth lifting.
Sherlock's eyes darted to Charlotte, while her gaze remained on The Woman.
"Oh, that's delightful," Irene chirped, observing the interaction. She shook her head and gave Charlotte a commending look. "I'm embarrassed to say I underestimated you. You're no beta-female, Charlotte Green. You know your way around a power play."
Sherlock's brow twitched ever so slightly.
"Confused?" Irene asked, catching on right away. "I would be too, if I'd been played for a fool."
"Why don't you just tell us what you want before John comes back in?" Charlotte interrupted.
Irene gave Charlotte a look, peeved that she was cutting her fun short. She turned her attention back to Sherlock. "My texts went unreturned for months. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten me, Mr. Holmes. However, I thought that you were worth one more chance.
"Imagine my dismay, when I staked out in the building across the street on the eve of my supposed death, wanting only to see some reaction from you. A single tear, maybe? Perhaps a sad song on the violin? But no. Instead, I saw you stuffing the intern. Bit cliche, don't you think?"
Sherlock was silent for a moment, trying to hide his shock. "You didn't have your camera phone," he spoke up finally, attempting to call her bluff. "It was here in the flat the entire time. Therefore, you have no proof."
Irene pouted. "You're right," she replied. "I did, however, have in my possession a camera with a rather powerful zoom lens."
Sherlock shifted in his seat, looking trapped. "I thought you were above blackmail," he responded as coolly as he could manage.
"You know what they say about desperate times," Irene replied, shrugging a shoulder. "Now, you will help me. Or I'll show the good doctor and whoever else cares to see some rather compromising photographs."
"Where are the photos now?" Charlotte asked. "If you didn't have your phone to store them on, where have they gone?"
"The memory card is with a friend for safe keeping," Irene replied. Then, she turned to Sherlock with a positively devilish grin. "Jim Moriarty sends his regards."
Sherlock stood in a flourish, staring at The Woman with menacing eyes.
"Sorry it took so long. We have got to get more glasses in this—" John stopped short as he saw the way Sherlock was standing over Irene. "Have I missed something?" he wondered. He walked over to hand Charlotte her glass of water.
"Sherlock was just telling Ms. Adler that he can't possibly help her," Charlotte responded, taking the glass from John.
"Is that so?" John wondered, staring between Sherlock and The Woman quizzically and still looking a bit lost.
"Is it, Mr. Holmes?" Irene asked, gazing up at the sleuth levelly.
Sherlock cleared his throat and adjusted his suit jacket, smoothing out the lapels. "Actually, I've changed my mind," he stated resolutely.
"You what?" Charlotte demanded, nearly choking on the sip of water she had just taken. "Sherlock, you can't be—"
"I'm very serious, Charlotte," Sherlock interjected, not daring to look at her. "Ms. Adler drives a very hard bargain."
"What's your case, exactly?" John asked, looking to Irene for an answer.
"There was a man," Irene began. "He was an M.O.D. Official and I knew what he liked. He was also very prone to bragging. He showed me an email and said it would 'save the world.' He didn't know I took a photo of it. He was tied up at the time."
John made a face. "So, you want Sherlock to read you an email?" he clarified.
Irene rolled her eyes. "It's in code. I need him to crack it."
Sherlock withdrew her camera phone from his pocket, handing it to her. "Show me," he beckoned.
Charlotte rose from the couch, placing her half-drunk glass of water on the mantle. "I can't condone this," she stated in disbelief. "These are national secrets you're agreeing to tell." She gave Sherlock a reproachful look before turning to Watson. "I think I will take that cab home, John."
"Of course," John replied, nodding curtly and taking out his own phone.
Charlotte headed for the door, without so much as a glance backward.
A week went by, and Charlotte didn't return to Baker Street. She had been in sparing contact with John, only to tell him that she would be taking the week to mend her concussion. On their phone call, John shared with her that the code Sherlock cracked for The Woman had undermined a large-scale counter-terrorism project. The news had made Charlotte sick to her stomach, knowing she had played some part in the fiasco.
She had spent the week moping around her flat, rotating between her bed and the couch. She happened to be in the kitchen, making herself some soup, when she heard a knock on her door.
"Mrs. Smithfield, I'm feeling a bit under the weather!" she hollered. "I can't watch June this afternoon!" The knocking continued and Charlotte's brow furrowed. She set down her bowl and walked to the door, opening it to reveal the elder Holmes, looking rather uncomfortable.
Charlotte's eyebrows flew upward, surprised. "Mycroft?" she questioned. "What—? How—?"
"Believe me, I'm just as shocked as you are," Mycroft answered, looking like he had smelled something awful. "Except for the how. I work for the Crown, Charlotte. Locating your residence was as simple as breathing."
"That's one thing explained," Charlotte replied. "But I have so many other questions."
"I hope one of them is 'Would you like to come in?'" Mycroft said. "It is January, after all."
"Oh, right," Charlotte stuttered, hastily stepping aside. "Come in, come in."
Mycroft stepped around her and into the flat. He looked around with the look of distaste he perpetually wore. "Lovely," he stated, not sounding at all like he meant it.
Charlotte resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Would you like some tea to warm you?"
"No, thank you," Mycroft answered, sniffing. "I'll be here for only a moment."
"Would you like to sit, at least?" Charlotte wondered. His standing was putting her slightly on edge.
Mycroft smiled tightly and took a seat gingerly on Charlotte's couch, looking like it took every ounce of resolve he had to be polite.
Charlotte took a seat on the opposite end of the couch, keeping her distance. "So, what exactly are you doing in my home?" she asked. "I take it you're not here to wish me belated happy holidays?"
"How's your head?" Mycroft asked, cutting through her sarcasm.
Charlotte waited a beat, not sure what his angle was. "Fine," she responded simply.
"Then why aren't you at Baker Street?" Mycroft wondered, arching at eyebrow.
"I took the week off," Charlotte informed him.
"But why?" Mycroft asked, sounding bored.
"It's complicated," Charlotte said shortly.
"It's not," Mycroft snorted. "You won't go back because you're cross with Sherlock. You don't like that he helped Irene Adler."
"Of course I don't," Charlotte replied, snappier than she had planned. "I would expect you, of all people, to understand that."
"Oh, yes, I'm quite furious," Mycroft responded, though he didn't seem it. "My brother handed years worth of work to The Woman on a silver platter. I couldn't be more disappointed."
"You have a strange way of showing it," Charlotte grumbled back.
"Charlotte, do you know why my brother did what he did?" Mycroft asked, looking at her shrewdly.
Charlotte hesitated. "No," she asserted finally. "I mean, I assume it's why Sherlock does anything—to serve himself. He wanted to show off, to impress Irene Adler." She avoided Mycroft's eyes, hoping she had done a convincing enough job.
"Perhaps," Mycroft responded, nodding. He folded his hands in his lap. "Peculiar, though. A few hours after Irene Adler's phone came into my possession, I received a text message from a contact labeled simply 'M.'" He tilted his head a fraction to the side.
"Fascinating," Charlotte replied, feeling a bit hot under the collar.
"Indeed," Mycroft agreed. "The text message contained a series of rather…explicit images of you and my brother."
Charlotte's eyes widened and her face felt as if it had been engulfed in flame. She turned to gape at Mycroft, stunned into mortified silence.
"Need I say more?" Mycroft inquired.
"Please, don't," Charlotte choked out, unable to meet his eyes.
Mycroft cleared his throat gruffly and shifted in his seat. "I assure you, I only glanced long enough to know exactly what I was looking at—"
"Mycroft!" Charlotte interjected. "Please, spare me the details. I don't need to know what you saw—or how much you saw—or—"
"Understood," Mycroft interrupted her. "You're understood, Charlotte."
Charlotte fell silent, trying desperately to get her face back to a normal temperature and shade.
"The point is, as soon as I saw…what I saw, I knew precisely why my brother had helped Irene Adler," Mycroft stated.
Charlotte nodded slowly, lifting her eyes from her hands up to Mycroft's face. "I don't know what's worse," she admitted quietly. "Trying to impress The Woman or trying to protect his own public image. Either way, it was extremely selfish. It made me sick to my stomach."
Mycroft stared her straight in the face for a moment, his brow creasing in something that looked like disappointment. "Goodness me, I thought you were intelligent," he practically sighed.
"Excuse me?" Charlotte demanded indignantly.
"Do you honestly think my brother did what he did to protect himself?" Mycroft asked. "My dear girl, those photographs wouldn't have touched Sherlock Holmes. You know how the media works these days—the more women a man sleeps with, the more he's idolized. You, on the other hand—"
"I told him not to," Charlotte asserted, her voice sharp. "What do I care for my reputation?"
"Your reputation?" Mycroft interjected, snorting derisively. "Charlotte, everything you've worked for—all those years you struggled to make ends meet, putting yourself through school, your high marks, your internship hours, your very bright future—would have been destroyed. You slept with your boss and that's a cardinal sin by today's media standards. Had my brother allowed those photos to leak, you could have said goodbye to a career as a forensic psychologist."
Charlotte was reduced into humble silence, realizing as Mycroft spoke that he was entirely right. She swallowed hard a few times before she found the ability to speak. "Sherlock doesn't think like that," she uttered, a weak defense.
"Sherlock protects the people he loves," Mycroft stated. He stood and straightened his coat, before he began to walk toward the door. He turned as he reached it. "Go back to Baker Street, Charlotte," he said. "They miss you terribly." With that, he opened the door and stepped back out into the winter's day.
Charlotte sat on her couch, unmoving except to blink. She was still in the midst of processing everything, but with a sudden thought she rose from the couch and ran to her door, throwing it open. "Mycroft!" she called.
The elder Holmes turned to look at her. "Yes?" he asked, as if her outburst were entirely expected.
"The people you work for, have they—? I mean, how many people have seen—?" She blew out a breath. "Do you think other people have recognized us in the photos?"
"Perhaps they could have, if I hadn't deleted them moments after receiving them," Mycroft supposed with a shrug of his shoulder.
Charlotte stared at him in shock. "Mycroft, that's…"
"Illegal. Yes, quite," Mycroft replied. He grimaced up at Charlotte. "Happy Christmas." Once again, he turned and made his leave of her, stooping to climb into the black sedan that would take him back to his side of town.
"Have you called her?" Sherlock inquired of John, glancing up from his paper the following morning.
John paused, mouth poised to blow on his tea. He set his cup down in its saucer and cleared his throat, crossing his arms over his chest and appraising Sherlock carefully. "No," he answered honestly. "And I won't. She's asked for the week and we should give her the week."
Sherlock growled out exasperatedly. "John, this place has gone into disrepair without her," he countered. "Her work is stacking up."
John glanced around him at the very normal order of their flat. "You think it's the flat that's gone into disrepair without her, hm?" he wondered, a hint of teasing in his voice. He gave Sherlock a clueless look. "Why are you so concerned, anyway?" he asked. "I mean, you barely notice her when she's here."
"That's not true," Sherlock replied, looking accused.
"Pretty much," John responded. "That is, unless you're wanting to gang up on me." He snapped his fingers. "That's it. You miss being able to outnumber me."
"Please, John, I could outwit you one thousand to one," Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head. "All I was trying to say was…"
The door to the flat crept open, interrupting Sherlock's thought. Charlotte stepped inside, holding a bag of pastries—it was Thursday, after all. "What were you trying to say?" she questioned, her cheeks rosy from the cold.
If John hadn't turned his head to look at Charlotte, he would have seen the way Sherlock's eyes lit up when he saw her. "Charlotte," the doctor greeted, sounding surprised. "I didn't expect you in this morning. I thought you were taking the week."
Charlotte shrugged a shoulder. "I got bored," she replied seamlessly. "Now, what was it that you were trying to say?" She looked at Sherlock expectantly.
Sherlock stared back, his head swimming. "I've forgotten," he uttered.
"That's not like you," Charlotte responded. "You're not losing your touch, are you?"
"Never," Sherlock answered, unable to recall any of his bravado.
"Good," Charlotte replied, her lips turning up into a grin. "Now, who wants a pastry?"
AUTHOR'S NOTE: It's been a while, my people! So sorry for the delay. Life gets busy. I'm very proud of this chapter and excited for you to read it. Let me know what you think of the alterations I made to the plot. Thanks for reading! xx