Two years later.
Charlotte sat in her office, which was no larger than an average broom closet. She had to count her blessings, though, considering the other psychology associates at Scotland Yard had to share their space—a point of constant contention. In the beginning, she had tried to give up the spot, not liking the status it communicated. However, once work had officially begun, she savored her time in silence.
She used the odd end of a pen to scratch the side of her head, her eyes fixed on the case file in front of her. It was a tricky one—a man who had murdered three women, no motive or pattern. She had sat with him in prison that morning, able to get next to nothing out of him.
There was a knock at her door, but Charlotte scarcely looked up. "Yes?" she questioned.
"There's a gentleman here to see you," the office administrator's voice said from the other side of her door.
Charlotte exhaled, lifting her head to look at his hazy figure on the other side of the frosted glass. "I'm a bit busy at the moment, Jonah," she replied. "Tell him to try back later or leave a message with you."
"Yes, ma'am," Jonah responded.
Charlotte put her head down and got back to work, but only for a brief time before her door was being knocked again.
"Ma'am?"
"Yes, Jonah?" Charlotte answered, trying not to make the exasperation in her voice too evident.
"Ma'am, he's quite insistent," Jonah informed her. "He won't take no for an answer. Says he's an old friend."
"I don't have any old friends," Charlotte replied dryly. "If he gives you any more grief, let one of the officers know. They'll happily escort him out."
"Yes, ma'am," Jonah responded, sounding harassed.
When a third disturbance met Charlotte's ears, she looked up, taking her reading glasses off in aggravation and setting them down on her desk. "Jonah—" But she could see instantly that it wasn't Jonah who stood on the other side of the glass. In that brief moment of recognition, she felt paralyzed; then, the familiar heat of anger rose inside her.
"Not Jonah," a familiar voice said, her door opening. "And am I to call you ma'am now?" Sherlock asked, standing in the doorway in front of her, his face partially obscured by his high collar and a hat.
Charlotte barely flinched, having boiled down her rage to an icy indifference. "We must improve our security measures around here," she said levelly. "You look like someone who really shouldn't be allowed in unauthorized."
"Oh, don't blame the boy," Sherlock urged, closing the door behind him and removing his obstructions. "I convinced him I was your boyfriend—that I'd gotten facial reconstructive surgery and I wanted you to be the first one to see it."
"He knows my boyfriend," Charlotte replied, looking confused. "He works here."
"Fine, so I slipped by once he had his back turned," Sherlock admitted, rolling his eyes. Then, his attention grabbed by something else: "Boyfriend?"
Charlotte sighed and popped her reading glasses back on, looking up at Sherlock with a quietly vexed expression. "I have a caseload, you know. Not a small one," she stated. "If you want to make an appointment, take it up with Jonah. He keeps my schedule." She averted her eyes back down to the file in front of her, continuing to read.
Sherlock looked as if she had slapped him, at a loss for words. After John's reaction, he thought nothing would ground him quite so much—but he had been wrong.
While she ignored him, he studied her. She wore a heather gray pantsuit, buttoned over a forest green blouse. Her copper hair was pulled back and pinned into a high bun. The reading glasses were new and heavy-framed in black. It was as if she had jumped light years ahead; no longer the bright-eyed university student, but a seasoned professional. But there was more to it than the dress and hair. The girlishness he remembered had been replaced by a more mature, authoritative air. The smile she usually had for him had evaporated, in its place a set jaw and hard eyes.
"Charlotte—"
"Surprised that I'm not surprised?" she wondered, writing a note calmly in the margin of her page. "Expected a bit more of a scene?"
"Lestrade got to you," Sherlock guessed lamely, not having been thinking about it at all.
Charlotte snorted derisively down at her desk. She lifted her face to look at him, taking her glasses off and holding them in her hand. "'An Analysis of James Moriarty: Arch-Rival of Sherlock Holmes.' The name of my master's thesis," she recited, as if reminding him.
"It was a complete psychoanalysis of him—complete with his obsession with you," she went on. "I exposed his entire plan. I vindicated you—you're welcome, by the way—and, in doing so gave rise to an entire sub-culture of fanatics who claim they can prove you lived, using my publication as if it were the Old Testament." She narrowed her eyes at him in apparent disdain. "So, yeah, Lestrade got to me."
"Nothing in your paper eludes to the fact that I lived," Sherlock countered, cautiously argumentative.
"It does everything but," Charlotte replied strongly. "I claimed you knew about the set up well ahead of time. When has Sherlock Holmes ever been backed into a corner?"
"How did I do it, then?" Sherlock asked.
"I don't know," Charlotte snapped. "And I don't care. I just knew it was possible." She slid her glasses back on and returned to poring over the pages on her desk.
"Charlotte, I had to," Sherlock tried to explain. "You don't—"
"Oh, I understand perfectly. Did you even read my paper?" Charlotte interjected sharply, not looking up. "Hits on their lives. A code-word only Moriarty knew. What other choice did you have than to disappear for two years?" she scoffed.
"You kept this from John," Sherlock stated, as if trying to get facts straight as his mind reeled. "You've known as long as you've known and you never told him."
"No," Charlotte responded, shaking her head. "I found the sting of abandonment to be worse than grief. I wouldn't put that on John."
Once again, Sherlock felt leveled, as if the wind had been knocked out of him by her words alone.
"I'd like you to go now," Charlotte told him, her voice like ice.
"Charlotte—"
"I'll call for back-up," she interjected. "Out."
Sherlock swallowed hard and dipped his chin to her in silent farewell. He popped his collar and replaced the hat on his head, backing toward the door. He half hoped she would look up, at least to see that he was really leaving, but her attention was focused solely on her work. He turned and exited her office, closing the door with a hushed click behind him.
That evening, Charlotte found herself on John and Mary's doorstep, clutching Jeremy's hand in hers. "You're squeezing a little tight, love," her boyfriend said to her. "I might lose a digit."
"Sorry," Charlotte apologized, running her free hand through her hair. "I just…"
"It's going to be all right," Jeremy reassured her, turning to look down into her face. "He'll be shocked, sure, but—" He was cut off as Mary answered the door.
"Charlotte, Jeremy," she chirped. "What a pleasant surprise. Is John expecting you?"
"Er, no," Charlotte answered. "Just thought we would drop in." She smiled, but it felt more like she was gritting her teeth.
Mary appraised her with curiosity. "You know, don't you?" she questioned in that knowing way she had.
"You know?" Charlotte returned, her brow furrowing.
Mary bobbed her eyebrows. "He crashed our dinner date last night," she admitted.
"You're kidding," Charlotte responded, looking disbelieving. "In public? Did John—?"
"Beat the living snot out of him? Tried to," Mary replied, snorting. "Come in." She stepped aside, beckoning them into their home. Turning her head, she hollered up the stairs. "John!"
John made his way down the stairs, looking surprised to see Jeremy and Charlotte standing in his living room. "Jeremy, Charlotte. Were we—?"
"You find out Sherlock Holmes is back from the dead and you don't think to tell me?" Charlotte cut him off, giving him a dumfounded look.
John's face fell immediately. "He came to see you," he said, stating the obvious.
"Yeah," Charlotte responded, bobbing her head. "Barged into my office this afternoon."
"Oh, God," John lamented, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Charlotte, I'm sorry. The shock must have been just awful."
Charlotte waved him off. "It was fine," she admitted, shrugging a shoulder. "I would have liked to know beforehand, though. Be prepared."
"Fine," John echoed. "Fine?" He cocked his head to the side, squinting his eyes at her as he worked it out. "Did you—I'm sorry—did you know?"
Charlotte suddenly realized her error in pointing a finger at John. "Well, I…I…"
"I can't believe this!" John exclaimed. "Am I the only one he didn't tell?"
"He didn't tell me," Charlotte countered. "I had my own suspicions…"
"I really can't believe this," John sighed out heavily, turning to walk toward the kitchen, running a hand through his hair.
"Jeremy, I was just about to go 'round the corner for some take-away before you two arrived. Care to join me?" Mary wondered, always tactful.
"I'd love to, Mary," Jeremy replied, nodding. He moved to open the door for her.
"Be back in ten," Mary told Charlotte, the corners of her mouth turning up in a comforting sort of way.
Once they had left, Charlotte let out a sigh of her own and followed after John. He was in the kitchen, pouring himself a finger of scotch. "I'll have one too, please," she requested in a defeated sort of way.
John glanced up at her grouchily, but got another glass down from the cupboard. He slid it across the counter to her.
Charlotte lifted the glass to her lips and took a small sip, letting it slide down her throat and burn into her stomach. "I'm sorry," she told him earnestly.
"That you kept this from me or that I found out?" John asked adversarially.
"That you found out," Charlotte admitted openly, swishing the liquor around in her glass. She stared down and watched it whirlpool.
"At least you're honest about that," John grumbled. He drank his scotch down in one go, looking as though it soothed him. He put his glass back on the counter and poured himself another. "Within the span of 24 hours, I've learned that two of the people I've considered myself closest to have been keeping a very life-altering secret from me. How am I supposed to feel right now?"
"John…"
"We grieved him, Charlotte—together," he reminded her, the emotion thick in his voice. "When I tried to push everyone away, you wouldn't be pushed. It felt like we only had each other those first months."
Charlotte felt a lump rise in her throat while her eyes stung, remembering those times poignantly.
"And to find out you knew. All along, you knew—"
"I didn't," Charlotte contested, blinking back the tears. "Those months were real, John. I didn't know until toward the end of my research. A-and once we'd gone through that I couldn't bring myself to be the one to tell you it was for nothing." Her fingers quivered around her glass. "Once I knew how it felt to know that he chose this, that he abandoned us…I had to protect you from it."
John heaved out a sigh, staring into her face steadily while a few seconds ticked by. Eventually his expression broke open and softened. "Come here, then," he beckoned, waving her toward him. He opened his arms in the robotic way he had and she walked into them, hugging him tightly.
"I'm sorry," she squeaked over his shoulder.
"It's all right," John forgave, patting her on the back.
Charlotte stepped back, dabbing at her eyes and blowing out a held breath. "Pour me another scotch, will you?" she asked.
John smiled and shook his head, unstoppering the bottle and pouring her another serving. "So, he came to your office then?" he asked, glancing up at her curiously.
"Sure did," Charlotte scoffed, bobbing her eyebrows. "He's got a lot of nerve."
"I'll say," John seconded. "Interrupted my proposal to Mary."
Charlotte perked up, as if shot by lightning. "That's right," she said, thrilled. "That was last night, wasn't it?"
John nodded, unable to hide his grin.
"So, he didn't completely ruin the evening, I take it?" Charlotte wondered, bursting with anticipation.
John shook his head. "I asked her once we'd arrived home last night. She said yes," he informed her.
Charlotte clapped her hands together in front of her mouth, jumping up and down a couple times. "Oh, John, I'm so happy for you!" she congratulated.
"Thank you, Charlotte," John replied, grinning ear to ear now, despite himself.
"What did I tell you?" Charlotte asked, looking slightly smug. "I knew she'd say yes. You were nervous for nothing."
"Yeah, you let me know how collected you are the next time you ask someone to marry you," John guffawed.
Charlotte rolled her eyes and sipped her drink.
"So…you and Jeremy?" John wondered. "Is that happening anytime soon?"
Charlotte nearly sprayed him with scotch. "John, don't be ridiculous," she snorted. "We've only been together six months."
"I was only with Mary about six months when I knew," John responded with a teasing look. "Then again, it took me nearly a year to pluck up the courage and ask."
"Yes, but you and Mary are…"
"Perfect for each other? I know," John filled in smugly.
"I was going to say older," Charlotte informed him.
John snorted out a laugh.
"I just mean to say you're on a different timeline," Charlotte amended. "I'm not looking to get married anytime soon."
"You're twenty-seven," John said, as if reminding her. "Marriage isn't exactly unheard of at your age."
"You're freaking me out," Charlotte sing-songed. She sipped the rest of her drink in silence.
"So, what did he say to you?" John asked, his voice quietly curious. "Sherlock, I mean."
A bitter taste had come over Charlotte's mouth at the mere mention. "Not much," she informed him. "I wouldn't let him get many words in."
"Oh?" John questioned. "I would have loved to see that."
"I could barely look at him," Charlotte went on, staring glumly down into her glass. "I told him what I knew and kicked him out of my office."
John whistled through his teeth. "Don't mess with you," he quipped.
"Even though I knew he was still out there somewhere, I never thought he'd have the gall to waltz back in as if nothing had happened—as if we're all just supposed to accept it," Charlotte uttered.
"That's Sherlock for you," John stated, one side of his mouth slanting down. "Doesn't really get the human stuff, does he?"
"Not in the slightest," Charlotte replied.
"Mary thinks I should forgive and forget," John told her. "She said she 'likes him.'"
Charlotte looked mildly shocked. "He practically ruined your engagement and she 'likes him?'"
"Go figure," John responded, shaking his head. "I think she knows how much…you know, how much he means to me," he continued, looking slightly uncomfortable. "She knows I've missed him. Said she doesn't want me to miss out on a second chance that most people don't get."
Charlotte nodded, acknowledging the sentiment. "I almost wish I hadn't known," she admitted. "We're in very different spots, you and me. I've spent the past six months being so angry with him, I'm finding it hard to stop now."
"Do you think you ever will?" John asked genuinely.
Charlotte shrugged a shoulder. "Dunno," she answered honestly. "Right now I'm thinking maybe not."
John gave her an understanding look. "No matter how we both choose to go about this, you know I have your back, right?"
Charlotte smiled weakly at him. "'Course I know that," she responded.
From across the flat, they heard the front door open. "Food's up!" Jeremy called to them.
"More on this later," John assured her. As he passed her, he gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze.
Charlotte remained in the kitchen a minute longer, continuing to stare down into her glass with a troubled expression as she thought over what John had said.
"All good in here?" Jeremy's soft brogue met her ears.
Charlotte turned and smiled at the sight of him, cheeks slightly rosy from the cold. "All good," she assured him.
Jeremy moved nearer and took her in his arms, stooping to kiss her. "Hell of a day, huh?" he asked, gazing down at her with a sympathetic smile.
"Beyond," Charlotte chuckled softly. "I'm just glad I have you. You're very solid, you know that?"
"Solid," Jeremy responded, nodding and look not unpleased. "I'll take it."
Charlotte stood taller and pecked him on the cheek. "I love you," she told him. "Now, what did you order me?" she asked, breaking from him and walking toward the smell of food.
Jeremy snorted and shook his head, following her.
A few days later, Charlotte sat on the couch in her flat, clutching a cup of tea in her lap. Jeremy had gone out with some of their friends that evening, but Charlotte had elected to stay in. Everything that had happened in days previous with Sherlock's reappearance had her in a less-than-sociable mood. The truth was that she hadn't yet processed recent events, and that evening was the first chance she would have to do it in solitude.
As she lifted her mug to her lips to blow on her tea, she could hear her phone vibrating on the kitchen counter. She decidedly ignored it, figuring whatever it was could wait. However, once she had ignored the second call and her phone began to ring a third time, she got off the couch to answer—it was Mary.
"Charlotte?" her voice came over the handset. "Charlotte, is John with you?"
"No," Charlotte answered. "Is he supposed to be?"
"He had gone over to Baker Street to talk to Sherlock," Mary told her. "But that was hours ago. When I couldn't get ahold of him, I thought maybe he had gone over to yours afterwards."
"You can't get ahold of him?" Charlotte asked, thinking the behavior sounded rather unlike John.
"Hang on, I'm getting a text," Mary told her. "Could be him."
Charlotte waited on the other end of the line, chewing on a thumbnail. "Mary?" she questioned after a few seconds ticked by. "Is it him?"
"No," Mary answered, her voice tight. "I think someone's got him."
"Wh-what do you mean?" Charlotte demanded.
Mary read Charlotte the text in explanation.
Charlotte couldn't believe she was saying it, after two years without. "We have to get to Baker Street," she insisted. "Sherlock will know what to do."
"I'll head over now," Mary told her. "But your flat's closer. Can you brief him if I send you the text? Hopefully he'll be able to work it out by the time I catch up."
"Of course," Charlotte answered, nodding rapidly even though Mary couldn't see.
"See you soon, then," Mary confirmed, hanging up.
Charlotte hurried to her bedroom, stripping off her pajamas and throwing on whatever clothes were in reach. She practically sprinted down the stairs of her apartment complex and hailed a taxi out front.
As she sat in the back seat, bouncing one of her legs anxiously, she realized she would have to be alone with Sherlock before Mary could arrive. It was the last thing she wanted to be doing with her Friday night. She sighed, glancing out her window as the neighborhoods became more familiar—relics of a time she had all but shut off from her memory.
It was for John, she had to remind herself. Once John was safe back at home with Mary, she wouldn't have to deal with Sherlock at all. Even as she thought of it, some part of her knew it wouldn't be the truth. Sherlock was back, and that brought with it a certain set of circumstances.
"Here, ma'am?" the taxi driver asked, coming to a stop at the curb in front of 221B.
"Yes, thanks," Charlotte responded. She paid him and climbed out, pausing on the sidewalk as the cab sped away. She looked up at the building, transported back to a time when it had been her second home. The place where she had once found solace and a sense of belonging was now reduced to a bitter memory. She sucked in a deep breath and approached the door, positioning herself to lift the heavy knocker.
"Charlotte?"
She spun around at the sound of Sherlock's voice. "Sherlock," she returned, caught completely off guard.
Sherlock approached from the sidewalk, looking as unprepared for the encounter as she was. "What are you doing here?"
"It's John," Charlotte stated, remembering in the same moment. "Mary hasn't heard from him. A-and she got these texts." She withdrew her phone, holding it out for him to see.
Sherlock reached for the phone, taking it in his possession and reading it intently.
"Mary seems to think it's some sort of code," Charlotte iterated. "She texted me while I was in the cab."
"Mary told you this?" Sherlock mused, giving her a look.
"Yeah, why?" Charlotte demanded, not seeing the point.
"You've lost your touch," Sherlock told her flippantly, turning on heel to return to the curb. He put his hand up to flag a taxi.
"Lost my touch?" Charlotte requested, looking at Sherlock's back with considerable disgruntlement.
Sherlock glanced back down at her phone in his hand before speaking again. "Of course it's code. In the old days, you would have seen that immediately—solved it, even."
"I feel the need to remind you I'm a psychologist, not a detective," Charlotte said in reply. "I forgive you for forgetting, of course. It's been a rather long time."
Sherlock let her dig roll right off his back, handing her her phone back. "Well, I suppose Scotland Yard isn't exactly the place where minds soar. I wouldn't be surprised if your brain had begun to atrophy."
Charlotte rolled her eyes. "God, I'd forgotten you were like this," she scoffed. "What does the code say, Sherlock?"
"John is at St. James the Less," Sherlock informed her. "And according to the message, we have ten minutes."
"Ten minutes?" Charlotte demanded, eyes widening. "Is that even enough time to get there?"
Sherlock paused, his brain calculating at top speed. "It is if we select our transportation wisely," he answered. Without further explanation, he ran into the middle of the road, in front of a passing motorcycle. "Stop!" he shouted. "Police!"
The brakes on the motorcycle screeched and the couple occupying it jumped off in apparent confusion. Charlotte scurried out into the street.
"Hop on," Sherlock instructed, slinging his leg over the seat.
"What about Mary?" Charlotte fretted.
"Text her on the way," Sherlock suggested. "I think she'll forgive us for going ahead without her if it means her fiancé will live."
"Fair enough," Charlotte replied, hopping onto the back of the vehicle. "Helmets!" she suddenly exclaimed, beckoning the motorcyclists forward. "Quickly."
"There's no time for that," Sherlock insisted, clearly impatient.
"Yes, there is," Charlotte asserted. "I'd not like to have my brains littering the street, thank you." She graciously accepted the helmets handed to her. She put her own on and then roughly yanked the other onto Sherlock's head.
"Shall we?" Sherlock drawled sarcastically, kicking the bike to life and speeding off down the road, nearly throwing Charlotte off the back.
The two of them made it to the church with a minute to spare. "John!" Sherlock called, as soon as they arrived. He took off running across the lawn toward a group of people standing around a bonfire.
Charlotte followed closely on his heels. "John!" she echoed. She looked around frantically, knowing their time was running out. "Sherlock, where is he?" she called to the sleuth, a few feet ahead of her. It was hard to hear at that point, given the sounds of excitement coming from the bonfire crowd as the pyre was lit.
"I don't know," Sherlock admitted, looking just as stressed.
The climbing flame caught Charlotte's eyes and her mind came alive. "The bonfire," she gasped out, starting toward it suddenly.
"Charlotte, what're you—?" Sherlock's words were cut off mid-sentence and his eyes widened as Charlotte began to pull pieces of debris from the flaming heap.
"He's in here, he's got to be!" Charlotte shouted to Sherlock. She leaned in closer and tried to peer through into the heart of the pyre. "John!" she called. "John!"
"Look out!" Sherlock advised, seeing a burning object tumbling off the top of the stack toward Charlotte. He ran forward and, grabbing her around the waist, pulled her out of harm's way. As soon as the danger had passed, he took over forging a hole in the bonfire, racing against the overtaking flames.
As soon as Charlotte saw John's arm protruding from beneath, she rushed forward and began to pull him out. The onlookers watched in horror as she and Sherlock dragged John onto the grass, wheezing and coughing from smoke inhalation.
"Are you okay?" Charlotte asked in concern, furrowing her brow as she looked down at her friend.
"Fine," John was able to cough out.
"Oh my God!" Mary's voice came from behind them. Charlotte looked over her shoulder to see John's fiancée running toward them. "John!"
As soon as Mary had crouched down beside John, Charlotte moved off to the side. She extended one of her arms behind her and slouched back with a relieved sigh. She used her free hand to rub at her forehead, feeling it gritty with soot.
"I don't often eat my words," Sherlock said, standing above her. He handed a handkerchief down to her. "But you most certainly have not lost your touch. That was quick thinking."
"Thank you," Charlotte replied begrudgingly, accepting the handkerchief to blot the soot from her face.
"I should get him to hospital," Mary stated. "Just to make sure everything's all right."
"I'm fine," John insisted. "I don't have to go to the—"
"Oh yes, you most certainly do," Mary interjected. It was clear she would not take no for an answer.
Charlotte rose to stand, brushing herself off.
Sherlock helped Mary with John, easing him up onto his feet and supporting him as he hobbled toward the car park.
After John was safely tucked into Mary's car, Mary turned to Sherlock and Charlotte. "Thank you," she told them both sincerely. She embraced them both in turn. "Get home safe, all right?"
"Right," Charlotte replied stiffly, realizing she would once again be left alone with Sherlock. The adrenaline of the rescue had worn off and was replaced by familiar resentment. "Let us know how John gets on, will you?"
Charlotte and Sherlock waved Mary and John off and then walked in silence back toward the abandoned motorcycle. Charlotte wavered on the curb. "I can get a cab from here," she stated.
"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock replied, as if having expected her to say it. "I can give you a lift home."
Though Charlotte didn't relish the idea, she knew she should save the fare. "Okay," she consented with a a quick nod.
"Although, Barking is quite a ways off. I ought to charge," Sherlock quipped as he handed her her helmet.
"As if you didn't know I'd moved," Charlotte snorted. "As if you don't know my new address."
Sherlock looked impassive.
"Come off it," Charlotte insisted, giving him a look. "I know you and Mycroft have been in contact, you don't have to play this game anymore."
"How would Mycroft know you'd moved?" Sherlock asked.
"Because Mycroft knows everything," Charlotte answered. "You know, even apart from our weekly teas. He has people to find these things out."
"What do you mean?" Sherlock wondered pointedly, giving her a strange look.
"I mean he's a bloody government official. He's got—"
"No, weekly teas. What do you mean by weekly teas?" Sherlock questioned, squinting as if he couldn't quite comprehend what he was hearing.
Charlotte understood he wasn't being patronizing—he was genuinely confused. "Mycroft and I have been having tea once a week since you…Well, since I thought you…"
"Why?" Sherlock asked.
"You had just committed suicide," Charlotte stated, the answer plain as day to her. "Mycroft isn't exactly surrounded by friends. I…I didn't want him to be alone."
"And he let you do that?" Sherlock questioned, stunned. "Have 'tea' with him." He said tea as if it were some dirty word.
"Yep," Charlotte answered simply, popping the 'p.'
"But why wouldn't he tell me that?" Sherlock demanded.
"Search me," Charlotte replied, shrugging her shoulders. "Maybe he didn't want you to know he was lonely."
"Mycroft knows I don't care about that sort of thing," Sherlock was quick to counter. "No, it must have been something else…"
"Well, I'll let you sort that one out on your own," Charlotte said, bobbing her eyebrows. "You were going to give me a lift home?"
Sherlock nodded, but his mind still appeared to be elsewhere.
"Let me drive," Charlotte offered. "It'll give you some time with your thoughts." She was surprised when Sherlock didn't protest, and took the keys from him before he could change his mind. She drove them home, actually enjoying the wind in her face this time around.
They arrived eventually in front of her building and she parked the motorcycle, cutting the engine. "Well, I guess this is good night," she announced unenthusiastically, climbing off the vehicle.
"I suppose I'll see you Tuesday, then?" Sherlock wondered, looking over at her where she stood on the curb.
"What?" Charlotte questioned, her brow furrowing.
"When you come 'round to see Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock reminded her. "She mentioned you two have a standing appointment. Seems you have tea with everyone these days."
"Oh," Charlotte replied, choosing to ignore his comment. "No, we usually don't meet at Baker Street. Come to think of it, I'll probably have to have her meet me somewhere closer to work."
"Right. Work," Sherlock said, the eye roll implied.
Charlotte thought not to engage, but her anger was boiling over. "It's a prestigious placement, you know," she informed him sharply. "I had to work really hard to get it. Only the top two of my class were accepted into their trainee program."
Sherlock absorbed the information, but stuck to his guns. "I seem to recall you saying the Scotland Yard lot 'weren't your people,'" Sherlock posited, cocking his head to the side in mock confusion.
"And I seem to remember you shoving me toward them," Charlotte snapped. "That was our last interaction, wasn't it? You forcing me to choose Scotland Yard? And here you are, upset that I followed through."
"That wasn't our last interaction," Sherlock reminded her, some of his bravado gone. He glanced away, unable to meet her eyes as he said it.
"Don't," Charlotte ordered, glowering at him. "Just don't, Sherlock. It's been two years. A lot has changed and life hasn't stood still for the rest of us."
"You're angry with me," Sherlock said, resigned.
"Oh, well spotted," Charlotte scoffed, crossing her arms.
"Why?" Sherlock asked, upset at not knowing. "Why are you so angry with me?"
"You're the detective," Charlotte reminded him icily. "You figure it out."
"Charlotte, you know emotion has never been my strong—"
"I don't care," Charlotte cut him off. "I don't…" She closed her eyes and let out a beleaguered sigh, drawing her fingers across her eyelids to pinch the bridge of her nose. "I'm not getting into this. I came out tonight to help John and that's done."
"Very well," Sherlock responded tightly, neglecting to look at her.
"Good night, Sherlock," Charlotte offered flatly, turning and letting herself into the building without so much as a glance back.
"I just don't understand it, John," Sherlock confided.
The doctor had come to Baker Street the day after the bonfire to speak with Sherlock. Once they had parsed through their own differences, Sherlock found himself hoping John would be able to give him some advice.
John perked up at Sherlock's statement. "You don't understand something?" he questioned, looking dubious. "And you're asking me?"
"It's Charlotte," Sherlock explained, trying not to seem as invested as he most certainly was. He tented his fingers and pressed them to his lips. "She's incredibly angry with me."
"That's very good," John commended, nodding. "What do you need my help for?" He fought back a snarky smile.
Sherlock shot him a peeved look. "Yes, have your fun," he allowed, rolling his eyes. He sighed heavily. "What I can't seem to work out is why she's still angry with me. Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson—piece of cake. They all welcomed me back with open arms."
"And me?" John asked, cocking an eyebrow and sitting forward in his seat. "I'm interested to know how you think I've received you."
"Well, you have had to try your best not to clobber me on several occasions—and were somewhat successful," Sherlock replied, his lips curling up. "But here you are."
"I haven't forgiven and forgotten," John told him, trying to impart how serious he was.
"But Mary will talk you 'round," Sherlock responded.
"Will she?" John wondered, eyebrows rising.
"Yes, I expect so," Sherlock replied with certainty. "Maybe I should speak with Mary about Charlotte…"
"Look, Sherlock, it's not rocket science," John reasoned.
"Of course this isn't rocket science," Sherlock agreed, looking perplexed. "Why would I be coming to you for advice on rocket science?"
"Right. Forgot who I was talking to for a second," John said. He cleared his throat and sat forward in his chair slightly. "Think about Charlotte's past, Sherlock. Her parents chucked her first chance they got—that would make anyone shy of relying on people."
"But she knows she can rely on us," Sherlock said, looking unconvinced of John's logic.
"She knows she can rely on me," John replied, his voice slow and deliberate. "She can rely on Mrs. Hudson, Mary, even Lestrade—"
"Lestrade's an ass, no one can rely on Lestrade," Sherlock interjected.
John gave him a look of reprimand. "You fell off the face of the earth two years ago, Sherlock," he continued, a slight edge to his voice. "She found out before most of us that you deceived us all on purpose. She's had time to feel and stew over that abandonment. The rest of us haven't."
"I didn't abandon her," Sherlock retorted. "I didn't abandon any of you. Mycroft kept me perfectly informed…" He trailed off as he saw the increasingly displeased look on John's face.
"Not the same," the doctor said simply.
Sherlock sat in thoughtful silence for a few moments. "Did you know that Charlotte's been having tea with my Mycroft?" he asked, already onto the next line of inquiry.
"Yeah, I did," John confirmed. "Weekly thing, isn't it?"
"Don't you think that's odd?" Sherlock wondered.
"I think Charlotte's a saint," John replied with a bob of his eyebrows. "Even kept it up all those months she knew you were still alive. Must have killed her to sit across from him and act like she knew nothing of the sort."
"Must have killed her, period," Sherlock insisted. "Spending time with my brother—every seven days." He made a face. "I don't think I could stomach it myself."
"I dunno," John mused, shrugging a shoulder. "I don't think she hated it every week. I reckon she looked forward to it sometimes."
"Looked forward?" Sherlock spluttered, clearly perturbed.
"Didn't Mycroft tell you all this?" John asked. "You two were in communication."
"He told me nothing about this," Sherlock responded.
"Oh, I see what this is, then," John acknowledged.
"Do you?" Sherlock questioned, looking hopefully at his friend.
"You're jealous," John surmised. "You think Charlotte's switched Holmeses."
"What do you mean by that?" Sherlock followed quickly, squinting at John.
John gave his friend a funny sort of look, thinking his behavior erratic. "Are you okay, Sherlock?" he asked.
"Fine," Sherlock grunted. "I just think it odd that my brother would have kept this from me—and I hate not knowing things."
"Nothing to do but ask him," John stated plainly. "What harm can it do?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's like you don't even know Mycroft."
John chuckled. "Who will it be then—Mycroft or Charlotte? As your friend, I must insist you speak to one of them before it eats you from the inside out."
Sherlock sat in contemplative silence, letting out a sigh as his shoulders sagged. "Perhaps you could talk to Charlotte for me. You know, bring her 'round."
"No, I won't do that," John replied firmly. "I've told her I'll respect her decision. I won't try to change her mind."
"Well, aren't you two chummy," Sherlock said with a hint of distaste.
"What has gotten into you?" John asked. "Usually, you could give a damn what other people think, or you just brush it off."
"I don't know, John," Sherlock replied with an exasperated sigh and a frown. "I suppose I just thought everything would be exactly as it was."
"You know I sometimes forget how very thick you can be," John told him, and not to insult. "I suppose you do need me around."
Sherlock sat back in his chair, unsuccessful in holding back his smile.
"Now, what were you saying about trains?" John wondered.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks for reading :) I weirdly loved writing the initial scene between Charlotte and Sherlock, so PLEASE let me know what you thought. Was she too harsh? Was it exactly what you were expecting? Do you think they can ever go back to the way it was? Leave a comment if you have some feelings. xo
*I'm still planning on adding in some scenes from the time between The Reichenbach Fall and The Empty Hearse (aka, the time when Sherlock is "dead"), so stay tuned for those! If you would like to see anything play out that we didn't get to see in the series, please DM or comment with your suggestion(s).*