"Charlotte, you look ravishing!" Mary exclaimed, clapping her hands together from her perch on the fitting-room couch.
Charlotte did a turn in front of the mirror, looking significantly less thrilled than Mary. The dress was floor length, strapless, with a mermaid-like shape. "I think you've had too much champagne," she told the bride-to-be. "This color washes me out."
"Well, the color is the one thing you cannot change," Mary told her. "All the other bridesmaids are wearing it. It's in our color scheme." She took a gulp of champagne and pointed at the dress. "That's the one Janine's wearing."
"I'm not saying it's a bad color, Mary," Charlotte reassured her friend. "And of course it would look good on Janine. She's got that lovely olive skin. I'm just saying… I don't know. It's not looking quite right."
"What's wrong with you?" Mary wondered openly, having sensed a dark cloud hanging over Charlotte. "You've been rather down in the dumps recently."
"It's this whole Jeremy business," Charlotte admitted candidly. "I thought we would be attending your wedding together, you know? Every time I think I've coped, it seems like something comes up and knocks me off kilter."
Mary looked sympathetic. "Have you spoken to him?"
Charlotte shook her head. "We promised we wouldn't do that—it would only make it harder." She frowned at herself in the mirror. "Besides, he's busy with his new job in Dublin and work here has been absolutely catastrophic minus one psychologist on staff."
"I'm still a bit peeved with him, if you want the truth," Mary confessed. "Up and leaving you like he did? Still doesn't sit well with me. There's no way Dublin could be a greater draw than—"
"Mary, can we not go down this rabbit hole?" Charlotte requested. She gingerly adjusted the skirt of the dress and inspected the back of it in the mirror. "He's always kept one eye on Ireland. I don't think he ever intended to stay here, and I wasn't about to relocate." She sighed heavily. "It is what it is."
Mary sat back into the sofa with a disgruntled sigh. "It's his loss, you know," she commented.
"I think we both lost something," Charlotte attested, one side of her mouth slanting down. "We were best friends."
"Lucky you have us then, isn't it?" Mary stated, going for a more cheery outlook. "John and me absolutely adore you, Mrs. Hudson dotes on you as if you were her own blood, Lestrade sees you as his star pupil—even you and Sherlock seem to have made amends."
"As if we had any choice in the matter," Charlotte snorted, giving Mary a playful look through the mirror.
It was true that in the months since Sherlock's return, the two of them had worked their way back—albeit slowly—to something resembling friendship. There was still a hesitancy to their interactions, but lately they hadn't had the option to be hesitant. Both of them had been pushed feet first into wedding planning, at Mary's insistence.
"It's hard to avoid someone who shares your same pair of best friends." She bobbed her eyebrows in a presuming sort of way. "Especially when one of those friends is pushing rather hard…"
Mary giggled, guilty as charged. "Oh, I couldn't help myself," she confessed. "It was too hard seeing the two of you at odds. Bothered John too, if he'd ever admit it."
"Have you been conspiring with Mrs. Hudson?" Charlotte wondered, lifting an eyebrow.
"I've been sworn to secrecy," Mary said, zipping her lip.
"Since you're in the business of secrecy, can I tell you something?" Charlotte requested, biting the inside of her cheek nervously. Her mind had drifted back to their previous topic of conversation.
"When have I ever staved off a confession?" Mary returned, lips curling up. "Fire away."
Charlotte focused on herself in the mirror, knowing if she glanced at Mary she might lose her nerve. "I felt like…I mean, it seemed like…the more Sherlock and I patched things up, the closer we got, the more Jeremy pulled away. I saw it happening but I couldn't do anything to stop it."
Mary was quietly thoughtful for a beat. "Did you ever tell him about you and Sherlock?" she questioned.
Charlotte nodded slowly. "Yeah, I did," she answered. "I told him a few weeks after Sherlock had come back. He seemed to accept it in the moment, but…it's hard to say now, isn't it?"
"Charlotte—and I mean this in the most compassionate way because you know I liked Jeremy—but that's his problem," Mary offered sagely. "If he was threatened by your past, there's nothing you could have done. Jealousy breeds doubt and doubt breeds…well, break ups, I suppose."
"I know," Charlotte admitted softly, smiling weakly at Mary. "And thanks."
She then puffed up her cheeks, blowing out a breath. "All right, enough of the heart to heart. This is your big day we're preparing for and from here on out I promise to quit bringing the mood down."
"You know I'm always here for you, Lottie, my dear," Mary chirped. "But if you insist…" She grinned and stood from the sofa, walking over to the rack of bridesmaids dresses in varying shades of purple. "Okay, this one is lilac-adjacent," she determined, plucking one free. "If it's absolutely perfect, I'll allow it."
Charlotte swiped the hanger from her, looking intrigued. "Back in a dash," she said.
The second time Charlotte stepped out of the changing room, Mary was speechless. Charlotte looked at herself in the full-length mirror and decided this would have to be the one. It was on the border between lilac and lavender, floor length, with a neckline that met in a 'v' at her sternum. The chiffon on the top half of the dress had a wrapped appearance before it was segmented at the bottom of Charlotte's ribcage into a subtly sloping A-line skirt.
"Dammit, it's perfect," Mary proclaimed, trying to look upset. "You must get it."
Charlotte did a slow spin, the bottom of the skirt flouncing out as she did so. "I don't know, Mary," she fretted. Then, cracking an impish smile: "Wouldn't want to show you up on your big day."
"Bite your tongue before I make you get the other one," Mary teased, chuckling.
Charlotte sat at Mrs. Hudson's kitchen table, finishing the remnants of her tea as the landlady moved about the room, carrying dishes to and from the sink.
Without warning, a gunshot sounded from upstairs. Charlotte startled, jumping slightly in her seat and losing her grip on her tea cup. It shattered to the floor.
"Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson scolded at volume, shaking her fist at the ceiling.
"Mrs. Hudson, I'm so sorry," Charlotte stammered, reaching toward the porcelain fragments littering the linoleum. "Here, let me—"
"I've got that, dear," Mrs. Hudson assured her. "What would be helpful is if you could go upstairs and talk some sense into that man." She scowled. "It's been nothing but racket since he's started working on his best man's speech. Very disruptive."
"Er, I'm not sure if I would be the most effective—"
"Charlotte, please?" Mrs. Hudson begged. "Greg was around the other day, but it didn't seem to help a thing."
Charlotte was up, nodding dutifully once she realized how frazzled the landlady really was. "Of course, Mrs. Hudson. I'll give it a go."
She made her way up the stairs to Sherlock's flat and knocked soundly on the door, opening it slowly. "Don't shoot," she requested, coming in with her hands in the air.
Sherlock squinted at her. "Charlotte, what are you doing here?" he wondered.
"I was having tea with Mrs. Hudson. Tuesdays, remember?" Charlotte reminded him.
"Is it Tuesday already?" Sherlock asked. "I've lost track."
"How long have you been at this?" Charlotte inquired, her eyes taking in the state of the room. "Written a few rough drafts, have you?" she commented on the loose papers covering the entire surface of the desk and some of the floor around it.
"If you've come here to mock me, I'd rather you leave," Sherlock told her, giving her a mistrusting look.
Realizing how very earnest Sherlock was being, Charlotte bit back her snark. "Come on, let's see what you have," she offered, gesturing toward the desk.
Sherlock looked hesitant, but acquiesced, taking a seat in the desk chair. Charlotte dragged a spare chair to the other side of the desk so she could sit opposite. "All right," she said. "Where would you like to begin? Do you have a most recent draft?"
Despite the appearance of disorganization, Sherlock was able to procure the sheet immediately, plucking it out of the pile and handing it to her.
Charlotte pored over the writing in silence, which became too much for Sherlock. "You hate it," he surmised, standing with a frustrated growl.
"I don't hate it," Charlotte countered, giving him an incredulous look. "It could use some work, yeah. But—"
"This is no use!" Sherlock lamented. He stormed across the room and flopped himself down on the sofa, defeated.
A summer's breeze swirled through the room at that moment, gently blowing a few of the pages aside to reveal a book beneath. Charlotte picked it up curiously, needing to go no further than the title to understand completely. "Have you been using this?" she asked, holding it up for him to see.
"I've memorized it," Sherlock groaned. "Little help that's done."
"Agreed," Charlotte responded.
Sherlock sat up on the couch, shooting her a look. "If you've come here to mock me—"
"Sherlock, come. Sit," Charlotte instructed, lifting her eyebrows at him.
Begrudgingly, Sherlock pulled himself up off the sofa and made his way back to the desk, slumping down in his seat. "What is it?" he asked.
"This is your problem," Charlotte insisted, indicating the book. She tossed it over her shoulder and it thudded to the ground.
"That's enough, young man!" Mrs. Hudson shouted from downstairs.
Charlotte snorted, covering her mouth to fight back laughter.
Sherlock's demeanor lightened ever so slightly. He cracked a smile before running a hand through his disheveled hair.
"How long has it been since you've slept?" Charlotte asked knowingly.
"A while," Sherlock admitted. "I can't sleep. Not with this—" he gestured around at all his discarded pages— "looming over me."
"I'm going to give you some sound advice," Charlotte told him, causing Sherlock to sit forward in rapt attention. "First, take a nap." She smiled at him. "Then, wake up, make yourself a cup of tea, burn that book, and write."
"It's a bit warm for a fire, don't you think?" Sherlock joked stiffly. He let out a heavy sigh and scrubbed at his tired eyes. "I'm afraid John's asked the wrong person," he confessed, his exhaustion giving way to vulnerability.
"He hasn't," Charlotte reassured him, meeting his eyes. "Sherlock, if John wanted a textbook best man's speech, he could have asked Mike Stamford to give it."
"Mike Stamford is going to be on holiday in August. He couldn't possibly—"
"Not my point," Charlotte redirected, giving him a look. "What I mean is that you're John's best friend. He hasn't chosen you because he's expecting perfection. He's chosen you because he's expecting Sherlock."
Sherlock digested her words in silence. He stared at her openly, as if she would write his speech for him if he looked at her long enough.
"None of us are friends with you for your tact, eloquence, or charisma," Charlotte continued. She couldn't help but crack a smile, teasing him in the gentlest way. "You always keep us on our toes; no one could ever say they had a boring day with you. You're smart and you speak your mind—"
"Sometimes too much, I've heard," Sherlock interjected, surprisingly poking fun at himself.
Charlotte snorted out a soft laugh. "Sure, you miss the boat on some things, but you make up for it in others. I mean, you have…this incredible heart. You're unfailingly loyal. You protect the people you care about…" Her eyes met his toward the end of her speech, but she averted them quickly, feeling suddenly as if she was under a microscope.
"The people I care about…a dangerously small sample size," Sherlock responded quietly. "Makes it glaringly obvious when someone is missing."
Charlotte glanced up to see him looking at her with intensity, though there was an apologetic softness to his gaze. "Charlotte…" Sherlock started, keeping eye contact with her. "…I don't know if I've ever told you how sorry I am—for the choice I made. I know it's been almost three years, but I think I've finally been able to understand the effect it had on everyone else."
Unsure how to respond, Charlotte dropped her eyes once again. She focused on breathing steadily, finding it hard to swallow past a dryness in her throat. She stared intently at her hand, laying palm-down on the desk.
"And I've been fortunate to earn your friendship back," Sherlock continued, his voice still soft. "I know I didn't deserve it, nor did I hold out much hope in those first few months. But… you have a knack for surprising me."
Charlotte finally let out the breath she had been holding, letting it slowly seep out through her nose. Finding the courage to lift her head, she looked him in the eyes. "Thank you," she replied, more steadily than she thought possible. "That… means a lot."
"Didn't think I was capable of an apology, did you?" Sherlock wondered, the corner of his mouth twitching up. "It entails admitting that I was wrong."
Charlotte smiled despite herself, feeling like the weight of the conversation had lifted. "I bet you didn't think I could change my mind, either. It entails me not being stubborn as all hell."
Sherlock chuckled gently, settling back into his chair more comfortably. "And I thank you for your counsel on my best man's speech," he said. "Though, I don't know how much use it will be."
"Remember, nap first," Charlotte reiterated, pointing a finger at him. "You're useless this way." She carefully scooted her chair back and stood, readying herself to leave.
"Useless?" Sherlock protested, standing to see her out. "I'm never useless."
Charlotte rolled her eyes. "Oh yes, I'd forgotten," she joked, walking for the door.
Sherlock followed, hovering in the doorway with her.
"Remember to try to have some fun with this whole wedding thing," Charlotte suggested, turning to look up at him. "You've been working your arse off helping John and Mary. You deserve to enjoy some part of it."
"I'll try," Sherlock replied, sounding noncommittal as he smiled down at her.
Charlotte then realized how close they were standing to one another. At one time, she would have moved to embrace him—and she got the discrete sense he was thinking the same. To save them both the trouble, she took a quick step out onto the landing. "Well, I'm running late for work," she told him, bobbing her eyebrows before beginning down the stairs.
"Better hurry," Sherlock insisted. "I hate to imagine what could happen without the most competent person in the building."
"Stop that," Charlotte scolded jokingly, used to this riff by now. She called her goodbye to Mrs. Hudson as she opened the door onto Baker Street.
On a weekend in late July, John Watson's bachelor party was under way.
He and Sherlock were at their fourth pub of the night and—after enduring the measured drinks at the first two—John had begun to get creative. Each time Sherlock went to the bathroom, John would order himself a shot and pour a second in Sherlock's drink. It was no different at this stop.
"Cheers!" John cheered as Sherlock reproached their table, lifting his rather large test tube into the air.
"Cheers," Sherlock echoed, knocking his 'glass' with John's and downing the rest of what he thought was his beer.
"Another?" John questioned, looking at his friend hopefully.
His head swimming with the sudden injection of spirits, Sherlock nodded compliantly. "Oh, why not," he replied, waving a hand. "We can go easy at the next one."
"Excellent," John chirped, lurching slightly as he moved toward the bar for a refill.
Sherlock smacked his lips together, his eyes languidly drifting around the pub. He observed a gaggle of younger men grouped around the bar, eyeing women as they passed by. Growing bored with them, he turned to look at the meager dance floor near the small corner stage, where a few people bopped awkwardly or drunkenly—or both.
His eye was drawn to the door when loud squeals of feminine laughter caught his attention. A small group of women trickled in, dressed for the club. Sherlock's eyebrows shot up when he recognized one of them, lingering toward the back of the pack.
Charlotte scanned the pub as she entered, her eye catching Sherlock's at nearly the exact moment. She looked first surprised and then pleased to see him. Even in his altered state, Sherlock didn't miss the self-consciousness that flickered over her features. Though she took great care to look nonchalant, he noticed her pulling the hem of her little black dress closer to her kneecaps—a futile attempt, given the distance it had to cover.
"Charlotte?" John called out—too loud, even given the volume of the music. He waded through the patrons waiting for the bar and set his and Sherlock's drinks down on the table. "What are the chances?"
Charlotte approached their table, having settled for wrapping her jean jacket more tightly around herself to conceal her club-going outfit. "Slim to none," she joked. "I don't know if I've ever seen you two out in the pubs. What are you doing here?"
"'S my stag," John replied, the booze making his diction loose.
Charlotte nodded, realization dawning. Then, her lips curled up in a knowing way. "Are you boys having fun?"
"Quite a lot of fun," Sherlock reported, nodding and grinning dopily. Clumsily, he pulled the stool beside his away from the table. "Care to join us?"
"How could I say no to a drink with John on his stag night?" Charlotte responded. "Although, doesn't my joining you defeat the purpose of a stag?"
John blew out a noise of disregard, waving a hand. "'Course not," he assured her. "You're one of us. Now, I know you and Mary are thick as thieves—but we knew you first, didn't we? We did." He nodded to himself very righteously, taking a hearty sip of his drink.
"Is that jealousy I detect, Dr. Watson?" Charlotte wondered, lifting her eyebrows. She was finding great amusement in his state of inebriation.
John slung an arm around her shoulders, even though she towered over him in her heels. "Charlotte, you know Sherlock's my best friend, but you…you're like….like a sister to me," he told her, nodding as if commending his own choice of words. "I fought Mary to have you standing on my side of the church, you know."
Charlotte chuckled. "John, you know I would have gladly worn a tux on your behalf," she stated, allegiant.
"You wouldn't need a tux," John snorted, finding her statement ridiculous. "Wear whatever you have on. 'S fine."
Charlotte spluttered out a laugh. "Wear this, you mean? This is not a church-going outfit," she countered playfully. "I don't want the lord—or whoever—seeing me like this."
John squinted one eye and looked at her, as if for the first time since she had arrived. "Yeah, quite," he appraised. "Why are you dressed like that?"
"John, I think you're being rude," Sherlock stated, though he sounded unsure. He looked to Charlotte. "Is he?"
"He's harmless," Charlotte replied. She stooped and pecked John on the cheek; the kind of kiss one would give to a small child or their grandmother. "I'm going to go get a drink and tell the girls," she said, untangling herself from John and striding off toward the bar.
"She's lovely, isn't she?" John wondered, smiling as he took a seat. "And to think, you didn't think we needed an intern those years ago."
"One of your brighter ideas," Sherlock commended. He raised his test tube for another toast.
Charlotte returned five minutes later, three drinks in her hands. She set two large glasses down in front of John and Sherlock. "Waters," she informed them.
"We're fine," Sherlock assured her, though he reached almost immediately for the glass. "I've got a system."
"So do I," Charlotte replied cheekily, gingerly sipping her vodka tonic. "The girls are wondering if they can join us," she told them, eyeing her friends over against the bar.
Sherlock looked over at the young women. "Who are they, anyway?" he asked. "You don't have girlfriends except for Mary."
Charlotte smiled amusedly as she bit her straw and shot a furtive glance toward her friends. "They're all former classmates," she explained. "And you'd be surprised how many girlfriends you accumulate when you get dumped. Kind of nice of them, actually. I always thought they didn't much care for me."
"You weren't dumped," Sherlock snorted, as if it were the most ludicrous thing he had ever heard.
"Yeah, I was," Charlotte countered with certainty. "Properly."
"That was ages ago," John pointed out, too buzzed to worry about tact. "And they're only taking you out now?"
"Real friends are there for the tears," Charlotte explained, thinking of Mary. "These sorts of friends are there for the rebound party."
"The rebound party?" Sherlock questioned, giving her a confused look.
"You know, getting my groove back," Charlotte joked, doing a slight shimmy for effect. "Dress me up like this, take me out, hope to send me off home tonight with some bloke I meet at the club. I think it's supposed to help me feel sexy again, or something. Not really sure." She shrugged a shoulder and sipped her drink.
"Well, here's to that," John said, looking like he'd heard quite enough.
Charlotte and Sherlock clinked their glasses with his and they all took a drink. "So, can I wave them over?" she requested.
"Oh," John said, remembering. "Sure. Of course."
Charlotte waved at her friends, who eagerly approached. "They're all huge fans," she said out the side of her mouth to Sherlock. "Fair warning."
Her friends shouldered in around the table, excitedly introducing themselves to John and Sherlock.
By the time she had finished her drink, Charlotte felt as though she needed another. Her friends had come on strong, alternating between flirting with Sherlock and John and speaking about themselves. She couldn't blame them; 'Watson and Holmes' were like celebrities in their circles.
"I'm going for a refill," Charlotte announced, though no one was paying her any attention.
"I'll go with you," Sherlock stated, standing up readily.
They left John at the table with Charlotte's friends. He seemed to be enjoying answering the questions about his blog and experiences that no one ever asked.
Charlotte sighed out a breath as she leaned up against the bar, waiting to flag down the bartender.
"They're a racket," Sherlock commented, slurring slightly. He leaned against the bar facing her. "I don't much like them."
"Really? I thought you loved attention," Charlotte teased, smirking ever so slightly.
Sherlock rolled his eyes as the bartender came over to take Charlotte's order.
She turned back to Sherlock. "We can leave," she told him more genuinely. "I don't want to ruin your stag night with John."
"You're not ruining anything," Sherlock assured her. "I'm happy you're here."
Charlotte's lips turned up ever so slightly at the corners.
"John was right, you know," Sherlock continued. "You're part of us. Always will be."
"I think I like drunk Sherlock," Charlotte joked, looking up at him. "He's very complimentary. Anything else to say?"
"I'm sorry you're sad about Jeremy," Sherlock said. "And I think I said something earlier that was very insensitive…Can't remember…But I want to apologize for it if I did."
"It wasn't so insensitive," Charlotte reassured him. "Quite a confidence boost to see someone so shocked that you've been dumped."
Sherlock chuckled, swaying slightly on his feet.
"And I'm not really sad anymore," Charlotte admitted truthfully. "I wouldn't be out like this if I was. I think I've turned a page." She smiled, somewhat proudly.
"Rebound party, it is," Sherlock said jocularly, bobbing his eyebrows.
The bartender handed Charlotte her drink and she accepted it gladly, taking a sip. "Don't tell them, but I'm just playing the part," she fake-whispered to Sherlock. "I'm not trying to go home with anyone."
"No?" Sherlock questioned, interest piqued.
"No," Charlotte confirmed, shaking her head. "I'm dressed like this for me. They can look all they want, but no touching." She wagged her finger.
Sherlock laughed. "I like this," he commented, gesturing at her. "The dress, I mean. It's nice."
"I'm not supposed to look nice," Charlotte protested. "I'm supposed to look sexy, remember? That's the whole point of a rebound party."
"Well, that would be rather inappropriate for me to say," Sherlock replied, bobbing his eyebrows.
"I'm not the intern anymore, Sherlock," Charlotte reminded him, somewhat playfully. "You can say whatever you like."
"I don't want to objectify you," Sherlock told her. "It's never been about that for me. Your brain is far more appealing to me than…"
"My body?" Charlotte questioned, lifting her eyebrows.
"Well, yes," Sherlock confirmed, bashful even in his impaired state. He tried to look anywhere but below her neck.
"Coming from someone who's been quite well-acquainted with my body, that's good to know," Charlotte responded.
"Charlotte, th-that's not what I—"
"Sherlock, I'm messing with you," Charlotte interjected. She chuckled. "I forgot about the whole sarcasm thing."
Sherlock smiled, more out of relief than anything. It was difficult for him not to have his brain working at optimum speed, especially when it came to Charlotte. He was always so worried he would say something he would regret—even at his most sober.
Charlotte sipped her drink in silence for a few moments, eyeing him carefully. "I'm sorry," she told him. "I know we don't really…talk about that."
"It's all right," Sherlock replied. "I mean, it's not like we shouldn't o-or it's forbidden, or something. I just…I don't know what to say. I never know what to say."
"Don't beat yourself up over it," Charlotte responded gently. "It's in the past. We're good now."
"We're good," Sherlock echoed, nodding.
Charlotte smiled up at him, eyes darting toward the restroom."I need to use the loo," she stated. "Can I bother you to watch my drink while I'm gone?"
"Diligently," Sherlock assured her. He watched her as she walked away, smiling drunkenly to himself.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:Hi readers! Thanks for tuning in. The format of this chapter is a little different because most of 'A Sign of Three' is told through flashback snippets. I thought it would be cool to try to do it somewhat sequentially, with a few snapshots from the months leading up to the wedding. Let me know what you think! xx