A/N: I know it's been a while since I announced I was back writing, but I was doing so by hand while working and taking care of my grandma because I'm poor and I don't have a laptop/tablet. Anyway… I think I should take a look at previous chapters because CRINGE but at the same time I think it will take time I could use writing new chapters so for now I'm sorry if you're new here or if you had to read them again after such a long hiatus.

Last but no least THANK YOU SO MUCH for the support. It boggles my mind that so many of you reached out and showed interest after so long. I can't thank you enough.

Today we discover the reason behind some of our OC's reactions and thoughts.

PS: Are you ready for the third movie? ;-)

She was setting the pan in the scullery's sink to clean later as the front door of 221 opened and closed. It was Sherlock Holmes, grimy and battered as he always was first thing in the morning after spending the night out. Still he was shuffling through the mail like everything was fine and perfectly normal.

"Are you staying for lunch?" – She asked him wiping her hands dry from the kitchen's threshold.

"Uhm? Oh, yes?" – He answered distractedly, shifting slightly but not really looking at her. - "I told you"- he added a moment later approaching her with an extended arm.

He was holding a beige envelope in his hand. Her name was handwritten on the back off it with a clean and beautiful –almost floral- calligraphy. She knew what it was before she opened it but she opened it anyway.

Mary Elisabeth Morstan

and

John Hamish Watson

CORDIALLY INVITE YOU TO SHARE IN THEIR HAPPINESS AS THEY ARE UNITED IN MARRIAGE.

It was followed by details such as date and place, and it left her with a bitter taste in the back of her mouth.

"I guess we shall be awkward together" – Holmes said as a throwback to the conversation they had the night they danced at The Royale.

The faraway look on his face and the monotone in which he delivered the words a clear reminder that he still wasn't happy about the arrangement, even as he forced a smile. That was the strangest part for Elia since she settled in Baker Street: the realness of it all. At first she couldn't put her finger on it, whatever it was that was nagging her every time she interacted with Holmes, Watson, Mary or Mrs. Hudson. But after giving it much thought it was pretty clear. Lying, blending in, gaining someone's trust and then betraying them, stealing, even killing; it was always part of the job, but she never before had to do any of those things to the good guys. There was a time during her training when she questioned her own sanity and humanity. She knew she wasn't an emotionless psychopath, but she also knew there must be something wrong inside her to be able to pull the trigger without remorse. As it turns out it was all in the balance of all things: by doing those terrible things to terrible people, she was sparing the suffering of many innocents. But what was her excuse now? (If there ever was one.) What was her excuse, knowing everything she knew, to just let some of the things that were supposed to happen, happen?

"That needs stitches!" – She stopped her musings and the detective's steps.

"That's really not necessary-"

"Mr. Holmes," – she cut him off-"your work is to ensure bad men don't get away with their bad deeds, isn't it?"

"Yes…"
"Then don't make their day by dying of a silly infection. Come."

She walked into the common kitchen, not bothering to look over her shoulder to make sure he was following her.

"Sit"- she told him as she stretched to reach the upper cabinets.

When she turned around he was sitting on the closest chair to the door, with that indifferent expression he wore on his face most of the time. She had learned to be wary of that look. She put the metallic box she had taken from the cabinet on the table and opened it. It contained all the necessary stuff for a quick fix: bandages, alcohol, gauze, needle, thread…

She soaked a piece of cotton in alcohol and pressed it against his lip injury.

"Hold it there."

He did as he was told, taking the wet bundle between his fingertips. As he did so, she carefully pulled his hair back, peeling off individual hairs that were stuck to his forehead, courtesy of sweat and blood. She cleaned the area with more alcohol. When she considered it was clean enough to proceed with the sutures she twirled the black thread around her index fingers and cut it with her teeth, then she took the lighter she knew he carried in the left inner pocket of his jacket, pulling and pushing the flap with calculated intent –no need for him to deduce her pickpocketing skills-, and burned the needle.

"You want a drink?" – She offered.

It was stupid, really. Just the one drink doesn't numb you enough to spare you the pain. Besides it could cause even more bleeding. But for whatever reason it helped some people to cope.

"I'm good."

Of course he was…

She went ahead, not giving herself or him a second to doubt. The sooner the better with those things. As the needle went in his lips twitched so very slightly, and she kept working diligently, trying to make it as fast and as good as possible.

"You've done this before" – he observed.

"I have."

"When?"

"I have younger cousins, Mr. Holmes. They used to be a handful."

"You don't keep in touch?"

"No."

"Why?"

She shrugged.

"Life? We grew up, they have their lives, and I have mine."

She didn't mind the questions, at least those she could answer with half-truths.

"You're not sleeping well" – he observed again.

"I get migraines. I think I might be brewing a nasty one."

Another half-truth.

"You don't look like you're sleeping either" –she counteracted trying to show curiosity.

Anyone would be curious of their neighbor's whereabouts if their neighbor was a bruised Sherlock Holmes.

"I mostly nap."

It was all she expected to get from him. They weren't friends, not even close. One could argue they weren't even in speaking terms. But he surprised her by sharing more.

"I had the most interesting encounter last night. Assassins. Have you heard of them?"

"I have. Never thought they were real."

"Oh, they were. And they are."

She faked mild interest and worry as he dropped the damp cotton piece he was holding over his lip injury on the table and continued talking.

"Why are they called assassins?" – He asked.

"Because they kill people?" – She answered like a good stupid girl.

"Black legends mostly, and a flawed translation. Fed by their enemies and further popularized in the western world by people like Marco Polo. He claimed they were fed hashish, and so in their drug induced state the hashishins committed acts of the most intrepid kind. Funny how the lie always manages to stick better than the truth. Not that political assassinations weren't in their repertoire to begin with."

She didn't know how much of this was him showing off, trying to concentrate in other thing other than the pain she was inflicting on him or just his genuine self chatting. She still had to figure him out since they didn't interact that often, but either way she wasn't complaining.

"Did they do this to you?"

"No. This was a drunk Scotsman."

"There" – she finished with the stitches cleaning the area again-."Take a bath Mr. Holmes, and please clean your wounds at least once a day if twice is asking too much. I'll have your meal up in half an hour."

He never thought about it that way. He never thought about his health from his enemy's perspective. For him a wound was just one more scar to the list, which he didn't care about, and pain he could numb with his favorite narcotics. Hell, death was just part of the natural order, and while he didn't want to die he wasn't that desperate to just keep living either, he would gladly give his life to get the job done. Specially the current job. Me, me, me. At some point of the journey his ego had clouded his judgement, and that realization left him looking stupefied at the bottom of the stairs until she took him out of the stupor she had caused in the first place by commanding him to ''come'' and ''sit''. Yes, he could picture her calling a bunch of brats to order and commanding a household full of kids younger than her. If not for her inheritance she would have made a stupendous governess. His nose twitched… No wonder she and Mary got along… Three light and rapid knocks stopped his train of thought.

"Bon appétit." – She said leaving the tray of food over the cart next to the door.

That cart was probably the only order one would encounter in his apartment. Since that day in which he had effectively pissed her off he rescued the old unused tray cart from under piles of books and gave it a permanent place by the door.

"Won't you join me?" – He asked in a rush, surprising the both of them.

She turned around slowly under the threshold, one hand on the door knob ready to leave and close it behind her.

"Are you that bored, Mr. Holmes?''- She teased with a straight face.

''Do you sell yourself that short?''- He teased back.

''Apparently I do. Be right back.''

With that and a couple of mutual lopsided smiles she went downstairs to retrieve a tray with her own meal and he rushed to clear a table and a chair he never used to accommodate his unexpected guest. Unexpected, but not unwanted. Sure, their relationship started on the wrong foot, but if he was being quite honest he was in a dark place when she crossed 221's front door for the first time. Nowadays his lifestyle choices were still questionable, but far healthier, at least for his standards. Work –the biggest case of his career- maintained him occupied and she wasn't that bad. She mostly kept to herself, an attribute he, the misanthrope that he was, appreciated coming from anyone. Also, she wasn't easy to offend. Even when boredom and high levels of toxicity in his bloodstream had him going out of his way in an effort to spite the woman downstairs, she took his attempts in stride. The detective was so over the puritan society he was condemned to belong to…

As he waited for his neighbor to join him for lunch his mind drifted away to the night prior and the quite peculiar encounter he had with a certain hooded figure over the roof of the fighting pit. He didn't know what to make of it. Was it a coincidence? Did those two lowlifes just happen to run into the vigilante right then and there for the detective to see? Were they after him? Was she, the assassin, after him? Her gender was everything he was able to pick apart. Even with the thick garments that were meant to protect her physical integrity in battle, there was a most definitely feminine shape to the dark shadow that stood in contrast to the full bright moon. She was skilled too, but then again he guessed skill was a prerequisite when joining a top secret organization. The way she took those goons out with quirurgic precision reminded him very much of his own method: hitting the opponent in critical spots in a series of movements that seemed staged to the outside eye. He wondered if his visualizing technic was a thing in the hooded guild or if it was just years of experience in the field that did that. She was fast too. Terribly fast. Faster than himself. He felt his body bristle at the memory of how her speed dodging him caused him to trip on his own feet. He never tripped, well, except for when he run around his own messy apartment, but never in a fight, never chasing a criminal. Unlike his lazy brother, Sherlock Holmes prided himself in his physical form. He lived for the thrill of the fight and the chase, and so he kept his body up to high standards.

''Mr. Homes!''

''Yes! Sorry! You were saying?''- He responded to the woman standing tray in hand in front of him while blinking away his thoughts.

She had been trying to get his attention for a while now, apparently.

''Are you regretting your invitation already? I assure you I won't get offended.''

Oh, he was sure she wouldn't get offended… She didn't get offended when he shot holes in her ceiling. He saw the framed bullets presiding her living, not at all the reaction he would expect from anyone to such an act of aggression… The subtle teasing tone told him she didn't misjudge his silence at all and was just joking around and maybe looking for a way out. Not a chance in hell. He didn't know what possessed him to ask for her company in the first place –most probably his nagging curiosity- but he wasn't backpedaling. Oh, no, he was getting answers.

''Not at all. Please.''- He gestured towards the vacant chair in front of him. - ''You are cooking and cleaning around the place all the time.''- He pointed the obvious while admiring the food on his side of the table. It smelled and looked delicious, as always.

''Your point, Mr. Holmes.''

''I'm just saying… A woman of your economic station usually employs other people for those meager tasks.''

''Then I guess usually is the key word.''- She responded digging into her own food. - ''I'm not the most social person, Mr. Holmes. I'd rather cook my own food and clean after myself than have a bunch of people fluttering around.''

''Well, you do a wonderful job, dear. Except for the spider webs.''

She chuckled at the lighthearted criticism.

''I can't stand them. Nor any other crawly creepies. I try to rationalize my fear. I know I'm much bigger and they can't hurt me but-''

''That's not entirely true. There's a bunch of domestic arachnids that can and will do a nasty number on a human. I can name a couple, at the top of my head, whose bite could kill you in a matter of minutes.''

''Yeah, that's information I can live without. I'll just keep my distance regardless.''

They kept eating in a comfortable silence until she was the one to break it.

''Why did you even entertain the idea that I knew ballet?''

So curiosity nagged her too… That was useful. Curiosity nagged the good doctor too -more so than the stick up his arse- and had him running around London forgetting about his limp. Not that he was entertaining the idea of taking another companion. Not at all. Much less a feminine one. Not that he thought less of women or their capacities. It was his preference to stay out of social gatherings, but his line of work implied interaction with all kinds of people: male and female, rich and poor, educated and uneducated… Maybe it was innate human knowledge, maybe forced experience… The fact of the matter was he was very much in tune with humans and their telltales. He met several highly intelligent and athletic ladies over the years, all of them more than capable of sending any sexist bigot back to the cave they came from with a bruised ego and a busted lip. Some of them did so, while others used cunning and played their part in Victorian society to perfection to exploit the benefits. He admired them all, but at the end of the day dresses weren't fit for his lifestyle. He should know, he used them from time to time.

''You are both graceful and fit. Your posture is impeccable. Also, it would be fitting for someone of your station to grow up partaking in such activities.''

''So why did you finally dismiss the idea?''

''Your feet are objectively pretty. Except for the slightly crooked left toe.''

''Oh''- she seemed to ponder the new information for a few seconds. - ''I broke it in a fight years ago.''

''A fight?''

''Lots of cousins, remember? Male cousins. Somehow I always got caught in the heat.''

''I see…''

''Oh, I know you do…''- She glanced pointedly at his busted lip-. ''Tea?''- She offered piling their now empty plates together.

''Please.''

As she walked downstairs with their dirty cutlery, he produced a chessboard from the table's only drawer and started setting the pieces. Even if it was her first time and he had to explain the basics a chess game was a great way to figure out someone's mind frame. Were they aggressive? Sensible? Did they believe in sacrifices for the greater good? Did they care about winning or losing at all? Were they fast or slow learners? Did they take risks or play safe? He was just finishing with the board when Elia made it back upstairs with the two cups and a steaming pot.

''Do you play?''- He asked.

''Not really.''

''But you know how.''

''I know the basics.''-She said getting comfortable again on her side of the table and passing one of the cups.-''Milk?''

''Yes. No sugar.''

She obliged and she poured one cup of plain black tea for herself. A purist? Now that he thought about it he never saw her eat or drink anything remotely sweet, not even her own creations. So she enjoys baking but doesn't have a sweet tooth herself. That and picking fights for her loved ones, apparently. A caring and nurturing nature, but not a fan of attention herself. Uhm… maybe they could actually make it work.

''Black or white?''- He offered her the chance to pick sides.

''I don't have a preference.''

With that he left the board as he was and moved the first white pawn. In chess, as in many other games, the whites represent good, versus the black, which is evil. Many people took such a thing in stride, either refusing to play with blacks or loving them, depending on their own moral compass and overall attitude towards the game and life itself. But she belonged to the third group: the ones that don't care. Morally flexible. Not in a rush to make a statement.

''Why don't you like being touched? You're not an abuse victim.''

That certainly took her attention from the game at hand, if even for a second, as she responded in kind to his open Sicilian defense.

''You shouldn't say stuff like that, Mr. Holmes.''

''Why is that?''-He asked taking pawn with knight.

''Because what happens if you're wrong? If you say something like that to an actual victim?''

''But I'm not wrong.''

She sped up to dragon Sicilian and he forced his presence in the middle of the board with a Maroczy Sicilian to suppress her movements.

''No, you're not. Not today.''

He answered to the advance of her knight with queen in battery trying not to think too much about her wording. Not today.

A silence stretched between them as they won time swapping pawns and bishops and castle's castle.

''Synesthesia.''-She finally caved.

The struggle in her eyes didn't go unnoticed for the detective. The speed of her game hindered by the decision process: to tell him or not to tell him. He had given the issue plenty of thought since their dinner night at The Royale with the good doctor and his bride to be, but for the life of him he couldn't come up with a logical reason for her reaction to his touch. Past abuse was the obvious theory, yet she lacked all the telltale signs, such as depression, anxiety, withdrawal, apathy and the general dislike for anything male. Whatever answer he was expecting –if he was expecting to receive one at all-, it wasn't the one he got. His mind didn't even entertain such an idea. Why? Because synesthesia wasn't something touch related, not only. It could imply all five senses, in every possible combination.

''Interesting.''-He leaned back on his chair, joining his fingertips under the chin in deep contemplation. - ''Is that the reason for your headaches?''

Did touch translate to sound in her brain? Were light, gentle touches sweet and full of hope like an A major scale? Was unexpected manhandling like a screeching violin? He knew about the condition, of course, but she was the first person who suffered from it that he got the pleasure to meet. So much to learn!

''Yes and no. The synesthesia is the reason for my headaches, but not through touch.''

''How many combinations?''

''Just the two: tactile stimulation elicits taste, color elicits sound.''

''Tell me more.''

''There's no escaping it. Everywhere I look… I live in a constant cacophony of sounds. Even with my eyes closed. Of course closing them helps. Bright colors are the loudest, so focusing on the black behind my eyelids is the closest thing to silence I can experience. Listening to music also helps to stem of the noise. Check.''

So constant overstimulation… That sounded familiar. He wondered if-wait what? When did she move that bishop? When did the game move to the edge of the board?

''I told you I knew the basics. So when I followed your lead in the battle for the center of the board you figured that was it. Whenever my basic knowledge of the game run out I would just try to keep up with you until it was too much and I irremeably lost to a discovered check. You weren't expecting me to start playing my own game, were you?''

No, he wasn't. Much less when her game made absolutely no sense no matter how much he looked at the board. Her movements didn't seem to serve any logical purpose, yet he responded to all of them throwing his own gambit out of balance.

''We're not friends, Mr. Holmes. Up until now we weren't even in speaking terms. Do you figure I suddenly felt like sharing?''

''You baited me.''-He accused.

'' Synesthetes aren't that common, and you can't resist a mystery, can you? I thought I'd throw a distraction in.''

''I know how to multitask.''

''I know that. Mr. Holmes. I'm not underestimating you. That's what you do.''

He ignored the pointed jab. So she played her little game, distracted him for a while, so what. He could still avoid the mate no problem and win, in five moves.

''Still I win.''

''Oh, for sure. I'm not winning. Never entertained the idea. I was just testing my own theory.''

''And what theory is that?''-He asked to the neck of his robe as he prepped his favorite pipe for a much needed smoke.

He wasn't sure he was going to like where things were going, but might as well find out.

''You're the smartest man in the room and you know it. That's your weakness, isn't it?''

''That doesn't make much sense.''

''It does. You underestimate your opponent. You expect them to play your game, to follow the rules you set. You don't even entertain the idea of being played. I figured it out over a chess game I'm not even winning, whatever. But one day someone as smart as yourself will reach the same conclusion. Someone on the other side of the board. And there'll be hell to pay while the smartest man in the room was too busy trying to solve a riddle.''

…

''Knock, knock!'' –Suddenly a good doctor knocked on his apartment's door.

''There you are!''- His bride to be let herself in.

''We knocked downstairs but nobody was home.''

''Did you receive the invitation?''

''Yes, I did. Thank you so much for having me in such an especial day.''

''You can show me your gratitude by helping me out. Come along.''

''Where are we going?''

''Miss O'Donoghue!''- The detective interrupted their conversation just as Mary was about to drag Elia out of the door.

''Yes, Mr. Holmes?''

Three pairs of eyes were on him now, waiting with expectation an explanation for the outburst from the man who pretty much seemed lost in a deep corner of his own mind a few seconds ago.

''You're absolutely right. I wasn't expecting you. But I'm not mad about it.''