I apologise for the wait and any spelling/ punctuation mistakes I have probably made and failed to correct.

I REALLY hope I made Sherlock's deductions about Emily alright.

I have been so worried about them.

Also... FILMING HAS BEGUN FOR EPISODE 3! OHGODIMSOEXCITED!

This Fandom will be the death of me...

"Okay, you've got questions." Sherlock broke the silence, with his smooth voice. Outside of the cramped space in the back of the taxi, the sun had set, the sky was slowly becoming darker and Emily was silently thanking anyone who was listening that she didn't have to get up early for work in the morning. As well as ignoring the man to her left.

Until that point, no one, not even their driver had uttered a word. Sherlock had been busy on his phone and John had been preparing to bombard the taller man with questions.

"Yeah, where are we going?" John quickly responded as if it had been on the tip of his tongue the whole time, before Emily could ask why she was with them and not back at Baker Street.

"Crime scene. Next?" Sherlock responded as if it should have been obvious.

"Who are you? What do you do?"

"What do you think?" Emily kept her mouth shut, her gaze still on the road ahead.

"I'd say private detective..." John answered slowly, as if he was hesitant to speak.

"But?" Sherlock prompted when John didn't finish his sentence.

"...But the police don't go to private detectives." Sherlock smiled to himself before he spoke again.

"I'm a consulting detective." Now Emily looked round to pay attention. "Only one in the world. I invented the job."

"What the hell does that mean?" She asked now, joining in their conversation.

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me." He informed her, glad that she was finally taking an interest.

"The police don't consult amateurs." John stated, he couldn't help the slight laugh that escaped him.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" You looked surprised." Sherlock responded shifting his gaze from Emily to John.

"Yes, how did you know?" John asked.

"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room ...said trained at Bart's, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq."

"You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp – of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother."

"Hmm?" Sherlock held his hand out across Emily waiting for John to give him his phone.

"Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare – you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then." He paused for a fraction of a second as he turned the phone over in his hand. "Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already." He held the phone so the two people beside him could clearly make out the words.

"The engraving."

"Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking." By now Emily was slightly in awe of the man next to her.

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though." He pointed his finger towards the part of the phone he was about to talk about to show Emily. "Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them." Emily looked up at the younger man next to her. She could not believe he had learnt so much about one person in such a small amount of time. But, again, he hadn't finished. When she caught his eye, he started again.

"And you. I know you've had enough of living with your Mother from your phone. When you offered it to me yesterday, she called. When you saw who it was your shoulders slumped as if you were irritated with whoever was on the other end. There was indecision on your face, that was you having an internal battle with yourself as to wether you should answer. But you didn't, you just turned it to silent and put it away. How do I know you live with her? Your clothes, they aren't exactly knew, at least two years old. You've been saving to move out. Your an only child, or you would have turned to a sibling.

I know you're close with Mike, you see him as a Father figure. When he introduced you to me yesterday, you smiled at him, but it vanished as soon as you saw the disappointed look on his face. So how do you know Mike? You're not a student, you don't carry books around with you, in fact you don't even carry a bag at all, you have few possessions that you want to keep on your person at all times, you don't need a bag, that's what pockets are for.

So not a student, but you know Mike. Know him well enough to spend your lunch hour with him anyway. You're not a Nurse, you would have had the uniform on if you were, but what kind of person dresses like that for work; Blouse, pencil skirt and heels? A receptionist? No offence, but a receptionist would have taken more pride in her hair, and make up. But you don't wear any make up, you probably don't really see the point." He never took his eyes from Emily's as he spoke, only to look her up and down a few times.

"You had an old ink stain on your blouse that still hasn't come out. I noticed it when your coat came undone. You didn't even notice, so you were comfortable with your surroundings, even if it was your first time in the lab. But why would you have an ink stain on your shirt? Too much to be from a pen, perhaps it's from when a printer ran out and you had to change it yourself. Receptionists are far too busy to change the ink themselves. So a Filing Clerk. A bored Filing Clerk." He picked up her hand from her lap with his gloved one. "You've coloured your fingernails in with highlighter." Her hand fell limply back onto her lap when he let go of it as he passed John's phone back to it's owner. "There you go, you see-you were right."

"I was right? Right about what?" He spoke for himself and Emily, judging by the shocked look on her face.

"The police don't consult amateurs." Sherlock turned his face to the window, he knew the reaction he would receive, he was almost prepared to mouth it along with them. There was a moment of silence as Emily attempted to straighten out her thoughts.

"That... was amazing." John said as he pushed Emily's chin up with his finger to close her mouth; he didn't want her to catch flies after all. Sherlock turned back to look at the pair he was sharing the taxi with. A blank look covered his face, but it was gone in a matter of seconds.

"Do you think so?" Amazing had definitely not been the reaction he had been expecting.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary. Of course, I can only speak for myself." The two men simultaneously shifted their gaze to the woman sat uncomfortably between them. She was still facing the front and her mouth had fallen into the shape of an 'O' once more.

"Holy shit." She finally managed to mumble. She managed a breathy laugh as she finally turned back to the consulting detective beside her.

"That's not what people normally say. "

"What do people normally say?" John asked.

"'Piss off''!" He smiled briefly at the pair beside him before looking back out of the window.

Emily couldn't contain the laughter that escaped her lips. Neither could she help the smile she shared with John. But she had to wonder, how on Earth could people tell the man beside her to 'Piss Off'? She could understand that they might find it annoying and invasive. She could even understand that they might think of him as a show off. But she thought it was incredible how this man had observed so much from just one glance. If everyone could be that smart, maybe the world would be a better place. But then again, maybe not.

She did not notice Sherlock watching her reflection in the window as they continued their journey.

Believe In Sherlock

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