Sherlock twirled his phone around his fingers. Lestrade had sent him a list of places near the station to check. He sat back in his chair and thought about the events of today.

Meeting Doctor Jones had been... interesting. At first she seemed rather tedious, showing him up with her trick as she called it. It wasn't a trick, it was a serious of complex observations and deductions that determined specifics about people that nobody else would ever notice. Nobody except him. And now her. He felt that thought strike a nerve. Him and Her.

He pushed that thought to the back of his mind, the place where he knew it would get replaced by something more relevant or equally unimportant as it came along. But there was something else. A feeling he had not felt before, not since the woman. Doctor Jones was indeed an equal to him perhaps even better in some respect, she had friends, people liked her. Then there was him.

His phone buzzed in his hands, breaking his concentration. He checked his phone, Freddie was calling him. He answered.

"Yes?" he said.

She giggled awkwardly.

"Would you like me to let you in?" his eyes flicked over to the set of keys with a surf board key ring left on the coffee table.

"Yes please..."

Sherlock smiled and hung up the phone. He quickly bounded down the stairs, he had a small thought in the back of his head telling him not to leave her outside, alone, in her state for too long.

"Drink too much?" he asked as he opened the door for her.

"Stating the obvious much?" she said slightly falling, he caught her and she looked up at him, a slight mischievous grin across her lips, "And I could drink you under the table."

He brought her inside.

Freddie slumped into Sherlock's chair. Sherlock shuffled uncomfortably as he sat down in John's old chair. He narrowed his eyes and returned the intense stare she was giving him.

"Tell me something Sherlock Holmes... How do you cope?"

"There are ways..." he said calmly, not breaking eye contact.

"Besides that." She looked down at the floor.

"Have you ever played Cludo?" he asked quickly, not wanting the look on her face to stay any longer than it already had. She laughed and kicked off her heels.

"I'm gonna go to bed." She got up, took off her wig, dropped it on the table and ruffled her hair, "You ever have to wear one of those for an extended amount of time...?"

"Please, I am a master of disguise..."

"Had I known that I'd have got you a pair of rabbit ears and you could have been my date."

"Rabbit ears?" he asked.

"Rodger Rabbit?"

Sherlock stared blankly.

"Jessica Rabbit's husband?"

"Why would he need rabbit ears?"

"Because he's a rabbit."

"But Jessica Rabbit isn't?"

"Yes."

"So why did she marry a rabbit?"

"Because he makes her laugh!"

"He can talk?"

She laughed, "He's a cartoon!"

Sherlock looked confused.

"Oh come on, you're telling me that you've never seen Who Framed Rodger Rabbit?"

He shrugged.

"When we've solved this case, remind me to force you to watch it." She smiled and headed to the stairs.

Sherlock imagined how tedious it would be, they didn't have a TV so it would probably be on her laptop in her bedroom... on her bed... together. He pictured lying next to her, looking up at her looking back at him, gazing into her eyes, leaning in closer–

"Shit!"

He shook his head as he heard Freddie yell. He looked over and ran to her, she had slipped and lost her balance on the stairs causing her to fall. Sherlock ran over and caught her, just in time.

"It's alright, I've got you" he said a little awkwardly, trying to be comforting.

"My ankle..." she said, dazed.

She leant on him and he walked her over to the sofa. He looked over her and noticed the leg split in her dress revealing a very large and very old burn mark on her upper thigh, from an iron. He sat her down and felt... bad...

"You'll have a few bruises tomorrow." He said.

"I don't bruise easily..." she replied.

"I can see that..." he looked over at her leg. Freddie covered it.

"I'm clumsy... Accidents happen..." she said trying to avoid the subject.

"From the angle and the shape, it's obviously a–"

"You look at my legs often Sherlock Holmes?" she leant back into the arm of the sofa and rested her foot on the opposite side, over Sherlock, showing off the whole of her leg.

She watched as his eyes carefully followed the length of her leg from her hip to her ankle, taking in every inch of detail.

Marks on her inner thigh from small blade or some such sharp instrument, a small scar on her knee, probably from a fall as a child and a freckle, just above her ankle. A few words swirled in his head, creating even more mystery about her, but one word specifically sprung to mind when he looked at the freckle. It didn't look like an otter, nor did it remind him of himself. But it was in some way that he couldn't quite put his finger on, cute.

He didn't know why he did this, it's not like this information was relevant, or that he would ever need it again. But the feeling demanded that he do it, telling him that he would not see them again. And he found himself wanting to. He tried unsuccessfully to suppress this desire, but he filed away the detailed report on what her left leg looked like next to an empty folder marked right leg.

"How is your ankle...?" he asked.

"It'll be fine..." she replied.

Freddie got up and wobbled a little.

"At least take my bed... save the stairs." Said Sherlock.

"Thanks."

She walked away and reached for the zip on her dress.

"Ouch..." she flinched.

Sherlock looked up at her, he noticed scars on her back, just over the top of her dress.

"Could you...?" she asked, sounding defeated.

"Of course." He said.

He got up and gently placed his hand on her shoulder, he lingered for a moment then slowly pulled the zip down. She slipped the dress off and it landed softly on the floor. He could see the whole of her back, it was pale and very badly scarred.

Sherlock looked over the many deep, old scars on her back each in sets as if from a rake or garden fork. Almost hypnotised, he ran his finger along one of the larger scars, finding himself wanting to examine every inch of them very closely.

She took a deep breath in and he realised what he was doing.

"Oh. I'm... sorry." He took off his dressing gown and helped her into it.

"Thanks..." she turned to face him.

"You're very clumsy..." he said.

Freddie sighed and smiled weakly.

"I'm not, I never have been."

She took his hand and placed it on her leg and moved it up to the iron shaped burn mark.

"My mother at the time was doing the ironing when I came downstairs... 13 years old. I was going to meet up with some friends, mother asked if I was meeting boys, I told her no and she called me a liar. I was wearing shorts and she accused me of trying to seduce her most recent gentleman caller. Again, I told her no and again she called me a liar. She hit me and called me a whore. She held the iron to my leg... She told me never to wear anything short like that again... I was moved out pretty quickly after that."

Sherlock said nothing. They kept eye contact with each other as she dropped the robe, it hung loosely off of her shoulders. She took both of his hands and placed them on her waist, she then stepped forward and moved his hands around to her back.

He felt the deep scars on her back and quickly looked down at her body, hoping she hadn't notice his eyes move.

Unfortunately she had and offered him a weak but underlying smug smile. Her short, lithe figure was exceptionally pale it almost glowed in the light of the fire, he stayed silent.

"I got these when I was 17. The most recent family said they didn't know what might happen if they ever caught me using again. I didn't care... I should have... they pulled me out into the garden, half naked and gave me one for each time they turned the other cheek, as they would say... gave me the benefit of the doubt... they were my least favourite... out of the families I had." She let go of him and slowly he moved his hands off of her. She put his robe back on and loosely tied it at her waist. She folded her arms and looked down at the floor.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked, unable to think of a reason.

"Haven't a clue." she shrugged.

"Liar..."

She smiled, "Maybe I'm just drunk... Maybe I wanted someone other than police and social workers to know that stuff about me... someone I trust."

He almost laughed.

"You think it's funny that I trust you?" she stepped a little closer to him, "Well, it must be because I'm drunk... why else would I..." she leaned in close and kissed him on the lips resting her hand on his chest. Sherlock didn't move or kiss back, he just stayed perfectly still.

She looked up at him, he stared back.

"Or maybe because you like when people tell you the truth, when people are straight with you... I figured I'd tell you before you found out... and thought... less of me." She looked down at the floor, "You're not a psychopath..." she almost reluctantly gazed into his eyes, "Far from it in fact. You can keep up the game with the others but you can't fool me. You have attachments to people, you care about them... you have a clear conscience even if you don't want to admit it. There are things in this world that matter to you... and that's very un-psychopathic." She felt his hand take hers and his finger rest gently on her wrist. He was checking her pulse and trying to be sly about it. She smiled at him and kissed him again, resting her hand on his chest. Before she pulled away he kissed her back, unable to stop himself. He didn't know where it would have gone if she hadn't pulled away, but it felt nice, not like any other he had shared before like Janine or... It felt nice.

She looked up at him and gazed into his eyes, watching his mind desperately trying to explain something. She smiled and admired him, he noticed this.

"Goodnight, Sherlock Holmes..." she said before leaving.

He watched her as she walked away. Then when she closed his door, he sat down and stared into space. He thought about what had just happened. It was strange, physical attributes had never been relevant before, but irritatingly he found himself somewhat intrigued by the shape of her body, her curves and... other parts. He thought about how she had looked when gazing into her eyes, increased heart rate, dilated pupils.

'She fancies me.' He thought to himself, smiling quite smugly.

He drifted off to his mind palace and the feeling was there, waiting for him. It had infected him like a computer virus, he had to get rid of it as it was clouding his thoughts. He thought about what she had said to him about being completely vulnerable and he realised that she had done just that, she had told him about her troubling past and had been completely naked in front of him, literally, save the red lacy underwear she had on. His lip twitched almost into a smile at that thought, the way it perfectly complimented her hip bones. He shook his head. That was not relevant information. Especially the specific shade of red making her pale figure look even more– He stopped. Even more what? What had he been about to think? He certainly admired her image, not as if she were a classic painting but as if she were a hidden masterpiece. The kind you wouldn't normally notice, tucked away in a corner of an unknown gallery... Even if the concept of looking at someone in that way was new to him, he couldn't deny that. It felt as though he had lost the right to a few too many IQ points just for thinking that. Then he came to a room in his palace. She was there, waiting for him. She smiled.

'Go away... I'm trying to think.' He said grumpily.

Then he realised, all he was thinking about was her. He sighed and remembered what it had been like when she placed his hands on her skin, almost electric. He looked at the image of her in his mind, he couldn't keep away. It sent a shiver through him as he gently caressed her curves. Remembering what it had been like when she took his hands, that had been an entirely new experience, he found himself wanting more. It felt wrong, what had she done to him? He was desiring contact. He ran his hand along her hip bone with one finger curled into the lace of her underwear. He stopped realising he was fantasising. Highly counterproductive. This could never give an accurate result, as he had no idea how she would react. But he wanted to know. In the one short day he had known her she had been completely honest and open with him, it felt strange but he felt closer to her than to anyone, even John. He was his best friend but he had never just told him everything there was to know about John Watson, he must have assumed that he already knew. He put the thought of John out of his mind, having decided to indulge in his fantasy for a moment longer, the last thing he wanted was to be interrupted by John.

He wanted to pursue the feeling, see where it would take him and find out what it actually was, an experiment in social convention as Freddie would probably say. He allowed her to lead him over to his chair, he sat down and she sat in his lap, facing away from him. He examined her scars, it made him want to do this for real. She turned and straddled him. She took hold of his wrist as if to take his pulse, it was very quick. He looked around and caught his reflection, dilated pupils. He took a moment to process this new information, barely able to understand. This kind of thing didn't happen to him. But he came to a somewhat acceptable conclusion.

'I fancy her...'

"Sherlock!" John shouted as he came into the flat and ran up the stairs, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock was still sat in place staring into space.

"Have you seen this?" John showed him a newspaper.

"Do I look like I've seen anything?" Sherlock asked.

Freddie came in from Sherlock's room.

"Have you been sat there all night?" she asked him.

"It would appear so..." he replied.

John looked over to Freddie, she was still wearing Sherlock's dressing gown.

"Oh, hello John... I should probably put some clothes on." She smiled awkwardly and headed to the stairs.

"Careful..." said Sherlock still fixated on blank space.

"Nothing to trip on." she said looking over to the dress on the floor.

John watched Sherlock as his eyes followed her up the stairs.

He looked at the dress on the floor.

"Sherlock?" he asked.

"What?" replied Sherlock, looking over the paper John had brought in.

"Something you want to share?" John smiled.

He looked confused, "No...? And why are you showing me this?"

"Really? Nothing? She's wearing your clothes, sleeping in your room, her dress on the floor and you're sat here, well, being quiet."

"What part of that needs explaining?"

"Well..." John shrugged, "I'll tell Mary we have a couple to have dinner with–"

"Why would that make us a couple...?"

"Am I missing something?"

"Probably..."

John sighed, "So you and Freddie–"

"What would give you that idea?"

"Didn't you and her–"

"She slipped on the stairs, I helped her and let her have my room."

"While you sat here staring in to space... Jesus Sherlock I didn't think you were that blind." He laughed.

"What?"

"When she slipped what did you do, help her?"

"Yes."

"And did she seem at all grateful or...?"

"She was injured..."

Freddie came downstairs, they looked over to her.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything?" She said, her eyes flicking between the two men.

"No." Said Sherlock, "How's your ankle?"

"Purple is how I would describe it," she lifted her trouser leg showing a purple bruise on her ankle. "It'll be fine, just don't ask me to run anywhere." She grabbed a drink of water from the kitchen. "So, what did you want to show us?"

"Sorry?" asked John.

"It's early and you brought a newspaper, something important?" she grinned.

"Yeah... well you said low profile right?" he showed her the paper. She looked it over, shocked. The article in question was a big gossip story it showed a picture of her and Sherlock from last night when he had let her in, with a big heart around them and the headline Who Framed Sherlock Holmes?!

"Oh lord..." Freddie slumped down.

Sherlock chuckled, "It's a joke right? Because you're dressed like her, in the film...?"

"This is bad..."

"I thought it was quite clever." Said John, laughing along with Sherlock.

"No, I mean... If they see this... the killer. They'll believe it, every word of it. They'll see me as a threat and... I'll be next."

"Oh come on," Said Sherlock, "No one believes what they write in these."

At that point they heard Mrs Hudson squeal with delight and rush up the stairs.

"Oh Sherlock, I've just read the paper!" she said happily.

"Don't tell me you believe that rubbish?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Well there's no sense hiding it now, everyone's going to know!"

"There's nothing to hide."

"Exactly dear," she smiled, "I knew something was up, I can always tell these things! Would anybody like a cuppa?"

Sherlock sighed and went into his bedroom.

"They couldn't know that it's you though... the killer... right?" asked John.

"But some people do, they might find out." She was visibly shaken, "I'm gonna go talk to him..." she got up and headed for Sherlock's room, knocked on the door and slipped inside.

"They are sweet aren't they?" Smiled Mrs Hudson.

"Even if they don't realise it yet." John added.

"Hey uh... are you ok?" asked Freddie.

Sherlock sat down on his bed and placed his shirt next to him.

"What did last night mean...?" he asked, still confused even after last night's deductions.

"Does it have to mean anything?" She sat down next to him and he stayed silent, "Ok... you can choose if you like?" She crossed her legs, "I was drunk and made a mistake." She turned to him, "I was grateful to you for helping me and listening to what I had to say... or..." she took his hand, "I like you. Simple as that..."

Sherlock stayed quiet for a moment then turned to her and let go of her hand.

"People don't like me..." he said slowly.

"Then I guess it's not that one." She got up and headed for the door, "Tell me when you plan on searching the pubs, I'll come with." She opened the door.

"People don't. You are... different." He said.

Freddie smiled and left the room.