Not so Shakespearean

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or anything that pertains to BBC's hit-show. I only own my original character (OC) Ophelia Doreen Watson and minor plot. Please enjoy and don't forget to review, alert, or favorite! Thank you.
Author's Note: SpectrumLight you are such a delight! I'm so glad you were one of my first (and only so far, haha) reviewer; you are awesome! Also thank you to: XLauraEmrysX, ermahgerdwhatever, mf6661, and of course SpectrumLight for the follows! And a big thank you for ChibiChesire and shinigamigymnast13 for the favourite! You guys are amazing :)

3. Begin! A Study in Pink

Five o'clock rolled around entirely too soon for Ophelia, but her alarm clock insisted as it rang and rang until she pushed down the snooze button. She barely got a wink of sleep last night, instead she chose to drink a little too much - some cheap beer she picked up at the market along with painkillers - and listen to Tchaikovsky until nothing filled her mind except for the pulsating notes of his overture. Her head panged with the familiar feeling of a hangover as she made her way down to her kitchen to set the kettle to boil. She berated herself silently for drinking on the first day of her job, but it wasn't exactly planned she was just overly upset at herself; she always did something stupid (according to her mother,) when she was upset at something, and the poison this time around was alcohol. The Earl Grey bitterly slid down her throat before she made her way to the shower; God she smelt like a brewery.

When she toweled off, Ophelia finished off the rest of her tea before tottering back to the kitchen to make some toast which she buttered generously and turned on the telly. She sunk into the couch, curling her knees into her chest, and relished how warm her bathrobe was. She bit into her toast as the morning news flooded the screen, the main topic being the 'serial' suicides that had happened over the last couple months; it was nothing new to Ophelia, even back home she turned on the telly and heard about the horrific events that were unrolling in London. That's why her Mother was so against her moving to London in the first place, that and she insisted that Ophelia needed to give her brother room to breath.
By the time the morning news ended it was a quarter past six, and Ophelia went to her bedroom to finish getting ready for another long day of work.

It was a schedule of normalcy for Ophelia, always the same things first: brushing her teeth, drying her hair and styling it; make-up was next, followed by getting dressed, and lastly the finding of her purse and the procuring of her keys. She slipped on her Mary-Jane heels and was ready to make a dash for a cab, but as soon as the door swung open she almost ran into her brother.
His fist was raised, as if he was ready to knock on the door as soon as she opened it, but quickly took it back and coughed into it. Even with all the make-up in the world, she knew her eyes were red and puffy, even her cheeks would be flushed; she hurriedly turned and locked the door. "What are you doing here John?" Her voice was quiet as she took her key out and twisted the doorknob to see if it was fully locked; it was.

"I wanted to apologize for last night," he started, but she knew more was coming, "but you can't keep acting like you're older and wiser than me Effie, I'm a grown man." His voice was tough, and he sounded very much like how he did when he told her, Harriet, and her parents that he was enrolling into the military; he wanted to be reassured. Ophelia took in a deep breath before twirling on her heel to face him with the bravest of smiles, "I know John, but I am your sister; am I not allowed to be worried?" She tried to put a teasing spin on her words, but when she saw her brother's face fall she knew it wasn't there. He scuffed the bottom of his shoe against the cement before sighing, looking up at the already darkening clouds, and then back to her.

"How about this," he offered, "you come with me to the flat and see where I'll be living. Will that set your mind at ease?" Ophelia shivered against her better judgement as the images of Sherlock wiping a cold corpse came back into her mind's eye; however, she stiffened her upper lip and nodded her head, "yes it would mean the world to me John." She could see John's face light up and her back slackened at the dispersing tension.

"Come, I'll ride in the cab with you."

"You look happier today," Molly remarked as Ophelia shimmied off her jacket to hang up in the locker, "a little on the sick side though, are you alright?" Ophelia stiffened before nodding, trying to give a nice smile. "Well, I got up this morning and remembered I have a job with a wonderful colleague; it immediately set me in a happier mood." She saw Molly's face flush before she smiled, and Ophelia could feel the smile rising to her lips as well. After she slipped on her lab coat, Molly nodded at her: "Ready to go?"

"Of course!" And off down the hallway they went, mostly casual niceties passed back and forth; however, when Ophelia and Molly showed up outside the morgue there was a lone figure standing in the hallway. He wasn't smartly dressed, so obviously he wasn't a doctor or a nurse; Ophelia observed him masticating loudly on a piece of gum as they approached.

"Hello," Molly started first, fishing the key out of her pocket, "can I help you?" He lazily smiled as his eyes traveled up Molly's body and slowly made his way over to Ophelia. She noted that momentarily his eyes did widen, but a quick smile replaced it as he pushed himself off the wall, "I'm Jim, I work upstairs as an IT worker, but I was sent down here for some files?" Molly nodded her head, her face a fire-red as she quickly unlocked the doors and pushed them open.

"Do you know what the files were named? It'd be easier to find them." Molly asked, he shook his head as the lazy smile stretched across his lips. Ophelia was silent, looking between the two embarrassingly, "I can go see if they're in the outbox, if you know the name." She said uneasily. Jim's gaze was rendered on her, and she could feel the nervousness build up inside of her.

"You two are darling!" He yelled loudly, laughing just afterwards and Ophelia flinched back in the sudden change of character, "absolutely adorable." He clapped his hands together before adding: "the title was DW23R7J I believe." Ophelia nodded her head and walked over to the inbox, listening to Jim shamelessly flirt with Molly. She found the documents and quickly handed them over to Jim, unconsciously biting on her lower lip and dragging her tongue over it afterwards.

"Here you go sir." She stumbled over her words, but Jim looked at her - with what she could describe - as a kind gaze and gently took the manila folder from her hands, his finger brushing slightly against hers; heat rose into her cheeks and the already wide smile became cheek splitting on his lips. "Call me Jim, please and thank you! Now I won't get hassled by my boss." He joked. His accent was obviously English, but it sounded almost new? Could you describe an accent like that? she wondered before noting that he was leaving. Molly turned to go see if any bodies were brought in and Ophelia went to follow before she felt a sudden tug on her thick, blonde hair.

"You are absolutely delicious." She stiffened, the accent was now almost a thick Irish one and she didn't dare start to walk again until she heard the door close behind her. Her legs felt like jelly as she walked back to Molly, who was scanning over two or three files laid out on a gurney. "You alright?" Molly inquired, looking concerned at the smaller girl, "you're shaking, you cold? You can fetch your jacket if you want, no need for you to be uncomfortable in here." Ophelia chewed on her bottom lip, shaking her head before smiling: "I'm fine Molly, now how did Jackson Peters die?"

John waited patiently outside the hospital, his weight shifting from one foot to the other as he leaned against his cane. It was a dreary day outside, the graying clouds looked like they wanted to storm but couldn't decide. Finally, he spotted Ophelia coming out from the elevator her red blouse tucked into her high-waisted pleated skirt and shiny, new heels. John smiled and was about to wave at his sister when he noticed a man stopped her; she didn't look entirely too comfortable with his presence, but noticed she looked relieved after a couple of words left his mouth. She nodded before saying her good-byes and walking outside, and to where her brother stood watching.

"Hello John." Ophelia greeted, an awkward smile pressed against her lips as tiny white puffs of air left her mouth; she slide on her jacket, buttoning it up, as John replied. "Who was that?"

"What no hello?" She jokingly asked, "he's interested in Molly." John nodded his head, his eyes followed after the man as he left through the front doors and quickly down the steps to flag a cab, "you sure?" He inquired more, watching as he got in a cab and looked back in time to see a hot pink rise to her cheeks, "something happen?" He pressed, raising a brow at her. She shook her head, smiling brightly, "nothing John, now 221b Baker Street, correct?"

The cab ride over was quiet at the very least, it gave time for Ophelia to calm her fluttering heart, and give John some passing glances. He looked nervous, tapping his cane against his bum leg, and kept staring out the window; she caught him glancing at her as well and give her a sweet smile. "I really hope that this helps you feel better." He said once again, patting her knee with his free hand. She smiled and nodded her head, "it will, I promise." The cabbie turned around, an older man with kind eyes, "we're here." The cab briefly stopped just a few yards away from what looked to be a small café. John nodded his head and handed the payment to the cabbie, sliding out behind his sister.

He took a deep breath of the damp air, letting it filter into his lungs and out before glancing at his sister; she shifted her weight from foot to foot, her eyes directly looking down as she scuffed her heel against the pavement. Licking his lips, he grasped the bend in her arm before pulling her close to him, "don't do that," she looked up at him, her large grey-blue eyes wide, "that sad face. You know I'll fall for it every time." Her hand throbbed at the awkward angle her arm was pulled into, her head nodding as they walked down the sidewalk towards the lacquered door with two-two-one-b hanging above the knocker. John tensed beside her, knocking on the door and standing back as Ophelia leaned against the wall, chewing on her lower lip.

"Hello." Ophelia watched as Sherlock came from the cab, handing the driver money as John turned around, smiling, "Ah, Mr. Holmes." John limped over to Sherlock, hand raised, "Sherlock, please." The dark-haired man corrected, taking John's hand and shaking it. John stepped aside, "this is my-"

"Niece? No, no too old... Sister, yes definitely - you share the same eye color, physique, and facial features. Younger, I'd say about seven years give or take," Sherlock held his hand out to Ophelia, who had pushed herself off of the wall moments before, "Sherlock Holmes." Ophelia took his large hand into her smaller one, giving is a firm squeeze before shaking it. "I know who you are Mr. Holmes, I'm Ophelia Watson; a pleasure to meet you." His eyes sparked for a moment as he took back his hand, "ah, yes. The girl from the Abbey case, and you're working with Ms. Hooper now aren't you?" She shook her head before stepping back to John's side.

"Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive." John said after the quiet got too much for him; he leaned against his cane but shifted once again to stand straight. Sherlock folded his arms behind his back, "Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?" John asked curiously.

"Oh no. I ensured it." Sherlock smiled, Ophelia found herself shivering ever so slightly at the mention of the husband's execution. The front door of the building opened, revealing an older woman with short, coppery hair and a smiling face; she opened her arms wide, "Sherlock, hello!" Ophelia stifled a small laugh behind her lips as she watched the tall man embrace the woman for just a moment before stepping back to present her and John to the woman; she must be the landlady.

"Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson and his sister, Ophelia Watson." Mrs. Hudson's lips curved wider, if it was possible, "hello." She inclined her head slightly, her eyes shifting over John and then to Ophelia briefly.

"How do?" John smiled back as Ophelia nodded her head, giving the older woman a sweet smile, "oh, come in." Mrs. Hudson opened the door wider and gesturing to both John and Ophelia to come in. "Thank you." John replied almost unsure, "shall we?" Sherlock asked, Ophelia looked up at the man before hearing a calm yeah in reply. Not to her surprise, Sherlock was the first one in and John followed behind just as Ophelia entered she heard Mrs. Hudson close the front door behind her.

"Oh dear, are you looking for a place as well? I have a basement flat, but it's ... a fixer-upper." Mrs. Hudson's gentle voice soothed Ophelia's thudding, nervous heart; she shook her head, laughing quietly, "oh no Mrs. Hudson, I already have a flat. It's actually not too far away, a few blocks around the corner - thank you for the offer though." Her cheeks started to hurt from the eager smile that was fixated on her lips; Mrs. Hudson shooed her up the stairs as she went into, what Ophelia assumed was, her own flat. Her heels clicked on the wooden steps as she stepped up the narrow passage way, and turned into the first room.

"So I went straight ahead and moved in." "Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out..." An embarrassed oh left John's mouth not soon after as the Watson siblings watched Sherlock freeze, "Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit." The man crossed the room, making a half-hearted attempt to tidy up; throwing folders into a box before crossing over to the fireplace with a few envelopes in hand, settling them on the mantle piece before stabbing a knife through the envelopes. Ophelia shrunk back from her place, flinching at the thud the knife made.

John pointed to the mantle, more generally at the skull sitting a top it, "That's a skull." Ophelia coughed as a poor attempt to hide the fact that it was originally a chuckle, "friend of mine," Sherlock started, glancing between the two siblings who were a room apart, "when I say friend..." Mrs. Hudson appeared behind her, "excuse me dear." Flinching at the contact Mrs. Hudson's hand madewith her shoulder (her stitches aching from the light pat,) she stepped aside and let Mrs. Hudson pass, who was already picking up a saucer and cup. Sherlock untied his scarf, shrugged off his coat, and was making his way over to hang it up.

Ophelia looked around the room, her eyes wavering at the skull before settling on the violin case sitting in the corner; it brought a faint smile to her lips, "you play?" it was a whisper, and she half-hoped the keen-eared man hadn't heard her; however, instead he did turn towards her and followed her gaze. "Of course, you were in the lab when I asked your brother if he minded it." Was his defiant answer, leaving no room for discussion. In her defense she had forgotten that he had even asked her brother.

"Effie played the cello for eleven years; she was an absolute star at it." John's voice crept up. Ophelia looked over at John, who was sitting comfortably on a chair. Sherlock made an affirming noise in the back of his throat, his eyes still cast down on her, "what was your favorite piece to play?" Ophelia smiled, sadly, "Fauré's Élégie."

"Ah." He turned on his heel, continuing with tidying up just a bit; throwing papers and folders into boxes and such. The quiet became too much for John once again, "I looked you up on the internet last night." Sherlock stopped, turning on his heel to face John, "find anything interesting?"

"Found your website, The Science of Deduction." John leaned forward, tucked his left foot behind his right; Ophelia glanced around and sat down on the couch, watching the two men, "what did you think?" Sherlock's face was lit by a proud smile, but it is quickly diminished by the face John pulls.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb."

"Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, your protectiveness in your stance, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone." Ophelia blanched at Sherlock brother? Does he mean Harriet?

"How?" Sherlock smiled and turned just as Mrs. Hudson came from the kitchen with the newspaper in hand, "What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same." Ophelia's eyebrows knitted together in confusion, watching as Sherlock walked over to the window and looked down.

"Four," Ophelia didn't see what he was looking at, but felt forbearance creep over her, "there's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

"A fourth?" Mrs. Hudson questioned; John and Ophelia looked at each other before looking at Sherlock, who had turned as a man walked through the door. Odd, Ophelia thought, Mrs. Hudson locked the door behind her, I'm sure of it. He looked to be somewhat out of breath as he glanced over at Sherlock. "Where?" Sherlock asked, Ophelia wasn't entirely sure what was going on still, "Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." Was the reply he got; the man's voice was strict, but still soft. "What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different." The obviously older man, Ophelia could tell by the graying hair, "You know how they never leave notes?" Yeah Sherlock replied, "this one did. Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?" "It's Anderson." Sherlock grimaced, clicking his tongue he replied: "Anderson won't work for me." "Well he won't be your assistant." "I need an assistant." The man sighed, "will you come?" "Not in a police car," Sherlock looked out the window, "I'll be right behind." "Thank you." The man looked from Mrs. Hudson, to John, and lastly to Ophelia; he gave a slight nod before heading back down the stairs. Just as the front door shuts, Sherlock leaped into the air, clenching his fists in some sort of triumphant act. Ophelia couldn't help the smile as the man twirled around the room happily.

"Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" His feet led him to his abandoned scarf and coat he headed towards the kitchen, only looking back to speak a few words: "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food." Ophelia looked to Mrs. Hudson, who didn't look dejected, but quite the opposite: she looked rather happy, "I'm your landlady dear, not your housekeeper." Her tone was stern, but her face gave away the happiness she felt. "Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" Ophelia watched Sherlock snatch up a leather pouch from the kitchen table, which was nearly out of sight, and opened the door - he disappeared from her view. John and Ophelia looked at each other; she could've sworn that her brother looked upset, quite actually.

Mrs. Hudson looked back at the two siblings, smiling earnestly, " Look at him, dashing about! My husband was just the same." Ophelia noticed John grimace, but all she could do was smile at the older woman and nod her head. Mrs. Hudson reminded her a lot of her estranged Aunt from her Father's side of the family; Aunt Clarice, who disappeared several years before Ophelia turning fifteen. Clarice was always a nice woman, if not a bit odd at times, and always had a smile on her face.

"But, you're the sitting down type. I can tell." Ophelia bit her lip to contain the smile threatening the spread just for the fact that John looked relatively uncomfortable about it; he was insecure. Insecure about his leg, the way he walked; all of it. A light pink-tinted his cheeks as Mrs. Hudson clasped a hand down on his shoulder, patting it. "I'll make you a cuppa, rest your leg."

"Damn my leg!" Ophelia neared jumped out of her skin; it was nothing new - his yelling - yet Ophelia always felt a tremor go through her when he yelled. John was the type that never shows his emotions, he always keeps it bottled up until it explodes, "Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing..." Ophelia winced as John bashed the side of his leg with his cane. "I understand, dear; I've got a hip." She pat her hip softly, smiling at Ophelia before turning back to the door.
"Cup of tea'd be lovely, thank you."
"Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson turned towards Ophelia, "what about you dear?" Ophelia nodded her head, "a cuppa would be lovely Mrs. Hudson." She barely caught the such manners that Mrs. Hudson mumbled under her breath, but smiled at the compliment.
"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em." Ophelia watched John snatch up the newspaper and unfold it, rather grumpily. Mrs. Hudson was already out the door, but she could hear her bellow: "Not your housekeeper!" Ophelia opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by another voice.

"You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor." Ophelia cranked her head just in time to see Sherlock slip his hand into his leather glove, his body almost leaning against the frame, but refusing to touch it. She watched John jump up, "yes." Sherlock made his way back into the room, stopping just short of John. "Any good?" "Very good." Was her brother's response. "Seen a lot of injures, then; violent deaths." John paled a tad, but straightened his back, "Mmm, yes." The same affirmative noise was made from Sherlock, "bit of trouble too, I bet?" "Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much." His voice was quiet, and there was a sort of reprieve of speech.

"Wanna see more?"

"Oh God yes!" John answered, fervently. Ophelia gaped at them, her lips parted. Sherlock's eyes shot over to her, and almost (what she thought was,) teasingly tapped his chin, silently telling her to close her mouth; she did, embarrassed that she got caught. John turned towards her, missing the silent conversation, "I'm going to go, you can walk yourself home, yeah?" She nodded, standing up to straighten herself out; "of course!" John smiled and limped over to her to give her a lazy hug before following Sherlock down the steps: "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson! I'll skip the tea, off out!"

"Both of you?" She heard Mrs. Hudson ask, obviously confused.

" Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" She could hear the amount of joy spilling from his very being. "Look at you, all happy. It's not decent." Ophelia walked down the steps, her hands clasped around her purse strap in front of her. She caught Mrs. Hudson's smile as Sherlock turned around, exclaiming: "Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!" And off he went through the front door, her brother following close behind.

As the door closed, Mrs. Hudson turned towards her: "well, will you still be joining me for tea then?"

"You are just a delight!" Mrs. Hudson chuckled, happiness spreading over her face, "you remind me of my niece, she's a quiet one too; however, she doesn't have manners!" She chuckled again, sipping her tea, "though she is going through that difficult time in her life... teens, I remember those days too." Ophelia rather enjoyed Mrs. Hudson's company, though she did like to talk. Ophelia mostly sat there nodding and gasping at the proper times, happy to make Mrs. Hudson happy. She had finished her third cup of tea a while ago, but stayed to see if her brother would make it home; it had only been twenty minutes.

"Oh dear, but I've kept you long enough; it's nearly nine o'clock, should you be on your way home?" Ophelia looked at the clock hanging on the kitchen wall, knowing full well she had work the next morning.

"Actually, Mrs. Hudson, may I ask a favor?"

"Of course dear, what is it you need?" Another kind smile, Ophelia felt positively enamored with that smile, "will you help me make something for the boys? Uh, to eat, you know.. when they get back, I mean I'm sure they'll be hungry." Mrs. Hudson laughed, a full-blown out laugh that filled the entire flat.

"Sherlock doesn't eat while on cases, usually dear; you're more worried about your brother aren't you?" Ophelia couldn't help but feel a little flustered at the accusation, "ah, don't worry dear. Sisters have to worry about their brothers time-to-time, especially ones so lively." Mrs. Hudson nodded her head in a way that spoke I know how you feel, and immediately the hot cheeks dissipated, "what were you thinking?"

"Well, my Mum always made cold blueberry-basil soup; John adores it, I was hoping..." Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands together, "that sounds delicious! I do have blueberries and basil, what else do you need?"

Not ten minutes later she heard the front door open and close, but it was only one set of feet going up the stairs. Ophelia currently had her sauce simmering in a pan, her hair was tied up in a messy bun, and a white apron was tied around her waist; Mrs. Hudson insisted on it since she was wearing such "nice clothing".

"I'll go see who it is dear, you just keep doing what you're doing."

Ophelia took off her pan, seeing as the blueberries had melted into the rest of the sauce, and placed the kettle of water on it instead. She moved to Mrs. Hudson's blender dumping the mixture, yogurt, and the basil into it; she flicked on the switch, bracing herself for the noise. It only lasted a few moments before she turned it off and poured the cold soup into two separate bowls. The kettle whistled loudly and Ophelia moved herself over to take it off; two mugs were situated on the table which Mrs. Hudson had already put the tea infuser into. She poured the water into the mugs, careful to avoid any spillage as Mrs. Hudson came back it.

"It's just Sherlock dear, your brother will be home soon I suspect."

"What do you mean my brother isn't here?" The word home struck Ophelia much more than she thought it would; this was his home now, he'd be living here now, and he has a different family now.

Mrs. Hudson sighed, "Sherlock messaged him a few times now, he assures me that he is on his way." Ophelia nodded, still not clear on why her brother wasn't back. She didn't want to think the worse, so she shook her head and went back to the tea. "You have to let it stand for three minutes dear, let it set and then you can add the milk." Ophelia nodded, following Mrs. Hudson's directions. She had never been one to make a good cup of tea, coffee was more her forte. The minutes passed slowly, "alright now you can add the milk, dear. You're going to want the right color - a dark orange-brown will be perfect." Mrs. Hudson watched over Ophelia's shoulder as she poured the milk, "ah! Perfect." Mrs. Hudson clapped a hand on Ophelia's shoulder, it was comforting.

"I'll go take this up, but I'll be back down to clean up; I promise, and don't you start without me." Ophelia teased, knowing that Mrs. Hudson (even though she insisted she wasn't a housekeeper) loved to help out. Ophelia put the bowls on a tray along with the mugs and silverware before heading up the steps.

Ophelia used her hip to open the closed-door, luckily it was unlocked. Once she stepped into the threshold of Sherlock and John's flat, she glanced around for the tall, dark-haired man; he wasn't in sight. She opened the door wider, the squeaking almost eerie before she walked to the kitchen. Her eyes widened in shock. What was supposed to be the kitchen table was covered in trinkets, tubes, beakers, bunsen burners, and she was sure she saw a torch laying haphazardly across it all; it was basically a science lab. In the kitchen. On the table. She sighed and turned around, freezing in her spot to see Sherlock - eyes closed and fingers to his lips - silently laying on the sofa; if she didn't know any better, she would've thought he was sleeping. She walked carefully to the coffee table to set down the tray before glancing around, biting her lower lip.

Her eyes landed on the table sitting behind her, littered with papers. She side-stepped to the table, rummaging through them until she found a blank sheet of paper and a pen. She turned and knelt, her heels making a squeaking sound against the hardwood floor before clicking the pen.

John-
thought you and Sherlock would be hungry (even if he doesn't eat whilst on cases,) here's some chilled-soup and tea. Call me in the morning.
with all my love,

Effie.

She folded the letter and placed it on the tray and had begun to get up when she was startled: "do you make it a habit to sift through other people's belongings?" A startled gasp left her mouth before she could stop it, and she silently cursed herself. "I'm sorry." Was the impulsive response that made her lips part.

"You should be," she didn't want to look up at him, instead she choose to put the pen quickly back in its place and turned to retreat downstairs, "oh stop that. He's not here." She stopped short of the door, she could feel her hands shaking, but she clenched her fists in a frail attempt to make it stop.

"What?"

He sat up, she could hear the sofa shift from the sudden movement, "you're young, if I had to say I'd say twenty-eight, twenty-nine at the most; however, you get - what you believe is an insult - that you look younger, so you compensate by dressing maturely. Tight-red shirt, tucked into a pleated skirt - the heels are brand new, barely used; you just got them within the week. You dress like this to forget something though, you can tell by the way you look exceedingly uncomfortable when you walk; you're not used to heels, the band-aids on the back of your heels are a tale-tell sign of course, but you trip as you walk. What do you want to forget? Why would you want to be taken so seriously?" He paused, looking at her small, shaking form, "you were abused. By your boyfriend? No, you wear a ring on your ring-finger - a cheap one at that. A plain gold band, he didn't like to spend money on you. So, it was a husband then. He must've liked that you looked younger, probably one of the reasons he asked you to date him; he likes to be the dominant one." Sherlock looked to be in thought for a mere moment, "you apologize even when it's not your fault, you flinched earlier at your brother's outburst;flushed cheeks and what would be a high-heart rate say I'm right. You looked afraid. So... you have trust issues because of it. That's why you came over today to see if I was a quote on quote okay person for your brother to be living with even though you had earlier thanked me for saving your life," he paused once again, exhaling and inhaling before continuing, "ah - that's why you haven't seen your brother in so many years. Your husband cut away at your normal li-"

"You can't tell my brother!" Ophelia exclaimed even though she didn't really mean to, "you can't! He doesn't know, if you tell him he'll fli-"

"Tell him what?" Came a voice from behind her, and she froze; she knew that voice, the kind but bone-chilling upset voice, "what's going on?" She tensed up, looking at Sherlock with pleading eyes before turning to see her brother, who was clutching her side.

She panicked, he'd know if she was lying. He always knew.

"That she was going to leave without saying good-bye. She got quite upset when I asked her where she was going."

She could've cried tears of pure joy when the words left Sherlock's mouth, she could've hugged the angst-y bastard. Ophelia looked at her brother and frowned, "I just thought I'd leave, but - " her voice shook.

"I told her to write you a letter. I'd make you feel at ease since you were wondering if she had gotten home alright the entire time we were at the crime scene." John shook his head and laughed. Sherlock was an impeccable liar, she felt both guilt and relief wash over her as John drew her into a hug. "You're too cute Effie, I'm glad you at least wrote a letter." He chuckled again, "that was a childish thing to get worked up over." He pet her messy hair before placing a kiss on her forehead, she frowned.

"Now, don't you need to get home. You work tomorrow don't you?" Ophelia nodded her head and she went to walk out the door, but was stopped by John yet again who pulled her into another hug. As she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, squeezing him tightly she mouthed to Sherlock thank you. He stalked over to the sofa and flopped down on the sofa once again.

Even though he ignored her, Ophelia liked to think it was his way of saying "you're welcome".

Quick!Author's Note: Holy moly, a 6,000+ word chapter I really hope you guys enjoy! Sorry for all the conversation, but since it's the first chapter pulling in the plot there was bound to be a lot of discussion. As you can tell, this fic will be mostly OC-centric, Hide and Seek is different in that it switches between POVs; if that is more your cup of tea please feel free to check it out. The next chapter will be a short one, most likely and have less Sherlock in it; however, it will have some more of Jim (yay?)

By the by, it doesn't mention when *spoilers* Moriarty started working incognito as Jim the IT at the hospital, so I thought what better way than to integrate our favorite villain than now? I hope that's okay! Lots of love! Please review/alert/favorite, and I hope you enjoyed!