Author's Note: Hi everyone! Thank you for your feedback on Chapter 4! Here's the update!

Sam was typing furiously when she heard a gentle knock on her door. She turned, puzzled. She checked the clock on her laptop, it was three in the afternoon Sherlock usually wasn't home around this time. Or if he was he was usually experimenting or not speaking. Another knock, she rose to open the door. But the person on the other end beat her to it.
Sherlock? She raised her eyebrows, why was he here?

"Um... I need your help with something." he said quietly. He looked uncomfortable, like he'd never asked for help in his life.

She gave a confused look, he nodded in the direction of the kitchen and she followed him. On the table was an elaborate set of beakers and glass tubes with colored liquids in them. Sherlock walked over to the opposite end of the table and grabbed a notebook with a sloppy data chart on it with labels written in equally sloppy handwriting. He stood beside her and held it out for her to see.

"I'm going to mix this chemical," he said pointing to a beaker containing red liquid, "with this one," and pointed to a test tube with a yellow liquid inside. "Then..." he continued rushing over to the opposite end of the table and came back with eight other test tubes with other colors, "I'm going to do the same with these." He came back beside her and pointed back to the chart in her hands. "If the liquid changes color put a check mark, if it does not an x mark, and if it turns black write a circle. Don't worry about which chemical is which I wrote them in order."

She looked up at him a minute. He stared not knowing what to say next, he eventually muttered,

"I figured it would be more efficient having someone else do the writing rather than having to pause every two minutes." He quickly walked back over to the test tubes and looked back up at her.

"Uh... you ready?"

She nodded.

She'd watched and and recorded for about an hour. It was actually rather interesting to wach each chemical had a different reaction to the mixture he inserted with the eyedropper. She wished she could ask questions to find out more about what he was doing it for but didn't want to waste his time trying to figure out how to say "What's this do?" in pantomime.

When she'd first left hospital she hadn't tried to communicate at all. She didn't see the point after everything that had happened. After all talking to anyone new was hard for her, her mind racing always. Being an overly intuitive person can make one rather afraid, especially when most of your assumptions turn to out to be true. In school she tried to make friends, she was funny, well she thought she was funny.

Sometimes she would try to join a conversation but no one seemed to hear her. So she began to try a little harder speaking louder. But that didn't seem to work either, once two girls she knew from class walked past her and she made a comment on whatever they were talking about and they kept walking, suddenly angry she walked around the corner and shouted at them,

"Really?! You're just going to keep walking?"

They didn't hear her. After that she began to keep to herself, only speaking when spoken to. Her teachers always described her as "A pleasure to have in class." because she wouldn't yell and scream or chat during a lesson. But would always say she needed to "participate more." Sam hated that, in group discussions no one really spoke at all or two kids would always seem to gain control of the whole thing and no one could speak anyway. Sometimes the teachers acted like she did it on purpose, when she'd met with her counselor before year eleven they'd had a big discussion on "advocating for herself" apparently Samantha had trouble speaking to authority about schoolwork. She'd tried to remain calm and professional, years of watching had taught her that adults responded well to calm politeness, especially school counselors. She nodded and said she'd try, but then tried to avoid any teacher-student confrontation from then on. When she'd fail an assignment she'd try to not picture the disapproving look on her teacher's face when they'd read this supposedly "bright" student's mess of a maths homework. She unintentionally labeled herself as "bright" and "smart" because she read a lot and had more common sense than kids her age. Which made teachers expect more of her, which made it even harder when she'd forget assignments or not prepare for exams. Silence was best in situations like this. When the teacher confronts you about your missed assignment or a failed quiz, you answer politely, no arguments, you're not like the others, show them you mean it. In truth she was trapped. She had so much to say and had so much she wanted to do. She wanted to stand up and shout all the time.

"Just because I read doesn't automatically make me a genius!"

"This isn't testing my intelligence, this is testing my memory."

"Just because I don't make dumb decisions doesn't make me a good girl."

But she remained silence. Keep your head down. Silence was how she did it, so when she found she couldn't speak after she woke up she didn't react. The doctor's were concerned.

"Usually when patients wake up mute, they try to scream for help."

She sat there.

"You are certain, correct? You cannot speak at all?"

She nodded. The doctor sighed and sat back in his chair.

"I can't say this isn't unusual most victims in your situation will develop some form of PTSD. Hysterical mutism is a symptom that comes up from time to time. Although it's most commonly found in adolecents"

She stared, the doctor stared back, Sam could tell she was expecting an answer, she did nothing.

"In time it might wear off. But because you brain is considered fully formed there is less of a chance it will."

Sam's expression didn't change. She felt the doctor getting anxious, not knowing what to say next, patients must look hopeful at this point, or terrified. He wrote the name of a therapist on a slip of paper and said to visit them, that it would be good for her. And she did, every Monday. I wonder if he knows that, she thought as she wrote down a circle in the notebook. He was an intuitive person, almost super humanly so. She always knew when he was scanning someone, the same way she could sense people getting bored, or anxious, or annoyed. The unpleasant emotions were the easiest to pick up on. The harder ones were happiness, or contentment, or love. She tried to study him and sense what was going on in front of her. He was completely focused, all of his movements seem perfectly calculated before they were executed. Sharp, like the rest of him, including his mind.

When he dropped the last bit of chemical in a green liquid and Sam marked the results, his entire body seemed to relax. Like a full body sigh. He looked up at her and she handed him the notebook.

Later that night when she was eating Sherlock noticed something new. He noticed it during a commercial when he'd caught her dreaming again. She kept opening and closing her mouth but when it would reach a certain point it seemed to force itself open. Her jaw clicked. TMJ? No, she doesn't seem to have difficulty there. Must be from injury. But what injury? During one scan he did of her one morning, he noticed the only bone in her body that had ever been broken was her right wrist, judging by the fact that a bone in it stuck out further than its partner on the left, obvious. But other than a small scar on her chin she seemed relatively uncorrupted. Maybe John was right, I know nothing about her. He turned back to the telly and watched for another hour or so, around nine, he got up and realized he hadn't heard her leave her spot on the sofa. She always left before he did to clear the dishes. Maybe he hadn't heard her, he often wouldn't notice when John would leave the room, especially when he was deep in thought. He turned to find her fast asleep, resting her head on the arm, legs curled up. Sherlock stood a moment, watching her body rise and fall. He didn't know what to do. He grabbed his mobile.

John was typing when he heard his mobile vibrate. He checked the contact. Sherlock, at nine at night? Probably a case. John mentally prepared to rush out quickly, grabbing his coat as he read the text, then let it drop to the floor. On his phone was an image, of Samantha, sleeping on his sofa. He hit the call button.

Sherlock picked up immediately. John spoke before he could.

"You took a picture of her sleeping? Are you insane?"

"Not good?"

"Extremely not good. And what was the point of that?"

"What do I do about it?"

John was silent. He saw Mary come out of the bedroom and she mouthed.

"What's going on?"

John covered the mouth piece, "There's a sleeping girl on Sherlock's sofa."

"His... flat mate right?" Mary said cautiously.

"Of course." John said with a smirk as Mary began to giggle silently.

He took his hand off the mouthpiece, "You still there?"

John heard an exasperated sigh.

"What do I do?"

John rubbed his eyes, "I don't know-well first, delete that picture of her sleeping, that's creepy even for you, and second... I don't know give her a blanket, carry her to her room, leave her alone, do what you like."

He was about to hang up when another thought popped into his mind,

"And don't experiment on her!"

He heard nothing on the the other end of the phone, then the dial tone. He'd hung up.

Sherlock turned to look back at the sleeping girl. She hadn't stirred even with the phone conversation. He stood there, for once in a position of complete and utter confusion. Well the blanket's out of the question, she was lying on top of it, and I don't want to leave her alone he wasn't sure how she'd react to waking up in the sitting room tomorrow morning. He sighed, the option was simple.

He moved quietly over to the edge of the sofa and tried to assess the best way to approach this without waking her. He slid his left hand gently under her back, and his right underneath her legs. He lifted her slowly and kept an eye on her face which was resting on his shoulder. Sherlock wanted to hold her out further so they wouldn't be touching, figuring it was too invasive for two flat mates who barely knew each other, but he knew if he did her head would flop down over his arm and wake her. No, this was the best way.

He entered her room, which was lit dimly by the floor lamp next to her bed, still made from that morning. He carefully placed her on the bed and managed to tug the covers out from under her in order to place them upon her shoulders. He stood back to look at her one more time. The flat was quiet, no sirens from the other streets of London, or puttering from Mrs. Hudson, for Sherlock, whose life was so full of noise, within and without, this was a rare moment. Which is why he started when he heard a noise come from the figure on the bed. Something like a sigh, which coming from her usually sounded like a deep breath, but this was different. There was something else behind it, a noise, a whisper of a noise. He shut off the light and shut the door quietly behind him, leaning against the opposite wall. Selective mutism didn't seem right anymore. Had his deductions been wrong? Because somewhere in her he was sure, there was still a voice.