PART 2: THE TEEN YEARS
8 years later and Charlotte was already 13 years old.
How time flies.
And in between those 8 years, Charlotte had a bigger mind palace, solved dozens of cases, and won the science fair for homeschooled children.
But despite all of these accomplishments, as she looked at her birthday cake and thought of a wish, she had what seemed to be a simple task for many in mind.
Make a friend.
Sure she had Greg, and Molly and Sherlock and John and Eliza and everyone else in her life but they didn't count.
They had to be friends with her by association.
For once she wanted to meet a complete stranger, not some person by association, and be friends with them.
They wanted to laugh with them, do experiments with them, maybe even solve crimes with them.
But every time she tried, they would be blind sighted by Sherlock or by her "fame" or anything but herself.
As her sad eyes looked at the birthday candles, she closed her eyes and blew them out, putting on a fake smile and rerolling her sleeves as all the adults clapped and took pictures.
"Aren't you concerned," Molly asked in another room.
"Concerned about what?"
"The fact that she never talks about her friends."
"She doesn't have any," Sherlock shrugged, "besides all of us."
"No wonder she's upset then! She needs to interact with people her own age Sherlock. Or else she'll just feel lonely and upset all the time."
"I'm more concerned on what she's hiding."
"Excuse me?"
"Notice how for once in 20 years it's 90 degrees here in London YET Charlotte desires to wear a long sleeve shirt that she so happens to keep pulling down."
"Do you have any idea what that's all about?"
"Of course," he sighed looking at Charlotte talking to Eliza animatedly, "but I need the evidence before I take action."
2 days later and Sherlock has been examining Charlotte non stop.
"Looking for any changes," Charlotte suddenly asked, getting Sherlock out of his reverie, "now that I'm a teen and all."
"You've already changed so much," Sherlock admitted, "it's just a matter of why."
"Changed for the better or worse?"
"Why did you try to take my cigarettes last night," Sherlock suddenly asked.
"What?"
"Why. Did. You. Try. To. Take. My. Cigarettes," he repeated calmly trying not to lose it.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she denied.
"Do you need me to get Mycroft to get a recording? YES MYCROFT I KNOW YOU HAVE CAMERAS IN HERE," he suddenly yelled at the ceiling.
"I-"
"Show me your arms."
"What?!"
"Show. Me. Your. Arms."
"Why," Charlotte challenged.
"You're wearing a long sleeve shirt that you are obsessively pulling down. Is that not suspicious," he asked.
"I'm cold."
"Prove it."
Revealing her arms he saw nothing but pure skin. She then smirked.
"See?! Nothing. I'm. Cold."
"Wash them. Your arms. Wash them."
She rolled her eyes at the situation, "Fine."
She then came back revealing nothing once again.
"You didn't wash it off hard enough," he stated.
"What?"
"The makeup."
He then took her hand and got a towel, washing her arms hard. She tried not to wince at the pain from friction.
As he rubbed back and forth her skin was getting redder and redder until finally he saw it.
Scars.
"First cigarettes now cutting," he muttered turning to her.
"And you contacted a drug dealer recently," he deduced, "weed or cocaine?"
"Papa-"
"Weed. Or. Cocaine," he asked gritting his teeth.
"Weed."
"That's it. We're taking you to a doctor."
"No papa I'll change I promise it's just I need to find a fix something that'll work maybe I'll make a friend just don't take me to the doctor please-,"
"And you've been taking painkillers," he deduced again turning his head to the right.
"Stop it. Stop all of this," she begged, "please can we just talk about this?!"
"You almost passed out while I was gone," he whispered truly frightened.
"STOP DEDUCING ME," she yelled.
"We're taking you to a doctor whether you like it or not," he started, grabbing his jacket on his way out.
She sighed and grabbed hers too.
"She has addictive personality disorder," the doctor diagnosed, "probably got it from her birth parents and from her traumatic childhood. I suggest we get her to therapy and give her these pills," the doctor then started to write a list of pills and passed
it to Sherlock.
"So I have trouble because I need to have a fix?"
"You don't NEED a fix," she started, "due to your chemistry, your brain only thinks you do."
"Okay," Sherlock interrupted, "thank you."
"Tell me Charlotte," he asked annoyed on his way out, "is there an actual reason why you didn't tell ANYONE about your issues with addiction?!"
"I-"
"You have no excuse for this."
"I know," she began, "But-"
"No excuse."
"BUT," she yelled over him while they got in the cab, "When did you tell John? About your drug abuse? Oh wait you never did. He had to find out by himself like you are right now. How the tables have-"
"This isn't about me. This is about you," he snapped, "you have people who clearly care about you and you didn't give any of them the time of day."
"MAYBE IT WAS BECAUSE I DIDN'T WANT TO DISAPPOINT YOU AND MYSELF LIKE I CLEARLY DO ALL THE TIME," she roared as they got out of the cab.
Sherlock looked at her for a moment in silence as he opened the door for her.
"You are calling Molly and telling her you aren't going to be there for a while."
"But what about our latest experiment?!"
"Forget about it."
"But-"
"And you are explaining to her why you can't come."
"But-"
"And you are going to therapy."
"But I'm ALWAYS in therapy."
"Call. Her. Now," he said slamming the door of his room and going into his mind palace.
"How did Sherlock react," Molly asked.
"He's angry and disappointed and-"
"Well I am too Char."
"I know," she sighed.
At times Molly did seem like the mother she never had.
"I'm sorry," she said, tearing up.
"It's okay. You should talk to him," she advised, "after he's done being in his mind palace."
"Okay," she replied, "thanks."
"No problem," she smiled while petting her cat, "I'll call you later Char okay?"
"Okay Molly bye."
"Bye."
"Sherlock," she asked knocking on the door.
"I'm busy."
"Papa I'm-"
"I'm. Busy."
"Tell me what to do."
"What?"
"Tell me what to do," she repeated, "you had addiction problems, tell me what to do about it."
"Distract yourself," he sighed at the other end of the door.
"By?"
"Doing things that make you happy."
Sherlock then heard her breath hitch a little.
He opened the door and gave her a hug.
"I need help," she said tearing up.
"With what," he asked soothingly.
"With everything."
"That's okay," he sighed rubbing her back like he has done a billion times.
