I meant to post this back in December but life got in the way little worms and...and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm not posting and I'm sorry if I'm letting you all down. I hope you enjoy this chapter.
As they both went into the building, Charlotte was suddenly attacked by a hug along with a loud squeal.
"Ms. Hudson," Charlotte smiled hugging her back.
"I'm so glad you're back," she responded as Sherlock went up the stairs with Charlotte's stuff.
"Sherlock aren't you happy that she's back where she belongs?"
Their was no response as he unlocked the door and went into the flat.
Charlotte's smile wavered for a moment.
"He's occupied at the moment," Charlotte responded for him.
"Oh he always is," Mrs. Hudson said playfully back, as the door closed.
"I'll have tea with you tomorrow alright? I just have to settle in."
"Yes of course," she smiled again before giving her a quick hug letting Charlotte go on her way up the stairs.
As she opened the door, a smell of familiarity wafted in the room. The smell of old books, chemicals, and dead things.
Home sweet home.
"You don't need the lock box you know."
She frowned at the lock box sitting before her feet, no doubt containing all the things she was once addicted to.
"I'm leaving that all behind me," she explained.
He ignored her as he strummed his violin.
"When is Mycroft coming to get it?"
No response was heard, only the plucks of the strings echoed quietly in the flat.
She picked up the box carefully, shaking it a little, then rose an eyebrow.
"It has your stash in it too," she stated surprised turning her head towards him, "except the nicotine patches. But that's not an addiction. That's just-"
"I'm not addicted to drugs."
Charlotte laughed, "neither am I. I just stayed at the hospital for the kicks," she replied sarcastically.
"It's for-"
"The work. It's always for the work. Sooooo predictable!"
"And you aren't? You always go back on something, ANYTHING, because-"
He stopped strumming then. And they both looked at each other in silence. He leaned forward, eyes thinned, and glared.
"Because you feel sorry for yourself."
Their was silence then once again. They looked at each other waiting for a response but their was nothing but tension in the air.
"I won't say anything because-"
"Their is nothing to say. I'm right you're-"
"Because you are still clearly angry with me about what happened. And that is okay-"
"What, did you learn that in therapy," he spat.
"I did actually. Let me know when you want to have an actual adult like conversation Sherlock," she spat back, unable to keep her composure for very long. She soon left, carrying her stuff with her and tried her best not to slam her bedroom door.
John soon came in after carrying a gift with a red bow on it.
Sherlock was no longer sitting at this point, instead he was standing by the window, playing a song he composed while watching a hint of snow fall down the busy street.
"Where's Charlotte? We have a gift for her."
He continued playing, ignoring the question at hand.
Charlotte soon came back out to the living room, her door left opened revealing her suitcase to be open, prepared for her week long stay. Then it would be prepared to leave back to uni.
"John," she exclaimed smiling speeding towards him arms open.
"Hi Char," he greeted back at her with a matching smile. He then revealed the said gift, resulting in an even bigger smile than before from Charlotte.
"For a better year."
"For a better year," she replied back while opening the gift which said, "From Mary, John, and Eliza."
When she opened it she covered her mouth then laughed.
The frame was wooden, with carvings of flowers and vines along with a year.
Good god that picture was years ago.
In it had everyone from Charlotte's first official birthday party.
Along both ends were the adults and in the center was Charlotte herself, along with Elizabeth showing off their teeth, or lack thereof, along with the plentiful amount of gifts.
"Thank you," she paused , "thank you so much."
He then squeezed her shoulder before leaving waving a goodbye to Sherlock, closing the door carefully.
And then they were met with silence once again, besides the music being played by Sherlock's violin.
"You know, even if you don't agree with me, I've come along way from the little girl from the suburbs."
He stopped playing for a second.
"And you're right. You are right. I need to move on," she nodded, still looking at the picture feeling the wooden carvings in her pale hands.
"But so do you," she continued, looking up at him, "with my past and yours."
He examined her for a moment eying her. From her clothes, to her eyes, to finally her face.
She had in no doubt grown up. Too quickly, if you asked him, but grown up nonetheless.
But as he realized a million times over and over again, despite the abuse, and the drugs, and everything in between, she was still that little girl Sherlock met all those years ago.
She had her hand out holding the picture along with its frame, reaching out for him to take.
He put down his violin, and took it.
He looked at himself first, no surprise there. His hair was a little grayer now and his face looked more aged now, but his chiseled cheekbones still stayed in tact along with most of his features.
He then looked at the little girl in the center, with her blonde hair and calm eyes that reminded him of John, with her pale face and big broken glasses that she no longer needed.
With everything, she still looked the same.
And he smirked at that.
