Chapter Two: Tea & Conversation

John doesn't have a chance to find out exactly what the girl means by that statement, however, because a tall, thin man in a ridiculous wool coat has appeared on the kitchen threshold. He is slowly, almost sensuously unaware, pulling off a pair of black leather gloves one long finger at a time. John can feel the demeanor of all four of the spirits change and he drops Ophelia's hand as if he's been burnt.

Ophelia laughs, her voice a joyous bell-like melody that lightens John's heart. She follows John's eyes with her own, watching closely as he scrutinizes her brother from head to feet and back again. Mary Beth, still seated on the table, giggles and makes a wet sound with her tongue. Janey pulls her down and into her lap in order to cuddle the baby in her arms. James doesn't move except for his brown eyes that are so dark they're almost black. The boy tightens his lips and a clever, intuitive expression passes over his features.

John doesn't see any of these things, however, because he cannot seem stop himself from staring at the commanding figure in the doorway. A hush falls around them until Ophelia breaks it.

"This is Sherlock Holmes," she starts, only to be interrupted by a smooth, rich baritone.

"You are LOPNI?" The mysterious stranger asks, green eyes holding John's full attention, obviously uninterested in further introductions.

"Yes," John croaks, determined not to argue that it isn't pronounced Low-penny and should be Lop-knee. Somehow he feels that his words would fall on deaf ears anyway. The stranger's beautiful lips are moving and John realizes then that he's still staring.

"I'm sorry?" he manages not to stutter.

The man, Sherlock, huffs in irritation then crosses the room in two strides to settle at the table on the chair next to Ophelia. She grins up at him.

"Sherlock, John's not a believer," she says knowledgeably.

Sherlock frowns, still only looking at John.

"Well, come on!" she retorts. "He said I'm the first 'one' he's seen." Ophelia turns her icy gaze to John. "Come to think of it, what exactly did you mean by that?"

John is finally able to break the spell by turning his head in her direction. Out of the corner of his eye he catches a faint movement, like heat dissipating in the air as Janey, James, and Mary Beth disappear. At one time in his life that may have surprised him, but that is no longer the case. There is just too much happening right here right now to try and make sense of it all.

When John returns his attention to Sherlock, he is instantly hit with the feeling that everything he is must be right out in the open for the other man to see. He watches Sherlock warily, unsure as to what to even say.

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. "She's correct. Why would you take a job working for a paranormal investigation company if you've never seen…" his words trail off but his eyes flicker over every part of John visible to him, and probably some things not so much. Finally, he says, "Ah."

Beside Sherlock, Ophelia continues to smile up at John.

That single syllable breaks John's bubble. "What do you mean, 'ah?'" he asks, growing irritated.

"I've been given to think that I should not…"

John almost growls. Tapping his index finger on the abused table top, he snaps, "Just say it."

Sherlock looks to Ophelia then tilts his chin towards John. "All the evidence that I can see clearly says you have no psychic powers and have never seen a ghost. No religious affiliations…really, nothing special about you at all. So, again, why are you doing this job?"

Nothing special? John wonders. What is that supposed to mean? He doesn't ask, though, instead, as he pushes away from the table, he says, "I see."

Ophelia frowns at Sherlock as John stands up. Sherlock frowns right back. He can feel his sister's ire but decides to ignore it.

"Well, since I am pretty useless here, I'd like to say it's been nice to meet you, yay, but…no, no it probably wasn't." John shakes his head and pushes the button on his Bluetooth. "False alarm," he tells Dale, "I'm coming home."

He's almost through the kitchen doorway when Sherlock's voice makes him stop. "You didn't ask me about Mister Norton, John."

"What makes you think I give a flying…?" John starts, fully exasperated with it all now. He balls his hands into fists at his sides, fighting to maintain his composure and seriously wondering how in the world this stranger has upset him so quickly.

Ophelia cuts over him smoothly. "Mister Norton says he isn't haunting his wife. He is protecting her."

The girl's words give him pause. He wipes his hand over his mouth and regards the two of them. "What?"

Sherlock nods once. "Mister and Misses Norton never had any children."

That takes a moment to sink in. John sighs and drops back down in the chair he just vacated. "Who were they, then?" he asks, gesturing at the table top where Mary Beth had been sitting.

"That is what I intend to find out. I will contact you tomorrow." With that, Sherlock moves across the kitchen in a graceful whirl, Ophelia close on his heels.

John watches them leave feeling like he's missed something big somewhere, only he's so far lost that he's never going to figure it out. He shakes his head again, turns off the EVP device that's been going apeshit in his pocket for the past ten minutes, then leaves the house. He has to stop at LOPNI headquarters and give his report before he can head home, but his mind is so full of intensely glinting green eyes that he doubts he'll be able to concentrate enough to give a coherent rundown of the little meeting in which he just found himself taking part.

ooo

Sherlock stretches his legs out, bare feet skidding gently over the Persian rug in his sitting room. He's slouched down in his chair, elbows on the arms of it, fingers studiously steepled beneath his chin. Now dressed in a worn pair of track bottoms and an old baby blue t-shirt, he is the very picture of an irritated genius. According to the words Ophelia has been droning under her breath for the past half hour anyway.

"Give it up, Sherlock. He's way out of your league," she mutters from where's she stretched out on her back across the top of the back of the couch, one hand over her chest and the other one hanging loosely, fingers pointing towards the seat cushions.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow in his sister's direction but does not turn his head or otherwise acknowledge the ridiculousness that is spilling from her mouth. After a few more minutes of this, he sighs. "What are you on about?"

"Oh come on!" She dramatically bats her eyelids and does her best imitation of a man's deep voice. "My name is John Watson and I'm only here so certain consulting psychics can brag about how good they are…"

"Ophelia, really?" Sherlock snorts.

Ophelia giggles. "God, no one is that dense. Definitely not you." She turns her head to the side to regard him with a shrewd expression beyond her years then grins. "Watt-son and Holmes sittin' in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g!" she sings.

Sherlock huffs. "He doesn't even like me."

"He doesn't know you."

"I've almost had enough of this conversation, thank you." Sherlock closes his eyes to stop himself from blurting out that when people bother to get to know him they get hurt and he'd rather avoid everything that goes along with it.

"Awww, don't be like that." Ophelia states as she drops off the back of the couch to the cushions below, crossing her legs. "I'm tired of seeing you so alone."

Sherlock doesn't answer her this time, though he doesn't move out of his chair either. On the little table next to him, his mobile starts vibrating so hard it's dancing on the tabletop.

"It might be Greg…" Ophelia tries, pointing at it as if it's same rare specimen of animal she's never seen.

Sighing as if he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, Sherlock plucks the phone up between his thumb and index finger then flips it over. He tip taps out an answer to Lestrade's text then vanishes up the staircase. Ophelia stays where she is, stretched out on the couch.

When Sherlock reappears ten minutes later, he's dressed in one of his normal suits and his hair is dripping slightly. "Come on," he says, opening the front door.

Ophelia grins, her expression only faltering when the barking at the back of the house starts up again. Sherlock sees her face and lightly brushes his hand against her shoulder. Fine again, she hustles out to the car with him, almost floating through the passenger door just as he closes it.

ooo

"Yes, he said his name was Holmes." John is explaining to Dale. He is sitting rather primly in an armchair in front of the fire of LOPNI's receiving room and Dale is spread out over the old leather sofa next to him.

"Naw, couldn't be. That Holmes guy, he'll eatcha' alive, John. Couldna' been him." Dale takes a long drag of the cigarette he's holding, the dim light of the room glinting off his watch as he does so.

Dale's never been one of John's favorite people, but John feels like he needs to understand. "Listen, that's not even the important part of the story. The important thing is that I saw three children and the Nortons never had any…"

"Four. You said four." Dale interrupts.

"What?" John asks as his train of thought completely derails. "No, I….actually, I guess I did. There were three. Janey, James and a baby named Mary Beth."

"They spoke to you?" Mike asks, his eyes open in amazement and a jovial grin spreading across his round face. After putting the tray of tea things on the coffee table in front of the sofa, he grasps John by the shoulder before shoving at Dale's feet and taking the end of the couch for himself. Dale grumbles a bit then sits up.

For an instant, John lets the memory of what happened in Mrs. Norton's kitchen wash over him. For some very odd reason he doesn't understand, he feels like he should not mention Ophelia. In everything that Dale and Mike have recently told him about Sherlock, not a single thing about the young ghost girl was mentioned. John may not always be the brightest lightbulb in the pack, but he knows when he's been shown something unique.

Thankful for the hot tea, even at this hour, John busies himself making a cup while Mike and Dale discuss John's report. When he was starting to feel like he could fall asleep right there, an odd silence falls and he blinks his eyes, his mind registering that the other two men are staring at him.

"John, what about the EVPs?" Stamford asks again.

"Oh! Right here," John says, tugging the little device from his pocket.

"Thanks," Dale tells him as he accepts it. "I'll run these in the morning and get back to you tomorrow." Dale stubs out his cigarette in the battered ash tray on the table and takes his leave.

As soon as he's gone, Mike regards John quietly. "Aye, that Holmes, he is really something. How is it you've not heard of him?"

John shrugs. "Honestly, I've no idea. He's a bit of an arse, if you ask me. Telling me all that stuff about myself…"

"Ah, John, give him some credit. Out of everything I'm sure he said to you, was any of it false or secrets buried deep?"

"No," John agrees with a slight head nod as he drains his cup. He places it back on the tray.

"He's the real thing, John, a bona fide psychic. Look him up. I'll go out with Dale tomorrow if you don't mind holding down the fort?"

"Sure, it will give me a chance to type up my thoughts about tonight."

With that, Mike gives him a polite goodnight and heads towards the door. Before opening it, though, he turns back to John. "John, be careful with him, alright?"

Absently nodding as he stares into the dancing flames in the grate, it isn't until he is in bed that he remembers Mike's exact words then falls asleep wondering what they mean. Shouldn't he have said 'be careful around him?' All night his dreams are haunted by laughing children, lonely old ladies and vivid green eyes staring right into his soul.