John's POV-

We sat in silence as the taxi jostled us about. It was dark outside, that didn't take long. Charlotte was glued to her phone, a blackberry by the looks of it. I looked back to the front of the taxi, trying to figure a few things out.

What was going on? A DI turned up at the flat, talked very briefly about suicides and a note and then there we were, sat in awkward silence in the back of a taxi. I won't pretend that I was unhappy with the close proximities, but still, given the circumstances I'd rather know why I was there.

What was all that about violent deaths and injuries? Where were we going? Why was I needed?

"Okay, you've got questions." Not a question, a statement. So she sensed my anxieties.

"Yeah, where are we going?" I turned to look at Charlotte, who was looking out towards the front of the taxi with something like a knowing smile. I followed her gaze, not noting anything special about the road laid out ahead of us.

"Crime scene." She replied simply. "Next?"

I looked towards my lap, slightly embarrassed by my next question. She had known my life story with just one look, and here I was having to vocalise my curiosity. It just didn't seem fair. "Who are you? What do you do?" I looked back up to her. Her hair was down again, a few strands were resting lazily on her cheek and I fought an urge to brush it away. Get a grip Watson, I told myself for what must have been the 100th time today, you hardly know her. It would be an invasion of personal space to do that. She continued to stare intensely at the road ahead.

"What do you think?"

"I'd say private detective," I answered, unsure, turning to look out of the window on my immediate right so she would see the slight flush of colour creep across my cheeks. I did not want to appear foolish in front of her.

"But?" She was probing an answer gently out of me.

"The police don't go to private detectives." I stated. It was true, they didn't – at least, not to my knowledge. A smile creeped across her face. If it were possible, this made her look even more breath-taking, in fact, I was having a hard time concentrating on the air rushing in and out of my lungs as she smiled.

"I'm a consulting detective," she said impressively, "the only one in the world – I invented the job." Her head turned towards me slightly, and I could see her whole profile.

"What does that mean?" I must admit I was confused. What exactly was a consulting detective? What skills does that require, and why did she label herself so?

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

I had to laugh. It was a ridiculous notion. Scotland yard consulting this woman? Didn't make sense. "The police don't consult amateurs." I watched her carefully. She looked at me. She said nothing for a while, but the look gave off a clear warning. I had done her a great personal insult to call her an amateur. Bad move Watson, never aggravate an unknown force, you never know if they could be enemy or ally. Quite calmly, she refocused her attention to the front screen of the taxi, but John could feel the tension, tangible in the air. When she began to speak, her voice had lowered, the honey and Christmas bells replaced by a cats purr with dangerous undertones.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday I said Afghanistan or Iraq, you looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw. Haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's – so, army doctor, obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists – you've been abroad but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it. So, it's at least partly psychosomatic, that says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic – wounded in action then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq."

My mind went completely blank, remembering only our brief encounter in the lab at Bart's the afternoon before. I had to look away, the look of confusion and absolute astonishment could not have been clearer on my face unless there had been a big, cliché, neon sign reading 'look at me, I'm astounded!'

"You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist," Charlotte explained as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and I could practically hear her eyes rolling. Well, it wasn't to me. "Then there's your brother," she continued as if there hadn't been an interruption.

"Hm?" I turned back to look at her, full of interest.

"Your phone," she said, taking it from me once again, twirling in her gloved fingers as she spoke, "expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. You're looking for a flat-share, you wouldn't waste money on this, it's a gift then. Scratches, not one but many over time, it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy, you know it already."

"The engraving?"

"'Harry Watson'. Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to – so, brother it is. Now, Clara, who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must have given it to him recently, this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then – six months old and he's just given it away. If she left him, he would have kept it, people do. Sentiment. No, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help. That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection. Tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone and you never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see, you were right."

This caught my attention. "I was right? Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs."

Her eyes were wide, blazing with a kind of passion I used to see from some of the boys in the army. Her whole being seemed to crackle with electricity, and I was sure that if I touched her, she would shock me so much my heat would stop beating. More hair was now draped across her check. She handed me back my phone and brushed it off with her small hands, tucking it carefully behind her ear.

"That… was amazing." I was hardly the most inventive language I could have used. I could have told her how her very being lit up with and excitement when she was talking, as if what she were saying was the most important thing in the world, and that excited and awed me. I could have told her that I had never met anyone in the world quite like her, and that this gift she possessed needed to be treasured, but also shown off to the entire world. I could have sung her praises, but I left her with amazing. My brain and my mouth did not seem to be connecting as well as I'd have liked them to.

Her head tilted towards me, then back to the window, and back to me again. Is it possible that I just surprised her?

"Do you think so?" I answered this immediately.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary." Of all the times in my life when I would have picked to be speechless, this was not one of them.

"That's not what people usually say." Her voice was quieter, softer, honey dripping it's way back into the low purr.

"What do people normally say?" What else could people say? What she just did was absolutely phenomenal.

"Piss off." She looked back at me.

There was a moment of silence as we just looked at each other, before our faces contorted into smiles and soft laughs were reverberating around the taxi. I looked out of the window to the dark streets we were travelling past. The look in her eyes during our moment of silence, it was almost like, pride. Was it true that people usually rejected such amazing observations? I'm a polite man, of course, but I couldn't be the only one who recognised a truly mind-blowing gift when I saw one? This woman was remarkable. So, why weren't people telling her this?

We pulled up to a normal looking street, with normal looking houses, full of people who led normal lives. Only the flashing blue lights and the large area cordoned off by a police tape showed the scene to be anything but normal. Charlotte got out of the taxi as soon as it stopped, and I followed her, more slowly of course, and with a lot more of an effort – damn my leg. We began to walk towards the scene, my cane making a noise on the tarmac, and her shoes clicking ever so slightly as we did. Her hair was jostled by the wind slightly, and the scent of mint, coffee and, worryingly, a faint smell gunpowder swept over me.

"Did I get anything wrong?" She folded her coat around her more securely. It was quite a cold evening, after all.

I thought through it, and a small smile played around my lips. Yes, she had got something wrong, something very wrong indeed.

"Harry and me don't get on," I said as normally as I could, revelling in the fact that I now had one over on the genius the was Charlotte Holmes, "never have. Harry and Clara split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker." It actually hurt to admit this. I care for my sister very much, and I really disliked her 'little indulgence' as she sometimes called it. It was ruining her life, not just her physical self, but also her mental self, and the mental states of the people around her too. I didn't blame Clara for getting out of it while she still could.

"Spot on then." Charlotte's voice bought me back to the present. "I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"Harry's short for Harriet." I continued to walk towards the blue lights that were now only a few feet in front of us. It took a few seconds before I realised that our paring was now missing one person. Charlotte was stood just s few paces back eyes straight in front of her, not focusing on anything, looking exactly like she found out that she'd got an obvious question wrong on the most important exam of the year.

"Harry's your sister."

"What exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" I looked back at the scene, feeling the confusion and nervousness rise in my stomach. I wanted to know what was going on, and just get back home – was that Baker Street now?

"Sister!" Charlotte hissed behind me before moving forwards again.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?" But Charlotte's mind was obviously more pre-occupied with the errors she had made during her observations.

"There's always something," she muttered under her breath.

She walked right up to the police line as if she owned it, only to be greeted by, "Hello freak." I stiffened. No, I must have misheard, surely somebody did not just call Charlotte Holmes a freak. I looked up to see the face of another woman, taller than Charlotte, but Charlotte's confidence make it seem the opposite way around. Charlotte offered up a smile to the new woman, a smile that was obviously not meant in a friendly gesture.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." Charlotte looked up at the house they were all gathered outside of.

"Why?" The woman questioned.

Charlotte turned back to look at her, slowly. "I was invited."

"Why?" There was nothing friendly about this woman, it did not take an idiot to figure this out.

"I think he wants me to take a look," said Charlotte rather patronisingly. Not that I blamed her, not in the slightest.

"Well you know what I think, don't you?" Said the woman as Charlotte ducked under the police tape.

"Always, Sally." Charlotte was watching the house again, a look of concentration on her face. "I even know you didn't make it home last night." Charlotte shot a mischievous little smile in my direction and nodded her head ever so slightly. I took this as a sign and moved forward to also duck under the police tape. Sally held up her radio in her had to stop me.

"Er… who's this?" She said, giving me a look not dissimilar to the one Charlotte gave me when she was 'reading' me, except Scally's gaze held a lot more hostility. Charlotte's eyes had not moved from Sally since she stopped me.

"Colleague of mine, Dr Watson. Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend." Her tone was perhaps a little more harsh than intended, but Sergeant Donovan seemed not to notice. The last sentence was suggestive, however, now was not the time to delve into the past of Miss Charlotte Holmes. They were at a crime scene.

"A colleague?" The sneer in Donovan's voice could not have been more evident. "How do you get a colleague?" She turned to me. "Did he follow you home?" I felt uncomfortable, and my leg was beginning to give me a lot of grief.

"Would it be better if I just waited and-"

"No," Charlotte cut me off as she held the tape high enough for me to walk under. She looked back up at the house, still holding the tape. Donovan was shooting us both murderous glances. I shrugged and moved forwards. Donovan sighed as she raised her radio to her lips.

"Freak's here. Bringing her in."

Charlotte moved in choreographed steps, twirling and spinning, coat dancing behind her as she took in every aspect of the environment around us. It was a sight to behold. She was distracted by the presence of yet another member of the team behind the investigation, or so I assumed.

"Ah, Anderson." Charlotte and I watched as the man in question walked towards us in his blue forensic overalls, removing his equally blue latex gloves. "Here we are again."

"It's a crime scene, I don't want it contaminated, are we clear on that?" God, Anderson sounded whiney.

"Quite clear." Charlotte clicked her tongue. The way she and Anderson looked at each other, there was clearly bad blood there. I made a note to ask my new flatmate about that later. Flatmate… it was the first time I'd thought of her that way. A warm feeling pooled in my stomach, it felt so right. I smiled in spite of myself. "And is your wife away for long?" Charlotte held her chin high, daring Anderson to deny anything. Anderson paused, for a moment surprised, but his face soon returned to the look of utter contempt it had held previously.

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told me that."

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men," Charlotte sang. Her face gave the most patronising look I think I've ever seen someone give and she smiled broadly.

Anderson's face screwed up in confusion. "Well, of course it's for men - I'm wearing it!"

Charlotte did not react immediately as I thought she would have. If it were me, or any other man in the world, the insults would have been rallied backwards and forwards continuously. But Charlotte smiled sweetly, too sweetly, in fact it was sickeningly sweet and she inched closer to Anderson, who was frozen on the spot, watching her move towards him. She stood on her tip-toes in order to reach his ear, before whispering very suggestively, "So's Sergeant Donovan."

Anderson whipped round to stare straight at Sally, who had a look of alarm on her face, eyes bulging, eyebrows raised so high that I was surprised they didn't vanish into her hairline. This had clearly had the intended affect, as Charlotte recoiled, her smile now a little more genuine, but still sickeningly sweet. She sniffed the air in an overdramatic fashion. "Ooh… I think it just vapourised. May I go in?"

"Now look," began Anderson, spinning back around to face Charlotte and waving his hands around in front of his chest defensively, "whatever you're trying to imply-"

"I'm not implying anything," said Charlotte, her tone of voice now copying the smile on her face as she pushed past him, "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over." She pushed past Donovan. I followed suit, trying my best not to laugh. Charlotte stopped in the doorway and turned back to the two of them, still stood there, looking shocked and panicked. She looked Sally up and down. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors , going by the state of her knees." She smiled again before entering the house. I too looked Sally up and down, before moving past her and following Charlotte into the house.