It is better to be hated for what you are than to be loved for what you are not.
- André Gide

I slid my items across the scanner before depositing them into the plastic bags provided by the self check-outs. As I slid a head of lettuce across the scanner, the automated female voice spoke from the machine. "Unexpected item in bagging area. Please try again." I frowned but lifted the last item I'd put in before dropping it into the bag again. Thankfully, it went through that time. I held a lettuce in a plastic bag and moved it slowly across the scanner in an attempt to get it to read the barcode. "Item not scanned. Please try again."

I straightened up and stared at the computer screen. Why did they talk so loudly? Why couldn't they just talk quietly, or give a little beep. When the machine repeated its words once again, I grumbled, "D'you think you could keep your voice down?"

Finally, after a bit of frustration, I managed to get all of the items scanned and into the bags. I smiled nervously at the people behind me, who gave annoyed smiles, attempting to be sympathetic.

I inserted my credit card into the chip-and-PIN machine. I typed in my PIN and waited.

"Card not authorized. Please use an alternative method of payment."

Feeling my eye start to twitch, I began to mumble, "Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up..."

"Card not authorized. Please use an alternative method of payment."

The woman directly behind me had already picked up her basket, thinking I'd be done soon. Seeing I was having issues, she huffed and left the line, leaving me and a tall man with brown hair in line. I reached into my purse to look for my wallet and realized I'd left it at the flat. I winced and looked at the man behind me. "I haven't got anything... Sorry."

He smiled at me. "It's no problem, miss." He seemed patient enough so I started rooting through my purse for any other form of money. Seeing I was having an issue, the man suddenly stepped forward and swiped his card, quickly punching in his number before I could stop him. As the machine accepted the payment, he smiled at me. "Need any help with your bags?" He held up an iTunes card. "I only needed this."

I realized how cute he was suddenly. His eyes were brown and gorgeous, framed by long lashes. I found his glasses extremely attractive as well. His brown hair was wavy and was gelled into short curls. He was wearing a casual black shirt and a grey wool shirt with a pair of jeans, a belt, and boots. I realized I was staring and flushed, stuttering out a response. "O-Oh, no, I can..." I realized I had three bags and would have a hard time carrying them. The man smiled knowingly as he purchased his card.

"I'll take these," he said, picking up the two heavier bags and leaving me with the bag of bread.

"Thank you so much," I said as we left the shop. "I really appreciate it."

"It's no problem," He said with a smile. He seemed to have an accent.

"I'm Anna," I replied. "Sorry, are you from England?"

He smiled. "No, I'm French. Do you live near here?"

"Yeah, on Baker Street," I said, pointing farther down the road we were walking on. "I just needed some groceries so I walked."

"Most people don't walk anywhere here," he said wistfully. "You take taxis everywhere."

"It's a big city," I said with a shrug. "It seems easier that way. But it's fairly nice out today. It hasn't rained yet."

The man sighed. "It rains here so often!"

"I guess it's a bit different from France," I agreed. "You get used to it after a bit."

The man smiled at me. "I'll take your word for it." I blushed and cleared my throat, looking away. I then blinked, realizing my mistake.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," I said hurriedly. "I-I forgot to ask your name! Wow, that was rude..."

The man laughed kindly before saying, "It is all right. My name is Nicolas Blake."

"Nice to meet you," I said with a grin.

"I would greet you as we do in France, but I am afraid that it is not the usual greeting here," Nicolas said humorously.

I grinned. "No, I don't suppose so. It would definitely shock some people."

We walked in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Nicolas spoke again. "What do you do? As in a job?"

"I'm..." I paused, trying to decide what to say. "I'm out of a job right now, actually." Seeing him nod awkwardly, I rushed to explain. "I-I mean, I was a soldier in Afghanistan. I got shot and I haven't found a job yet. But I'm a nurse. Registered Nurse."

Nicolas nodded. "How old were you?"

"Twenty-four," I said. I then blinked. "Wow. I'm getting old."

Nicolas laughed kindly and I smiled. "Not very old yet, I think. If you are, then I most certainly am since I am twenty-eight. And now you are how old?"

"Oh, still twenty-four. It happened earlier this year." I glanced up at him. He wasn't too much taller than me. Maybe just under six feet. "What about you?"

"I'm here as a substitute. I work as a history teacher at Woodside High School. It's about twenty minutes or so from this area."

"Do you come to this area often?" I asked, trying to be casual. Nicolas must have caught on because he smiled knowingly.

"Yes, actually," he said. "I'm to take an exam soon that will let me become a teacher. If I pass, I've been offered a job at the school I work at now."

"That's exciting," I said, blinking. "What kind of history do you teacher?"

"If I had my choice, I would like to teach world history."

"I always loved history in high school," I said honestly. "It was always very interesting for me. I liked studying conflicts in countries and the wars that broke out."

Nicolas shifted the bags he carried. Just as he was about to speak, I realized I was in front of my flat. "Oh, this is me," I said, nodding at my door.

"I will take these upstairs, then," Nicolas said with a charming smile. I returned his smile and was about to unlock the door when I winced and turned quickly.

"I just want to warn you about my flatmate," I said nervously. "He can be a bit... eccentric."

Nicolas raised an eyebrow. "He?"

I laughed nervously. "Er, yes. But we're not together. God, no, we're not together. I don't think he's even capable of being with anyone. He's just not really the best at social interactions, and I've always thought that..." When I realized Nicolas was smiling sympathetically, I stopped talking. "Sorry. Sorry, I was rambling, um... yeah, maybe you can meet him some other time. He's not the best with strangers."

Nicolas smiled. "Then I will give these to you and open the door at the very least." I smiled, quite happy with the impressive display of manners

After he'd passed me the sacks of groceries, he reached around and opened the door for me. As his shoulder brushed past mine, I caught a spicy smelling cologne and smiled a little wider. I looked up to see Mrs. Hudson leaving her rooms, heading towards the stairs. "Oh!" She said, suddenly stopping when she saw Nicolas and I. "Hello, dearie," Mrs. Hudson said sweetly, tottering over to us. "Who might this be?"

"Mrs. Hudson, this is Nicolas Blake," I said, indicating the tall man beside me. "He helped me carry my groceries back."

Nicolas smiled. "Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Hudson." Nicolas grasped Mrs. Hudson's fingers in an odd, charming handshake.

"Oh, what a gentleman," Mrs. Hudson said, looking at me with approval. "I was just running upstairs to check on Sherlock."

"He's still in his chair, Mrs. Hudson, we both know he is," I said, rolling my eyes as Mrs. Hudson moved towards the stairs.

"I'll just pop up and say hello, then," Mrs. Hudson said, turning around halfway up. "It was very nice to meet you as well, Mr. Blake." With that, she entered the living room, door already wide open as it always was.

I turned and smiled at Blake a little shyly. "Right, well, thanks for the help today. I'll pay you back. Sometime."

"Don't worry about it," Nicolas assured me. "It's no trouble." He stepped out onto the stairs of the flat, and just as I was shutting the door, he turned back to me. "Can I see you again?"

I felt butterflies erupt in my stomach and grinned unabashedly. He smiled widely at my face as I nodded. "Yes. Yes, I'd like that."

"Perfect," Nicolas said, quickly pulling out his phone. We swapped numbers and he left, assuring me that I would hear from him soon.

I finally shut the door, feeling those childish feelings of infatuation start to begin. I giggled to myself. I wasn't a child anymore – I was an adult. I shouldn't be giggling because a boy asked for my phone number. Still, as I walked up the stairs and back into the flat, I couldn't deny that I had a bounce in my step that hadn't been present before.

As I was walking up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson passed me with an old tea tray. At my curious expression, she shook her head. "Yes, dear, still in his chair." I smiled to myself and continued on my way.

Entering the living room, I was almost comforted by the sight of Sherlock sitting in his chair, legs crossed and book open. It had become so familiar. Sherlock and I had been living together since the end of January, so it'd be almost three full months in a week or so. He was actually rather easy to get along with as far as flatmates go. We didn't argue over what to watch on TV, who would pay what bill, and never had too much to argue about in general. When I found my room reorganized and sorted through one day, I had simply chalked it up as one of Sherlock's experiments and left it at that, spending a few minutes making sure I knew where everything was.

He'd almost seemed surprised, curious, even, when I didn't question him. A few hours later, as we both sat in our chairs with books, he'd broken the quiet and asked, "You're not upset with me?"

I took a moment to mark my place in my book before looking up. "Because of my bedroom, you mean?" Sherlock nodded. "Not really. I don't have anything you need so I know you didn't take anything. I just figured you felt like doing it. I have to admit, it's much neater. I won't have as many problems finding things now."

"Ah," Sherlock said, looking back down at his book, ending that conversation. I smiled to myself and lowered my eyes back to my book. Another good thing about Sherlock was that sometimes he would get so involved in his own thoughts he could go for hours without noticing what I was doing. Made reorganizing his room so much easier. For a man to go and clean my room, his was an absolute mess.

A few days later, when he finally noticed, he confronted me about it, walking into the kitchen where I was boiling water for dinner. "You cleaned my room."

I glanced up at him before looking at my recipe again. "You cleaned mine first."

There was silence between us for several minutes, him simply standing there looking at me while I went about making dinner. Finally, he said, "Thank you." And that's how we got into the habit of cleaning each other's room.

Sherlock didn't even look up when I entered. "You took your time," he said, eyes scanning over the pages.

"Almost didn't get the shopping," I said airily, moving into the kitchen to set the groceries down on the table. I frowned, looking down at surface of the table. A long scratch was in the wood, several inches long, marred the top of the polished wood. Mrs. Hudson would not like that. She'd probably talk our ears off for a few minutes before sighing and asking if we wanted any tea. She was sweet that way.

"What? Why not?" Sherlock asked, interested suddenly as he raised his gaze from his book.

"Because I had a row in the shop with a chip and pin machine," I replied dryly, setting the groceries out on the table. I frowned, looking through them.

"You... You had a row with a machine?" Sherlock inquired curiously, surprised. Glancing over, I thought I saw his lips quirked ever so slightly in a smile.

"Well, sort of," I said quickly, looking through the boxes and cans on the table once more. "Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse. Damn it!" I rubbed my eyes and turned away from the table, groaning.

"What is it?"

"I forgot the cookies," I replied, muffled through my hands. "The no bake cookies."

"Did we need them badly?"

"No, I needed them badly," I sighed, dropping my hands. "I wanted those cookies."

"Then go back and get them," Sherlock said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. I suppose, given the amount of information he had, that would make sense.

"The chip and pin machine didn't take my card," I explained, flopping down in my chair irritably. "It was embarrassing enough the first time, thanks."

"How did you get the groceries, then?"

"A man behind me in line bought them for me."

"Ah," Sherlock said, looking down at his book again. "That must have been Nicolas, I take it?"

I turned to look at him sharply. "How'd you know his name was Nicolas?"

Sherlock's only response was a smile, eyes following the words in his book. I groaned, rolling my head back on my chair. "Sherlock, seriously, this is getting freaky. I mean, it's still impressive, I just never even brought him up here or mentioned him and - " I cut off suddenly, lifting my head up to look at him closely. He innocently turned the page of his book. I narrowed my eyes. "Mrs. Hudson told you." The corner of his mouth twitched and I laughed.

"Take my card," Sherlock said, looking up at me a hint of a smile on his lips, nodding his head towards the kitchen where his wallet sat amongst the other groceries. I grinned, quickly darting into the kitchen.

"You could come with me," I said, looking over my shoulder as I dug through his wallet. "You've just sat there all morning. I don't think you've even moved since I left." Sherlock's only response was a soft sigh as he turned another page in his book. "What about that case you were offered?" I asked. "The Jaria diamond?"

"Not interested," Sherlock replied easily, his book closing with a soft thud! "I sent them a message."

"What about this, then?" I asked, inspecting the long cut in the surface of the table. I looked at Sherlock but he simply shrugged innocently, giving a slight shake of his head in response.

"I know how to get scratches out of wood," I said, moving towards the door. "I'll just pick up a few more things from the store so Mrs. Hudson doesn't strangle you. Sure you don't need anything?"

"Does the store sell eyes in a jar yet?"

"Not that I'm aware of, no."

"Then no, thank you."

"Right," I said, briskly jogging down the stairs. "Back in a bit!"

I returned home later with a bag of no bake cookies, the things I'd need to get rid of the scratch on the table, as well as a small bottle of candy eyeball mints. Entering the flat, I was actually a little surprised to find Sherlock had moved. Sitting at the table next to his chair, his sat with his hands folded, pressed against his mouth, looking at the computer screen in front of him.

Setting down the fresh bag of groceries, I took out the little bottle of eye mints and made my way over to him. Noticing the dark purple color of the computer, I sighed irritably. "Sherlock, is that my computer?"

"Of course it is," Sherlock replied, beginning to type.

"Why?"

"Mine was in the bedroom."

"And you couldn't go ten feet to get it?" I asked, peering over his shoulder to see what he was typing. "It's password protected."

"In a manner of speaking," Sherlock said quietly. I gave him a sour look. "Took my less than a minute to guess yours." He glanced at me then, eyes narrowed. "Snowdrops?"

I flushed and stood up straight. "What? They're pretty." Sherlock quickly raised his eyebrows before looking away. I stood over his shoulder, waiting until he'd sent the email he was writing before quickly reaching around and grabbing my computer, Sherlock's hands flying up defensively. "Trade you," I said, placing the bottle of eye mints on the table. Sherlock picked up the bottle curiously, inspecting the blue, green, and brown eyed mints as they rolled and sharply hit the glass with a clink!

"Cute," Sherlock said dryly, setting them down on the table, uninterested. I felt a little disappointed he hadn't liked them or found them amusing but, then again, I shouldn't have expected too much. Sherlock rarely paid attention to something for more than a few minutes unless it involved murder, mystery, or the always delightful combination of both.

I moved to sit down in my chair, laying my computer on the floor beside me while I picked up the topmost bill on the growing stack at the table beside me. I winced when I read over the numbers, the large amounts of red ink almost causing me physical pain to look at. "I need to get a job."

"Oh, dull," Sherlock mused disapprovingly.

"How would you suggest I get money, then?" I asked sarcastically. "If I'm not to get a job, then how else am I going to be able to help pay the bills?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment before he suddenly got to his feet, saying, "I need to go to the bank." Grabbing his coat off the rack behind the door, he quickly went down the stairs, not sparing a glance behind him. I scrambled out of my chair and snatched my discarded coat from the kitchen before following.

"The bank?" I asked, almost running to catch up with his long strides. "Why the bank?"

"Visiting an old schoolmate," Sherlock said, flagging down a cab.

"Really?" I asked, surprised. "I thought you said you didn't have any friends from school."

"I don't," Sherlock said. His face hard, stormy, I decided to drop the subject where it was. It was obviously something sore for him.

As we drove, the buildings and sounds of London flying past us, I began to wonder about Sherlock when he was younger. Did he have many friends? Or was as standoffish and off-putting as he was as an adult? Leaning back in the seat, glancing at Sherlock, I had a fairly good idea of what his life had been like as a child. Always smarter than the others, seeing more, perceiving more. It would seem strange to any child. Was he bullied? Did kids make fun of him? Whoever the schoolmate who had been emailing him was, the face Sherlock was currently making made it painfully clear that he was not looking forward to the trip.

It only further reinforced my ideas about Sherlock. He craved The Game, as he called it, the thrill of the chase, the rush of the investigation, and the pleasure of solving the puzzle. So much, I think, that he'd be willing to assist a man who had possibly tormented him growing up. He needed the thrill. It was probably more addictive than drugs were to him.

When we arrived at a bank on Old Broad Street, a towering building of dark, reflective glass windows and gleaming chrome. A sign out front said 'Shad Sanderson Bank'. People in expensive suits and tailor-made clothes bustled in and out of a set of revolving doors. Sherlock wouldn't look at all out of place in the usual dark suit. I, on the other hand, was feeling extremely self conscious. I was wearing an old pair of jeans, trainers, and a jumper. My hair was in a messy ponytail, even! I sighed, fidgeting beside Sherlock as we neared the building, deciding that it would be better to just stop worrying. He obviously wasn't concerned about being seen with me.

"So when you said we were going to the bank," I said, trailing off when I realized Sherlock wasn't listening. Pursing my lips, I followed him onto the escalator that moved us upstairs. The entire interior was nothing but chrome, flashing screens, and black and white furniture. Reaching the top of the escalator, we moved towards a long white desk with multiple people sitting behind, stationed behind a computer and a phone.

Sherlock strode purposefully towards the desk. "Sherlock Holmes," he said, his voice almost grim. I glanced at him, growing more concerned by the minute.

We were directed into an office and told to wait. Two chairs sat on one side of the desk, but neither Sherlock or I moved to sit down. The office was very modern with few personal touches or color of any kind aside from different shades of white, grey, and black. A picture of a man and woman on their wedding day stood on the desk, but other than that, there wasn't anything personal. Sherlock wasn't in much of a mood for talking, as he had neglected to answer my question as to who we were meeting with.

"Sherlock Holmes!" I turned to see a man with dark hair entering the office, the same man from the wedding picture.

"Sebastian," Sherlock replied stiffly. He reached his hand out slowly. The man named Sebastian shook his hand energetically, a wide grin on his face.

"How are you, buddy?" Sebastian asked warmly. "How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"

Sherlock made hardly any attempt to disguise the disdain he held for Sebastian as his cold eyes regarded him, even as Sebastian turned to face me curiously.

"This is my friend, Anna Watson," Sherlock said, placing heavy emphasis on my title.

"Friend?" Sebastian asked curiously, glancing over at Sherlock.

"Colleague," I corrected, almost instantaneously. However kind it was of Sherlock to introduce me as a friend, I knew where I was and what I looked like. I was in a very successful, expensive bank, talking to a man whose haircut probably cost more than one of my kidneys. Dressed in old clothes and trainers, a 'friend' could easily be asked to leave the room, especially a friend of my standing. I didn't look as darkly handsome or intriguing as Sherlock did. People like Sebastian would disregard me immediately based on my appearance. By calling myself colleague, however, I was integral to what was about to be said between Sherlock and Sebastian. I could stay and I could help Sherlock. More importantly, I could stay and protect Sherlock from whatever memories the sight of Sebastian would bring up in him. The moment Sebastian walked in, Sherlock's entire body has stiffened ever so slightly.

"Right," Sebastian said, shaking my hand and smirking viciously as he looked at Sherlock in an almost smug way. I frowned at that, glancing up at Sherlock. The look on his face surprised me. He was usually devoid of emotion, yes, but the look of stony impassiveness he plastered onto his face made me pause. Had I hurt his feelings? That in itself was shocking to say the least. I pursed my lips, sensing the awkwardness in the air, wondering if I should explain later to Sherlock why I had corrected him.

"Grab a pew," Sebastian said, moving around to sit in the chair on the opposite side of the desk. "D'you need anything? Coffee, water?" I shook my head, noticing that Sherlock refrained from answering altogether. "No? We're all sorted here, thanks," Sebastian said, waving his secretary away.

"So, you're doing well," Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair. "Been abroad a lot."

"Well, some," Sebastian conceded, lacing his fingers together and glancing at one of the two computer monitors on his desk.

"Flying all the way around the world, twice in a month?" Sherlock asked, looking at Sebastian critically. Frowning, I glanced over at Sherlock. Twice in a month?

Sebastian laughed, unphased by Sherlock's deductions. "Right! You're doing that thing." Seeing my curious face, Sebastian directed his words at me. "We were at uni together and this guy here had a trick he used to do."

"It's not a trick," Sherlock defended quietly.

"He could look at you and tell you your whole life story," Sebastian chuckled.

"Yes, I've seen him do it," I said admirably, smiling at little.

Sebastian paused for a moment before he smirked. "Put the wind up everybody. We hated him." I felt my eyes widen at the very crass and rude words he so effortlessly spoke. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a momentary flash of raw pain cloud Sherlock's face as he turned away, his eyes falling to the floor. Sebastian continued, unperturbed, "You'd come down to breakfast in the formal hall and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night."

I clenched my jaw, biting in my cheek to refrain from speaking. The word 'freak' bit at my brain, the nerves there almost screaming at me to lash out with some sarcastic remark. People such as Sebastian, ruthless, heartless, cold, displeased me to my very core.

"I simply observed," Sherlock said softly, all of his usual confidence and bravado vanishing. For the first time since I'd met him, Sherlock had no scathing reply to defend himself from an attacker.

Whenever Sergeant Donovan called Sherlock a freak or insult him in some other way, he either passed it off and didn't let it bother him outwardly or he had a comeback he would lash at her with, a comeback which was always almost ten times more offensive or rude than her own. Seeing Sherlock reduced to a hesitant, quiet person was more troubling than I could describe.

I couldn't hold it back. The look of sadness on Sherlock's face bit at the edges of my heart and I, being as strong-willed as I always had been, decided to take action since Sherlock wouldn't. I'd already seen it and I had to say it. "Oh, did you hurt yourself?" I asked innocently. Sebastian and Sherlock looked at me. I kept my eyes on Sebastian.

"Sorry?" He said, frowning slightly.

"That mark on your neck there, above your collar," I said, indicating the smear of dark plum. His fingers twitched, obviously wanting to cover it but knowing how that would look. "You know, it's funny, I could have sworn your secretary was wearing the exact shade of lipstick."

Sebastian chuckled slightly, clearing his throat. "Funny how bruises come up, yeah?"

The left side of my mouth curved up in satisfaction. "I didn't say it was a bruise."

Heavy silence filled the office, accompanied only by the noise of the computer monitors. Sebastian looked at me, eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. I smiled pleasantly. I could feel Sherlock practically burning a hole in the side of my head. "Anyway, be sure to be more careful. I'm sure you'll want your wife to look at that when you get home."

Sebastian looked like he couldn't be sure what to make of me. Outrage turned his face red, but his lips were pressed together in a tight line, restricting the words that wanted to pour out of him. He took several deep breaths through his nose, his eyes not leaving mine for a moment. I leaned back in my chair, looking off to the side. I met Sherlock's eyes and he looked shocked and extremely curious. I smiled, shrugging.

"I don't really care for your tone, Ms. Watson," Sebastian said, jaw clenched. "I'd like you to leave now."

I pursed my lips but stood up. I expected that, really. Can't accuse a man of fooling around with his secretary without him getting a little upset.

"Well, it was nice seeing you again, Seb," Sherlock said, standing up beside me. When he saw my confused face turned up at him, he indicated the door. "After you, Anna."

"Wait, where are you going?" Sebastian asked, standing up. "It's just your colleague that needs to step out."

Sherlock looked around at him, face impassive. "I don't go anywhere without my blogger."

A smile broke out over my lips, smug but quite pleased. Sherlock seemed entirely indifferent as to whether or not he took the job. The fact he was willing to leave was a complete surprise to me.

Sebastian regarded the two of us with a calculating, critical gaze. "Colleagues, you said?"

Sherlock was silent, returning Sebastian's gaze apathetically. I replied, "Yes. Colleagues. As in ally, partner, assistant, companion."

"Right, of course," Sebastian sighed, almost tiredly. He looked at Sherlock. "You're as annoying now as you were then."

"Well, people never really change, do they, Seb?" Sherlock replied, the slightest amount of snark leaking into his voice.

"Come on then," Sebastian said wearily, walking past us towards the door. "I'm glad you could make it over in any case. We've had a break-in."

He led us across the trading floor towards a door on the other side of the room. "Sir William's office - the bank's former chairman. The room's been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in last night."

"Did they steal anything?" I asked.

"No," Sebastian replied. "They just left a little message."

He held up a security card against a scanner by the door. With a beep and a clicking noise, the door unlocked and Sebastian pushed it open. The walls were a plain white color. A large portrait of a man I presumed to be Sir William hung behind the desk. On the far left wall, bright yellow graffiti was sprayed across the wall. Squinting at it, I could see that it looked vaguely like the number eight, only the top was left open, above it a slanted line. Over the picture of Sir William, a straight line was placed over his eyes. I felt uneasy looking at it, the crossed out eyes giving me an extremely unpleasant feeling, watching as the paint ran in trails down the painting.

Sebastian moved towards the desk and stepped aside to let Sherlock gain a clear view of the room. I stood beside Sherlock, ignoring Sebastian's gesture to stand on his other side. Crossing my arms defiantly, I swept my eyes across the room, taking in the scene. There was no way I was going to stand near someone so rude and disrespectful. Simply being in the same room as him was beginning to put me on edge.

Sherlock, noticing the tense atmosphere for once, glanced down at me as Sebastian sighed, walking away and looking annoyed.

"There's no need to be upset," he said quietly, eyes darting around the scene. "I'm fine, Anna."

I pursed my lips. "I know you're fine, Sherlock. You're not a child. I just don't take kindly to rude, disrespectful twits who feel the need to crush others under their foot to raise themselves higher."

"You're an idealist," Sherlock commented dryly.

"And you're a pragmatist," I replied, smiling ruefully. "What a pair we make."

Hello! Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed the chapter :) This episode is giving me issues. It's taking me awhile to get through it with all the schoolwork I have right now, but I write whenever I get the chance! Thanks to all those who have reviewed the last few chapters. If you liked the story, please go ahead and leave me a review telling me anything you like or even anything you didn't - I appreciate constructive criticism :) Oh, and if you have an account, please log in! I love getting reviews that I can respond to ^_^

Anyway, thanks for the support and I'll see you guys with the next chapter!