Archive of Our Own

Here's the way it goes.

It is drizzling on the day of Sherlock's burial, the sort of London weather which turns everything to grey.  The lone figure of Mycroft Holmes stands away from the freshly laid plot, smoke drifting out from under his umbrella.  On the street outside the graveyard, a black car with black windows sits, its engine idling.

Mycroft is interrupted occasionally from his study of Sherlock's gravestone by the addition of other mourners.  They come by ones and twos and threes: Angelo and his son; Penny, a member of the homeless network; Detective Inspector Lestrade (briefly); Victor Trevor (far less briefly); and various other strangers Mycroft only knows from Sherlock's case files.  No announcement was made, but word got around that today was Sherlock's burial.  And people came to pay their respects to the world's only consulting detective.

Under the white expanse of sky, a woman in a green raincoat joins Mycroft.  Her hood is pulled up, but he shifts his umbrella to shield her from the last vestiges of rain.  She pulls out a cigarette from a barely used packet.  A few dark curls escape from under her hood, and her dark brown eyes are illuminated as Mycroft lights her cigarette.  She takes a long drag and pulls down her hood, revealing umber skin turned cool by the overcast sky.

“I actually quit,” she says to Mycroft.

“So did I,” says Mycroft, "but circumstances have not been optimal of late."

They pause for a moment, looking at Sherlock's grave.

“To be honest, I can't decide whether or not I should have expected this,” she says.

“Oh?”

“I spent a lot of time thinking he would end up in a gutter somewhere.  Or shot.”

“To be fair—”

“Okay, yes, you're right.  Happy?”

“Delighted.”

A bird chirps, its call piercing the silence which hangs over the cemetery as heavily as the humid air around them.

“I am surprised," she says, voice wavering.  "In spite of everything.”

“Yes.”

Silence.  Then,

“How's he been?” she asks.  Mycroft flinches.  “Sorry. Don't answer that.  I don't really deserve an answer, I guess.  I just….” She breaks off, staring at the words SHERLOCK HOLMES etched into stone.  “I am sorry.  For my part in, in everything.  And since I can't tell him that, I guess I'm telling you.”  She turns to go.

“Ms. Savage.”

She stops, but Mycroft says nothing further.  She studies his face carefully before speaking.  “I know you dislike sentiment, Mr. Holmes, but I am very sorry for your loss.”

He inclines his head.  “Thank you, Ms Savage.”

She walks away, and she does not look back to the lone figure with the umbrella, nor to the grave he attends.

Many years before

The whole business was all Adam Harrison’s fault, really.

If Adam Harrison hadn’t invited her mate Angela to the party, Charlotte would have never left her bedroom that evening.  If she hadn’t left her bedroom, there would have been no opportunity to forget her lighter.  If she hadn’t forgotten her lighter, she wouldn’t have had to ask strangers for a light.  And if she hadn’t asked any strangers for a light, she never would have met Sherlock Holmes in the first place.

Of course she remembered it as soon as she’d left home, but she was already late (if Angela’s whispered “Get a move on” was anything to go by), and she was certain that climbing up to her bedroom window so soon after climbing down would arouse her parents’ suspicions.  Mum was already in a mood, so Charlotte hadn’t bothered asking for permission to go out.  Besides, Mum thought Angela was a “bad influence" had watched too many news reports about illicit drugs to think that partying was a good idea.  So out the window it was.

Incidentally, Adam was also the reason that Charlotte had felt the need for a cigarette in the first place—or, better put, Adam’s affect on Angela.  Every glance at another girl was cause for intense speculation, and every word in her direction had to be dissected.  These conversations occurred furtively when Adam wasn't around; otherwise Angela was glued to his side, and Charlotte was left to hover awkwardly.  Adam and Angela were dancing closely when Charlotte escaped into the cool Camden air.  She glanced around.  Two girls were comforting a third sobbing girl, a large group of boys were walking in off the street, and a couple seemed to be orally examining each other’s tonsils.  Finally, she saw two tall blokes near the corner of the building, smoking.  She pulled a cigarette out of a well-worn case and approached them.

“Sorry, but do either of you have a light?”

The taller one was laughing and clearly hadn’t heard her, but his friend pulled out a lighter obligingly.  She cupped her hand around his lighter to shield it from the wind, being careful not to touch his hand. and inhaled hard until it caught.  “Cheers,” she said, smiling, and took several steps away from the pair.

Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte saw the taller one nudge his friend and say, “Do it to her!”  The other rolled his eyes, and Charlotte heard a hollered, “Beg your pardon!”

She turned to face them, pulling on her cigarette.

“I’m Sebastian,” he said, “and this is Sherlock.”

“Charlotte,” she answered, still guarded.

Sebastian grinned.  “Sherlock has this trick where he can tell you your whole life’s story just by looking at you.  Go on, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed.  “It’s not a trick, Sebastian, and I hardly think—”

“Come on, you don’t mind, do you?” Sebastian gave Charlotte a look she supposed was charming, if you were into that tall, posh, arrogant sort of thing.  Angela probably would have been all over it.

She shrugged at Sherlock.  “It’s fine.”  Sherlock raised an eyebrow then gave her a glance up and down.

“You changed clothes before sneaking out through a second floor window of your parents’ house in Stratford.  You’ve been smoking for two years, a habit which you hide from your parents who highly disapprove.  You’re shy, not exactly a party person, but you’ve been dragged here by a close friend.  There’s someone here that you’re very interested in, but you won’t pursue them.  Maybe it’s someone who your friend dated in the past, maybe it's someone that you've dated in the past.  Is that enough for you?”  The last bit was directed at Sebastian.

“Was he right?” Sebastian asked, grinning in excitement.

Charlotte was standing very still.  “Er…yes.  Sorry, how…?”

“Earlier you were wearing something that came up high on your neck; there’s still a light impression on your skin from where it sat.  There are three snags in your tights—a new pair, given the otherwise low level of wear—which you got from roof shingles, going by the concentration and length of the snags.  You didn’t change again, which means you either didn’t notice the snags or you couldn’t go back to change.  Your cigarette case has about two years of wear, and it's unobtrusive enough that it could be mistaken for a makeup compact.  Quite common among women who want to hide their habit from their parents."  He smirked.  "The ease with which you light your cigarette and smoke shows that you smoke regularly.  So, why would someone with that criteria forget their lighter, and why would someone who otherwise takes care in their appearance wear snagged tights? Simple: you snuck out.

“You didn’t want to talk to too many people to ask for a light, and you walked away as soon as your cigarette was lit, so shy.  The fact that you’re even here likely means that the friend is a close one.  People compromise for their close friends and make excuses to acquaintances.

"Now, the romantic interest: the way that you exited the building, the tension in your body, the deep breaths, are all indicators that you're tempering your emotional reaction to something or to someone.  The cigarette is another part of calming down, as the sheer number of cigarettes in your case would suggest that you have a lessened smoking habit.  You left the party to get away from the person you're interested in, and to calm down before doing something rash."  With that, Sherlock took another cigarette out of the packet in his pocket, lit it off the dwindling one in his other hand, and flicked the spent one in a bin.

Charlotte paused, taking in the bored Sherlock and the grinning Sebastian.  “That was…er…I’m…going to walk over here now.”  Sebastian laughed as Charlotte finished her cigarette, stomped it out, and walked back inside.

“Scared off another one, Sherlock!” he said, holding his middle from laughing.  Sherlock huffed and ignored him.

Inside the party, Charlotte pushed through the crowd until she spotted Angela's short coils and dark skin, tinted blue by the stage lights.  The band had taken a break, and now David Bowie was singing something about sailors fighting in dance halls.  She touched Angela’s wrist gently to get her attention.  When Angela turned, Charlotte shouted over the music, “I’m off!”

Angela pouted and yelled back, “I’m not leaving yet!”

Charlotte said, leaning a bit closer to Angela’s ear, “You can stay if you like, I’m just done.”  Angela looked at her and finally nodded.

“Be careful!” she said.

“You too!” Charlotte said, with a significant look at Adam.  Angela laughed and waved her on.

Charlotte made her way back to the door, brushing past dancing couples and snogging couples and drunk couples.  She pushed open the door, intending to search for the night bus which would take her home.  In her mind she mulled over all the conclusions the bloke had made about her, replaying their interaction, and then her mind snagged on something.  She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and walked back to where Sherlock and Sebastian were still smoking.  They looked at her as she approached.

She locked eyes with Sherlock.  “You were wrong, you know."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  "Oh?"

"I'm not pursuing someone at this party.  My friend is pursuing someone, and to be honest I'm annoyed that she dragged me out here to play third wheel."

Sherlock looked peeved.  "There's always something," he grumbled.  Sebastian looked delighted.

Charlotte steeled herself for the next part.  She was taking a risk, but she was pretty sure she was right.  "And…I may be completely wrong…but do you play the viola or violin?"

Sherlock responded evenly, “Violin, of course.  Piano, yes?”

Charlotte smiled, a little.  “Yes.  Since I was seven.”

Sebastian, feeling left out, began sputtering a question about what the bloody hell was going on.  Charlotte took pity.

“He’s got calluses from the strings; I could see them reflected in the light when he lit my cigarette.  That means a string instrument.  He's been practicing a lot today, because there’s a slight red mark on the left side of his neck where he would tuck the instrument, so it’s obviously not a cello or a double bass.  Therefore,” she said, imitating Sherlock’s manner as best she could, “viola or violin?”

“Right,” said Sebastian, turning to Sherlock.  “Then how did you—”

“A bit more speculative, but not unsupported," Sherlock interrupted, one side of his mouth curling upwards.  "She doesn’t have calluses, which means it’s not a string instrument; she smokes, and if she’s at all serious about music it’s not a wind or brass instrument.  Her fingernails are also cut short, and she recognized my calluses meant strings, so she’s familiar with instruments.”  His gaze sharpened on Charlotte again.

"I'm reading music," Charlotte offered.  "Composition."

"I knew that."

"No, you didn't."

Sherlock scoffed, and Charlotte rolled her eyes.

"Charlotte!  Oi!  Charlotte Savage!  Are you still here?"

Charlotte turned to see Angela running up from the entrance to the club.  "Alright?"

"Adam buggered off.  We can catch the night bus, if we hurry."  Angela gestured wildly behind her where a small crowd was filing onto the bus.

"Er, yeah.  Hang on."  Charlotte turned to face Sherlock.  "It was nice meeting you, Sherlock."

Sherlock inclined his head.  "Likewise, Charlotte Savage."

Charlotte nodded once to Sherlock and ran toward the night bus with Angela.  She had neglected to say good night to Sebastian, but since he had already turned from them in favor of chatting up some interested girl, Charlotte was certain he wouldn't mind.

That would have been the end of it, but for the tenacity of Sherlock Holmes.

 The next morning, Charlotte came downstairs to find her father in the kitchen.

"Morning," her father said, laying the Guardian down next to a half-finished breakfast.

"Morning," she answered.  "Mum at the theatre already?"

"Yes.  Something about a talkback for the matinee.  She wasn't sure when she'd be back."

Charlotte's mother wrote Christmas pantos.  Sometimes she developed a few during the year, but this year she was writing one completely: dialogue, lyrics, and music.  The residuals from some of her previous pantos had allowed the Savages to move from Brixton to Stratford before Charlotte began primary school.  More importantly, it had allowed them to keep a piano in the house.

Charlotte made herself breakfast before settling into the chair across from her father.  He let her snag the discarded Arts section.  An amiable silence stretched out between them, measured only in sips of tea and bites of toast.

Until her father asked idly, "How was the party?"

Charlotte swallowed calmly.  Which didn't matter because her reply, "What party?" was so unconvincing that her father didn't deign it with so much as a raised eyebrow.

Charlotte pressed her lips together and confessed.  "Boring.  Angela's date ditched her, but it was boring before then."

"If you're going out," her father began, and the serious note in his voice made her meet his eyes.  "I would rather you tell me where you're going.  For safety's sake."

Charlotte raised one shoulder in a sort of half-shrug.  "I didn't want to put you in the middle again."

"You let me worry about that," he said firmly.  "Alright?"

Charlotte nodded.  "Alright."

Dad returned his attention to his paper.  "You know that just because we left Brixton—"

"Yeah, Dad, I know."  As if she needed a reminder.

They eased back into quiet company, which was only interrupted by the shrill ring of the telephone.

Charlotte jumped up to get it before her father could even put down his paper.  "Hello?"

"Charlotte Savage.  This is Sherlock Holmes."

Charlotte swallowed.  "Oh.  Yes, hello.  To…to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Dad raised both his eyebrows at Charlotte's sudden transition into Posh Voice.

"My accompanist and I are having scheduling difficulties.  I was wondering if you would be available to rehearse."

"Just a minute."  She held her hand over the receiver.  "Will you be here today?"

"For most of the day.  Why?"

"Bloke wants to rehearse.  Hang on."  She straightened, having relaxed into casualness while speaking to her father.  "Yes, that would be fine.  Could you come over around one this afternoon?"  She gave him the address and rang off.

She hadn't done her finger-strengthening exercises that morning yet, so after clearing her dishes to the sink she settled at the piano to warm up.  She depressed the keys one by one, halfway and then all the way down, and after that she slid off each finger from the key to reach toward her.  Her left little finger was still weak in comparison to the others, and she could barely stretch it all the way back into her hand.  She ran scales in multiples octaves and chord sequences, then having nothing better to do she pulled out an upcoming recital piece and began to play.

The sonata started soft, chords in one hand and movement in the other.  It was quiet and not too fast, as she settled easily into the motions of playing.  It built suddenly with the key change, louder and faster, the minor key coming into sharp relief.  It was an uncomfortable, sudden change for the soft morning, and Charlotte backed off in the next phrase.  The second time was smoother, omitting the missed bass clef notes as her hand position landed incorrectly.  She took it again, concentrating to hit it, and continued.  Returning to the melody, her confidence returned, and she began to feel the phrasing work with the notes rather than against them.  For a brief moment she lost herself, as the piano and player became one.  She ended the piece with two repeated chords, the second almost an echo of the first.  She kept her hands on the keys for a moment longer before letting them fall into her lap.  Emerging from her reverie, she played it again.  And again.

Soon enough, even after taking a break from practicing and eating lunch, Charlotte heard the doorbell ring.  It was precisely one in the afternoon.

She heard her father rouse himself from the living room, so that when she opened the door he wasn't far behind.

"Hello, Sherlock.  Why don't you come in?"  Charlotte stepped aside, and Sherlock stepped briskly over the threshold.  "Dad, this is Sherlock Holmes.  Sherlock, this is my father, Alexander Savage."

"Pleased to meet you," her father said, and they shook hands.  "I'll leave you to it, then.  I'll be just in the other room if you need anything."  Her father gave Charlotte a meaningful look.  Sherlock smiled vaguely but didn't speak.  His eyes took in everything, brain probably whirring at lightning speed as it made deductions about the curtains and the furniture and the rugs.  He set off for the parlor—of course he knew where the piano was without asking—and she was left to bewilderedly follow in his wake.  Sherlock took off his coat and settled into a chair near the piano.  He unpacked his bow from the violin case and began to tighten it.

Charlotte hadn't thought to change into anything more formal than a jumper and jeans, which may have been a mistake now that she saw Sherlock.

Sherlock produced a pile of papers from his bag.  "How proficient are you at sight-reading?"

Charlotte hedged the answer.  "Decent.  Do you expect perfection?"

"Not at the first reading."

Charlotte took the music from him and sat on the bench.  It was a violin concerto in e minor by Mendelssohn.  Mercifully it was andante.  She studied her rhythms and how they fit into the violin.  Most of the time she truly would be playing beneath Sherlock, but a few places in the music they would share the melody.  She gave careful attention to those phrases.

She ghosted over the keys as she marked through the music, refitting hand positions and making small, minor notes about accidentals.  Sherlock had rosined his bow and was now examining her, but Charlotte hardly noticed in her concentration.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"As ready as I'll ever be.  Is this tempo alright for now?"  She conducted the first two measures, humming as she went along.

"That is acceptable.  Let's begin."

He tucked his violin under his chin, and she shifted slightly on the bench.  Her part began a few measures before he came in, but she still made eye contact with him once before turning to the music, counting off in her head, and playing the first notes.

When it was time for him to come in, she raised her head on the upbeat.  He took a breath with her and began to play.

Charlotte played along as well as she could.  Luckily Sherlock was easy to follow, as he advertised his phrasing and dynamics with his movement and bowing.  She certainly still missed notes, but she kept on playing and looking ahead as much as she could.  There were moments of intuition and almost blind following, but for the most part she had the rhythms down. When it came to the end, Sherlock made eye contact, and they lifted together for the cutoff.

Sherlock said nothing for a while.  Charlotte waited for his judgment.

With a curious expression, he said, "You abandoned focus on your solo section in favor of the part when I came back in."

"It wouldn't be much good to get a solo section correct only to fail on the difficult duet."

"Mmm."  He was thoughtful.  "You have an excellent sense of rhythm."

"Thanks."

"Despite your many errors, I am certain you could improve with practice."

"Thanks ever so," she said drily.

He waved a hand, as if to brush away the insult.  "No, no, almost everyone has errors the first time."

"Would you…like to play it again?" Charlotte asked.

"Oh, yes.  After all, if you're going to be my accompanist we should get used to each others' styles."

Charlotte sputtered.  "I beg your pardon?"

"I told a slight falsehood when I said my accompanist and I were having difficulties scheduling a time to meet.  In fact, he has refused to play for me ever since I told him his wife was having an affair with her tennis instructor, Alice."

"…what?"

"Her tennis instructor, Alice."

"No, that's not—that's not the part—what do you mean, I'm going to be your accompanist?"

Sherlock sighed and spoke very slowly, as if he had already explained this to her.  Which, of course, he hadn't, so Charlotte thought the tone of voice was really unnecessary.

"My parents are having a party at their home in Hampstead on December the 24th.  My mother would like me to play a short concert in addition to the entertainment she has already arranged.  Since my former accompanist is unwilling, I need a new accompanist.  You and I have already proven to have some musical chemistry, so clearly you should be my accompanist."

"Clearly," Charlotte huffed, disbelieving.

"Problem?"

"Besides the problem of you assuming that I want to work with you—"

"You do."

"That's not the point."

"Why is it a problem?" Sherlock asked.  "You want to work with me, I need an accompanist who isn't a complete idiot."

"It's a problem because you assumed."

Sherlock sighed.  "Fine. If you insist.  Charlotte Savage, would you like to accompany me on the piano for my family's Christmas party on December the 24th?"

"Thanks very much for asking, but I can't."

"Can't?"

"I have a prior commitment that evening."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her.  "What is this prior commitment? Wait, don't tell me—"

"I'm playing at the Christmas Eve midnight service at our church."

Sherlock paused. "I didn't take you to be religious."

"I'm not sure how you would have made that impression in less than a day of knowing me.  Also plenty of musicians play in churches without being particularly religious."

"Then you're not particularly religious?"

"I didn't say that.  It doesn’t matter.  The point is, I'm truly very sorry, but I can't."

Sherlock turned away from her for a moment, and then he whirled around with a look of triumph.  "What if I could guarantee that you would make it back for your Christmas Eve service?"

"By 11pm?  Wouldn't that cut the commitment short?"

"I'll get you out at ten, at the very latest.  Trust me, you won't want to stay all evening."  He made a quick face of distaste at the thought of staying all evening. "And of course, you will be paid more than adequately for your time."

Sherlock looked so hopeful, that Charlotte relented slightly. "Let me think about it, alright?"

He beamed, satisfied.  "Excellent."

"That doesn't mean yes!"

"Of course it does.  If you were still going to refuse, you would have done so."

"Sherlock," Charlotte said sharply.  "I really am going to think about it.  Please give me the opportunity to do so."

Sherlock's whirling excitement stopped.  He looked properly chastised, even.  So he straightened, and nodded once.

She sighed.  "I'm going to get a glass of water. Want one?"

"Please," he said.  Charlotte left him sitting in the parlor.

She left the kitchen with the water glasses and immediately heard the dulcet tones of her mother drifting from the parlor.  Oh, bugger.  She’s home.  Hopefully Sherlock wouldn't mention anything about his Christmas party.  Charlotte’s mother would not be pleased to hear the news from a stranger, much less one that was probably already telling her that she clearly should have sought help from a therapist after suffering three miscarriages, which he deduced based on the lack of dust on the drapes.  Mum would never believe that Charlotte hadn’t told Sherlock that information herself.

To her surprise, Charlotte heard laughter as she approached the room.  The scene which greeted her was a cordial meeting between two very amiable strangers—not at all consistent with the impression of Sherlock Holmes she had thus far cultivated.  He was smiling at her mother’s (very boring) anecdote about purchasing the piano, laughing and gasping in all the right places.  He was…charming.

Charlotte’s mother turned as she entered the room, and Charlotte could see that her fair skin was tinged pink.  “Charlotte!” her mother said.  “Why didn’t you tell me we were expecting company?”

“It was a bit of spontaneity on my part, Mrs. Savage,” Sherlock explained.  “My accompanist canceled our rehearsal today, and I thought I would drop by to see if Charlotte was available for a spot of practice.”  Then he winked at Charlotte, whose face was painted with shock (and not a tiny bit of horror).  Charlotte’s mother gave a tinkling laugh.

“Of course, I understand!  The joy of performing can strike at any moment.  Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.  It was lovely meeting you, Sherlock.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Mrs. Savage.”  Sherlock took her hand and kissed it.  Mrs. Savage laughed again, and left the room with a small wave of her fingers.

The smile immediately slipped from Sherlock’s face, and he picked up his violin.  “Ready?”

Charlotte’s mind stuttered on several possible responses—“What the buggering hell was that?”  “Were you flirting with my mum?”  “If you ever wink at me again I swear I will hit you in the face”—before settling on, “Were you acting like that on purpose?”

“I occasionally affect emotions for data or convenience, yes.”

“But…why?”

Sherlock sighed, exasperated.  “Your mother clearly dislikes most musicians, but she comes from an upper class background she tries her best to maintain, even with your father’s income.  I thought it would be more expedient to present an amiable persona; she would hover protectively around you in the company of someone she dislikes, but she will leave you alone with someone she finds amenable to her nature, in the hopes that you would find him a pleasing prospective partner.”  He cleared his throat.  "Unlike your father, who will stay nearby to make sure I don't make any untoward or inappropriate gestures."

"I think that has less to do with the fact that you're a boy and more to do with the fact that you're white."

Sherlock was surprised.  "I would have thought with the marriage to your mother—"

"Just because Mum's white doesn't mean he trusts all white people."

Sherlock's eyes lit up.  "Fascinating."

Charlotte shook her head firmly.  "Stop it.  The minute you use this as some convoluted glimpse into race relations in the UK is the minute I walk." He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. "And that doesn’t mean I'm saying yes.  Let's play through this again, alright?"

"Alright," he parroted back at her, but he raised his violin and prepared to play.

They rehearsed the Mendelssohn a few more times before he handed over a different violin concerto by Vivaldi.  They both struggled through that one.  For one thing, Charlotte was still sight reading, and for another Sherlock was clearly having difficulty trying to get it up to what was appropriately "allegro" for concert musicians.  She stopped them after the first page.

"Do you mind if we take it a touch slower?" she asked.  "More like—" and she played a few bars while humming through his part.

"If we must," he said. For someone so logical, he certainly was like most musicians, with a strange mixture of pride and insecurity.

They took it a few beats per minute under Sherlock's allegro, and it was better.  At the end of the piece he nodded.  "Again, same speed?"  To Charlotte's surprise, the rest of the rehearsal he didn't ask to increase their speed.

It was growing dark in the mid-afternoon when Sherlock loosened his bow and put away his violin. As he snapped the case shut he looked up at her from under his fringe.  "It occurs to me that I've rather put you on the back foot this afternoon. If you would like, you may play something from your own repertoire."

Charlotte blinked, surprised.  "Er.  Alright."  She mentally scanned through her repertoire for a moment, then she stood to select a piece of music from the folders in the piano bench.  She glanced at him.  "Are you just going to stand there and watch me play?"

"I could sit, if you prefer."

"No, no.  Just wondered."

Still standing, she arranged her music.  She took a deep breath and sat down.  Slowly, reverently, she placed her hands into position on the ivory keys.  She made a movement as if to press the keys, but instead her hands stretched to feel their smoothness.  One corner of her mouth turned upward.  With one soft movement, she began the piece.

She hadn't chosen anything particularly showy.  Rather, she picked something more narrative, spinning the story through dynamics and expression.  She poured feeling into her playing, thinking of running through back gardens with Angela and discovering secret places full of meaning only children can divine.  In her memory sunset began to streak across the sky, and though a chill entered the air Angela and she ran ahead of it, making their goodbyes before becoming enveloped in the warmth of home.  She let the final note diminish on its own.

She looked up at Sherlock, who hadn't moved once she began playing.  He tilted his head, considering her.  Then he handed her a piece of paper with his number printed carefully on.

"Ring me when you make a decision about Christmas."

Then he swiftly fled from the room.  Charlotte distantly heard the front door open and close.

Her father entered a moment later.  "He gone?"

"Mmm, yes."

"What's he like, then?"

Charlotte thought for a minute, then smiled wryly.  "Interesting."

She rang him later that night.  "If you swear you can get me out by ten, I'll play for you."

 "So what," Angela asked over coffee.  "You're going to go up to Hampstead, play the piano, and then rush back here and play 'In the Bleak Midwinter' three times through?"

"Four," Charlotte corrected absently.  "And yes, that's the plan.  Sherlock's assured me he can make it work."

"And you trust him?"

Charlotte huffed. "Not really.  But it's good money, and Dad reckons it's alright."

"I dunno.  Bunch of posh white people drinking expensive champagne and talking about…dunno, whatever posh white people talk about."

"Organic produce?" Charlotte suggested.

"Exactly.  I mean, is this really something that you want to do?"

Charlotte looked at her evenly.  "Yes."

"Oh," said Angela, looking at Charlotte closely.  "You mean—"

"Yeah."  Charlotte averted her eyes.  "I like accompanying.  I love accompanying.  It's—it's like…I finally found something that I really like doing, and I'm really good at it.  And…don't laugh, yeah?"

"Cross my heart."

"I want to accompany anything I can.  Dance classes, opera singers, musicals, everything.  I'll work three jobs if I have to, as long as one of them is accompanying."  Charlotte saw Angela hiding a smile.  "Oi!  You promised you wouldn't laugh!"

"No, I'm not laughing at you.  You're alright.  It's typical though, innit?  Like, your personality, you want to make other people sound their best, even if they sound shite."

"If they sound shite there's not much I can do, honestly."

"No, but—if they skip a verse or stumble or whatever—you keep up with them." Angela laughed. "I'm trying to give you a compliment."

"And doing a good job of it," Charlotte teased.  Angela rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

"What about you, then," Charlotte said.

"What about me?"

"What do you reckon you'll do out of school?"

Angela shrugged.  "Therapy, probably."

"For you or for other people?" Charlotte asked drily.

"Both, at this rate, if I get through these exams.  Changing from psych to physical therapy had some overlap, but I'm still behind."

Charlotte hummed sympathetically.  "Then more school.  I don't envy you that."

"Well, we can't all play piano for rich tossers, can we?" Angela said playfully.

Charlotte lifted her coffee in mock toast.  "Don't forget egotistic divas."

Sherlock and Charlotte practiced several more times over the week in preparation for their concert.  Sherlock would always drop by unannounced, and they would refine the pieces.  Most of their refinement was centered on playing together rather than individual sections.  Charlotte would never forget one rehearsal when Sherlock nearly broke his bow in frustration while playing a difficult phrase in the Vivaldi, only to play it perfectly the next day.  They had entered an easy language of two professionals, and the more time they spent together the less Charlotte found herself bothered by Sherlock’s odd comments or morbid curiosities.

“You like him, don’t you?” Angela asked one evening.  Neither of them had spoken in a while, lying on Charlotte’s bed in comfortable camaraderie, so Charlotte was a bit thrown by her comment.  Angela had the tendency to carry on whole conversations in her head and expect others to keep up.

“Who?”

“Your violinist, who do you think?  What does he look like?  Have you flirted?  Have you snogged?  Details, woman!”

“Angela,” Charlotte answered, laughing in spite of herself.  “It’s not like that.  At all.”  Angela looked skeptical.  “Seriously, I don’t know what I can say to convince you that I’m not interested.”

“But you don’t hate his company.”

Charlotte considered this.  “No, I don’t.  But sometimes I barely tolerate it."  She glanced sidelong at Angela and shrugged.  "He plays beautifully, and, since he doesn’t say anything derogative about it, I guess he likes my playing, too.  That’s all.  Just two artists…making art together.”

“Oh, is that what you call it?  ‘Making art’?” Angela asked, trying with difficulty to hold back laughter.  “While the rest of us were shagging, Sherlock and Charlotte were off in the corner ‘making art.’”

Charlotte threw a pillow at her, and they both dissolved into giggles.  Once they had quieted again, Charlotte spoke hesitantly.  “Besides, Sherlock, he’s…he’s not my type.  Er.  You know?”

“What?”

“I’m…he’s…not my type.”

Angela looked confused for a minute, and then she grinned.  “Oh, I see.”  Charlotte was relieved.  “Don’t worry, secret’s safe with me.  I won’t tell anyone your violinist is gay.  I’m going to the loo.”  And she left Charlotte sitting on the bed, flummoxed by Angela’s response.  Then she dropped her head in her hands and sighed heavily.

A few days later, Charlotte and Angela came back from some last-minute Christmas shopping to a white garment bag in Charlotte’s room.  Charlotte shrugged at Angela’s questioning look and strode to her bedroom door.  “Mum!” she called.  “What’s this?”

“How many times have I told you, Charlotte,” her mother said, voice drifting down the hallway, “that we do not shout through this house as if it were an army barracks.”

“Sorry, Mum,” Charlotte said, without much feeling.  Angela sniggered.  Charlotte rolled her eyes at Angela and turned her attention to her mother.  “Mum, what is this?” she asked, gesturing to the garment bag.

“Oh!” her mother smiled mischievously.  “That’s your dress for the gala.”

“Dress?” Charlotte repeated.

“Yes!  Sherlock kindly gave me his mother’s phone number so we could chat about the details.  She told me what sort of event it was, and I went out and bought this for you.  Honestly, dear, I don’t know why you felt it necessary to feel like you couldn’t accept Sherlock’s invitation just because of the date.  I’m sure you’ll make midnight mass, and if you don’t there’s always next year.”

Charlotte’s mouth hung open.  Had aliens landed and replaced her mother with a replicant who was kind and understanding?  Who was this woman standing in front of her?  Angela seemed just as thrown, but she recovered quicker.  “Let’s see how it fits, then.  You’ll need to know if it has to be altered.”

Charlotte nodded and closed the door behind Angela and her mother.  She carefully opened the bag and took out a long chiffon dress of dark blue.  She stepped into it and zipped herself up almost all the way to the top.  The ruched bodice gathered high at her waist, and the rest drifted away from her body all the way to the floor.  The back sat under her shoulder blades, and the neckline plunged to flatter the line of her collarbones.  It was subdued enough for a pianist, but hopefully fancy enough that she wouldn't feel underdressed.

She opened the door to Angela’s gasp.  “Oh, Char,” Angela whispered.

Her mother didn’t say anything.  “You should make sure to straighten your hair for the occasion,” she said, and then she abruptly abandoned the two girls.

That was the mother Charlotte knew and loved.

Charlotte turned so Angela could zip her dress the rest of the way.  “Is it flattering?  Be honest,” she said.

“Seriously, Charlotte,” Angela said, taking her hand.  “You're gorgeous.”  She paused for a moment.  “Will you let me do your hair?”

Charlotte had to smile, the lingering sting of her mother’s departure fading.  She nodded, squeezing Angela’s hand for emphasis.  Then she drew her into a hug.

“Thanks," she whispered.  She wanted to say more—what Angela's friendship really meant to her—but she couldn’t speak past the tears in her throat.

“You’re welcome.”  Angela seemed to understand anyway.

“Sherlock, you know that I love Shostakovich, but if we put it in our Christmas programme it will be the end of the programme, regardless of where in stands in the order."

"Not my fault they're idiots."

Sherlock was sitting on the kitchen counter, long legs swinging idly, waiting for the kettle to boil.  Charlotte was only leaning against the counter, because her mum was in too good of a mood today to risk the “Seats Belong in a Chair, Not on the Counter” lecture.  Not that Sherlock Holmes would ever be in danger of incurring such a wrath, the git.

“Couldn’t you – I don’t know – deduce which ones will be most palatable based on the average income of the guests or something?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  “Not to puncture your confidence in my deduction skills, but I cannot in fact read minds.”

“Could have fooled me,” Charlotte murmured.  Not that murmuring or muttering anything was as sarcastically satisfying around Sherlock Holmes, as he normally heard it anyway.  Git.

Sherlock let out a loud huff of air and stared at the ceiling.  Charlotte figured it was Sherlock’s approximation of a laugh.  “We should start with the Mendelssohn," he said.  "Performing the longest one when their indulgence is at its highest."

"Agreed.  We should finish with the most well-known:  the Vivaldi."

"How did you measure that?"

"It's the only one Dad knows."

"Anecdotal evidence."

"Am I wrong?"  No answer from Sherlock meant she was not wrong.  "Rachmaninoff in the middle?"

"Mmm.  Bach."

"You're choosing Bach over the Rachmaninoff?"

"I'm not going to have the Rachmaninoff as I want it until after Christmas," Sherlock said coldly.  Charlotte knew how much it cost his ego to say it and did not take the mickey.

Finally the kettle clicked off, and Charlotte busied herself with making them both tea.  Her thoughts turned, unbidden, to the specter of the guests they would be entertaining.  Would Sherlock have been enrolled in violin lessons to appease that specter, because it was the proper thing to do?  She couldn’t imagine that he would have kept it up if he didn’t actually enjoy it; Sherlock’s devotion to obligation was questionable at best.  Would the avenue of music really have been encouraged by his parents?  Charlotte didn’t know if he was an only child or the eldest, where the pursuit of a music career would probably have been frowned upon in favor of political or entrepreneurial routes.  Did the upper class still operate under those archaic rules of worth and propriety?  Probably not all—but did Sherlock’s?

And what did it matter?  Charlotte couldn’t put her finger on why she was so concerned with Sherlock’s motivations.  Did it matter if familial obligation motivated him rather than a passion for playing?  Not to her, ultimately.  Except that it was hard to believe that someone who played as well as he did garnered no pleasure from it.

“You’re about to ruin our tea,” Sherlock said, breaking into her thoughts.  Charlotte poured the tea through a strainer into each of their cups and splashed some milk in hers, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze.

“You might as well say what’s on your mind,” Sherlock said.  His piercing eyes met hers over his cup.

Charlotte took a deep breath.  “Do you ever do anything you don’t want to do?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.  “Why do you ask?”

“I’m just confused,” she confessed.  “And it doesn’t really matter, but it seems to me that if you dislike these people as much as you seem to, why even play for them?  Unless it’s purely for the enjoyment, but in that case you could probably find an audience anywhere.  So why bother appeasing people’s expectations of you if you don’t care about them anyway?”

Sherlock considered her for a moment.  “You are very strange.”

“Said Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock tilted his head in acknowledgement and continued.  “You’re right—I don’t care what the people at this party will think.  I could just as well play on the street for money and, likely, a better audience.  However, this will make my mother happy, which I think you can very well appreciate.”

Charlotte grimaced in sympathy.  She could certainly understand.  “You don’t think you’ve done enough to make her happy in the past.”

“Singular ‘you’ or plural?”

“Well I certainly would never dream of speaking for you,” Charlotte said, the beginnings of a teasing smile forming on her face.

“Quite right,” Sherlock answered.  “But…the sentiment is close enough to my own.”

Charlotte sipped her tea.  "I remember – I must have been four or five – Mum started taking me into her rehearsals.  I was quiet enough – could sit on the sidelines and watch dance calls and music rehearsals, no problems.  One day she decided that I'd play the role of the snowflake princess.  I had three lines and one little dance with the other snowflakes, and I hated it.  I would squeeze my eyes shut and say my lines as fast as possible, then run off stage when I was done.

"She kept casting me, thinking I was just young and needed practice, until finally she overheard me telling Dad that I hated acting and why did I have to keep doing it.  The look on her face…" Charlotte shook her head.  "You'd think I'd slapped her."

Sherlock was looking at her strangely.  She emptied her cup and shrugged.  "I try to fill in as her rehearsal pianist from time to time.  That seems to help.  It's weird – most theatre people don't want their children to work in theatre.  They want them to appreciate it, but not…do it.  Mine, though…"

Sherlock said nothing, but he did help her clear away the tea things.

When they returned to rehearsal with the Mendelssohn, a change had come over Sherlock.  He didn't stand quite as ramrod straight as he always did.  He began playing, and it took every inch of will for Charlotte not to stop playing to listen to him fully.  How could someone so cold, someone wielded emotion as a tool rather than experienced it as an event, play the violin like that?  Whenever she could tear away her eyes from the music she did, drinking in the sight of his playing: the bow sweeping low and rising quickly, his fingers dancing easily over the strings, his body swaying with the violin as if it were connected to his arm.  They passed the melody back and forth, one picking up the thread as another finished a phrase, both effortlessly falling into a rhythm of dynamics.  The music was creating the connection between them, weaving in emotion and experience into the pulse of its life.  There was nothing but the music, and they were nothing without the music’s breath of being.  As Sherlock sustained a low note his eyes fell closed, and he gave a small smile as he crescendoed up the scale to one high note, slowly drifting back down to the final note.  They played one, two, three chords, and in perfect stillness the two musicians waited, eyes locked around the lingering note.  Sherlock’s eyebrows raised, and Charlotte lifted her head in turn.  They nodded together for the cutoff.

He lowered his violin.  A lifetime of meaning passed between them.

Sherlock spoke first.  “You omitted the ornamentation.”

“Sorry. Got a little…distracted.”

Sherlock tucked his violin under his chin.  “Take it again.  Don’t hold back.”

The next time, she didn’t.

Charlotte should have been ready for the inevitable moment when Angela and Sherlock would run into each other, traipsing in and out of the house as they did.  When it happened, Angela was just leaving after a night of staying over at Charlotte’s when she ran into Sherlock.

“So you must be Sherlock Holmes!” Angela said by way of greeting.

“And you’re Angela.  I’m so sorry it didn’t work out with whatever boy you were pursuing at that party.”

Angela’s mouth dropped open.  “How—did Charlotte—”

“Charlotte said nothing.  You, however, said everything.  You’ve been coming over here nightly for the past week, which you wouldn’t be doing if you had dates."

Angela turned bright red.  “You—”

“Sherlock!  You’re early!” Charlotte interrupted brightly, arriving at the entryway.  “Angela was just leaving.  Sherlock, this is Angela, my good friend to whom I’m sure you have been very polite.  If you’ll go inside, I’ll be there in a minute.”

Sherlock nodded and swept inside, his coat billowing after him.

Angela recovered enough to say not too quietly, “He would be dishy if he weren't a prick.  He doesn’t have any older brothers who aren’t total gits, does he?  Because if so, you should try to snag one.  And bring one home for me.”

“Goodbye, Angela,” Charlotte said firmly.  She hugged her friend and closed the door behind her.

“Angela clearly hasn’t met my elder brother, or she wouldn’t try to set you up with him,” Sherlock remarked as Charlotte entered the room.

“Why?  Is he as bad as you?” Charlotte asked.

“Worse.  But that’s not what’s so fascinating.”

“What’s so fascinating then.”  Charlotte wasn’t quite woken up after the late evening Angela had put her through, trying to get over Adam, and she wasn’t really thinking.

“That your best friend doesn’t know you’re a lesbian.”

Charlotte’s stomach flopped over.  She sat down carefully on the piano bench.  “How—how long have you known?”

“I’ve suspected since the beginning.”

“How?”

“The way in which you reacted to perceived advances by Sebastian and myself—only the former of which was an actual advance—and the story about my previous accompanist.  These by themselves weren’t enough to confirm my suspicions, but then I saw the number of a gay and lesbian help hotline in your handbag.”

“So I could have denied it just now, and you would be none the wiser?” Charlotte said weakly.

“Assuming I would believe your poorly-crafted lies, which is unlikely,” Sherlock said.

Charlotte buried her head in her hands.  “I have tried to tell her,” Charlotte said quietly.  “But I’m afraid that if I do, it will ruin things between us.  I love her, but I’m not attracted to her sexually.  She doesn’t believe that heterosexual men and women can be friends without that sort of attraction…and I can’t help but feel that it would make her uncomfortable if I told her I like girls.  I don’t think she would ever believe me.”

“Those are not illogical concerns,” Sherlock said.  “But it’s also possible that she will eventually find out, and then be angry that you didn’t trust her to react maturely.  Which would be worse?”

Charlotte stared at Sherlock in amazement.  “Did you actually just give me good advice?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “It’s merely an assessment.  Now, can you pull it together enough to rehearse?  Or do you feel the need to wander the halls, bemoaning your situation?”

And just like that, he went back to being Sherlock.  “I’m fine.  Let’s play.”

The day Charlotte was to leave for Hampstead, Angela came by around noon to style her hair.  She mostly worked in silence as she pulled Charlotte's hair into a sparkling clip, from which her soft ash brown curls cascaded down her back.  Charlotte worked on her make-up, leaving it mostly understated rather than dramatic.  Finally, Angela dropped her hands.

"Finished," she whispered.

Charlotte examined it.  "Oh, that is…well done.  Very well done."  She smiled at Angela.  "Thank you."

"My pleasure," Angela said.  She met eyes with Charlotte through the mirror.  "Be careful.  Don't let…" She stopped herself.  "Don't touch your hair too much, or it will frizz out."

Charlotte nodded solemnly, catching the meaning behind Angela's words.  "I won't."

Charlotte checked and double-checked her music, her dress, her jewelry.  She said goodbye to her father eating in the kitchen, and he kissed her temple and slipped her money for the trip.  Angela waited with Charlotte until the black car Sherlock's family sent arrived.  A man got out and opened the door for Charlotte.  Angela whistled softly, but held her tongue as she gave her friend a tight hug and watched as Charlotte and the car disappeared around the corner.

Sherlock was already sitting in the back of the car, and there was a strange man sitting in the passenger seat.  He glanced at her as she got in but went back to the papers he was studying once she was seated.  Sherlock scowled and glared out the window.  Charlotte fished a paperback book from her bag and settled in to spend this ride like she did most Tube rides: in agreed-upon silence and mutual disinterest.

Sherlock, Charlotte, and the stranger arrived in Hampstead in the afternoon.  It would have been a quicker journey on the train, but Charlotte said nothing.  Charlotte tried not to gape as they pulled into the drive leading to the estate.  The driver opened the doors for the stranger and for her and Sherlock, extending a hand to help her out of the car.  Another person hurried from the house to help the driver with their bags, and Sherlock and the stranger headed towards the house without a glance in their direction.  Charlotte hung back with an awkward "thanks," which was met with slight nods.

She quickened her pace to catch up with Sherlock, who had now turned his attention to glaring at his feet.

Simplistically, the house was larger the closer she got.  It wasn't the size of the family estates in dramas on the BBC, but in Charlotte's world houses like this one didn't exist close up.  They occupied realms of faraway glimpses from a train, in Christmas cards, or in miniature figurines.  She focuses, absurdly, on the grit of the bricks; its imperfection grounded her.  If Sherlock noticed her trepidation, he made no comment.  This led her to believe that he had not noticed, as Sherlock commented on everything.

Sherlock barreled through the heavy front doors without a pause.  Charlotte knocked as much of the snow from her boots as possible before following.  Bits of snow made a path through the foyer and part of the way up the staircase, like breadcrumbs leading to home.

"Sherlock, darling?  Is that you?"

Sherlock stopped on the stairs.  "Yes, Mother," he said deeply and evenly, the way he may have agreed to an offer of an Evening Standard.

A thin woman emerged from an adjacent corridor.  She was dressed for dinner in a deep red dress which brushed the floor, and her black and grey curls were swept up into a twist.

"You must be Miss Savage," she said, extending her hand towards Charlotte.  Her slender fingers had a surprisingly firm grip, and Charlotte was inspired and not a little intimidated by her presence.  She could have been meeting Rachmaninoff or Mendelssohn for how cowed she felt by meeting this woman.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Holmes."

"Likewise.  Please do give my best to your mother.  I'm disappointed I will not have the chance to meet her."

Charlotte smiled.  Mum had recounted each of her conversations with Mrs. Holmes with majesty and awe.  "I'll be certain to tell her."

"Would Sherlock and you wish to practice before everyone arrives?"

"Rehearse, Mother," Sherlock corrected.

"That would be lovely," Charlotte cut in.

"Sherlock, would you show your guest the way?"

Sherlock descended the stairs loudly and turned the corner.  Helpless, Charlotte followed.  They entered a large room furnished with a Steinway piano and rows of fine oak chairs.

"Tuning?" Sherlock asked, unpacking his violin.

"And starting tempos, if you like."

"Yes, fine."

Charlotte opened the piano and adjusted the bench.  She laid her hands on the keys and hesitated before pressing any.  This would be the first music the Holmeses heard from her.

"Play the Liszt," Sherlock said.  "It's impressive, and they won't know it."

She nodded and settled her fingers into position.  She had played Liebestraum No. 3 for juries this term, and she still had it memorized.  She began smoothly, and soon enough her fingers were doing smooth runs up and down the keys.  She played technically, noting how the C7 took marginally less force to strike than her Baldwin at  home.  Muscle memory was stronger than naming the notes mentally, and before she knew it she was tapping out the final keys.

Sherlock made no comment on her performance, which meant it was adequate.

He tucked his instrument under his chin.  Charlotte played an A, and Sherlock drew his bow across the strings.  A few adjustments from him, and they were in tune.  They played through the first eight bars of each of their pieces to confirm correct tempos.

Sherlock lowered the violin and gathered his things again.  "Dinner will be at six and last an hour and a half.  We can skip the pudding to tune again.  The party will retire, we'll play, we'll endure the bare minimum of the evening before escaping.  Any questions?"

"Where can I dress?"

"Upstairs.  There's a vacant room across from mine.  Your things should be there already."  He took his violin with him as they exited the room.  He led her upstairs, showed her which was her room, and closed the door to his room.  She could hear the faint strains of an unfamiliar composition from inside.  She went inside her room and closed the door.

Her garment bag was hanging from the wardrobe door.  It was hardly gone five, so she had time to kill – unless she was truly Sherlock's guest and expected to socialize, in which case she should be downstairs sooner.  She dressed and realized the problem she should have anticipated – that she could not zip herself all the way up.  It only lacked a few centimeters, but she could not twist herself into any configuration to make it work.  She cursed under her breath.  Well, there was nothing for it.

She put on her jewelry and made sure she was otherwise ready, and then she walked across the hall to knock on Sherlock's door.

The violin halted suddenly, and the door flung open.  The anger on Sherlock's face faded slightly when he saw it was Charlotte.  "What do you want?"

"Sorry, could you just—"  She turned so he could see the back of her dress.  He huffed, but quickly obliged.  She turned again.  "Thanks."  She could see into his room, which was crammed in every corner and covered in every wall space with books, pages, maps, chemistry equipment, and general detritus.  "I'll…leave you to it then."

He opened the door wider.  "Come in, if you must."

In fact she wasn't sure if she did, but it was certainly better than sitting alone in the guest room.  She studied the maps and papers pinned to the wall, though she knew to ask Sherlock what they were for was to leave one open to ridicule.  She did examine his bookcase quite more thoroughly, finding little commonality between his collection and hers at home.

"Are you reading Stanislavski in the original Russian?"

"Of course.  Other translations obscure his meaning, or even misrepresent it completely."

"My mother says the same thing."  She looked up at Sherlock.  "Do you mind if I stay in here, until we go downstairs?  You can keep playing, if you like.  I'll just…"  She studied the contents of the bookcase.  "Read this book about…the Manson murders."

She leaned against the bookshelf, avoiding crumpling any papers on the wall, to show how unobtrusive she could be.  He nodded his assent.  She cracked open the book.

Sherlock played arpeggios and etudes and a few unrecognizable melodies until one of the servants knocked on the door to summon them to dinner.

Sherlock was the portrait of surliness, and Charlotte may not have said anything all dinner if she hadn't been seated across from Mycroft Holmes, who turned out to be Sherlock's older brother.  In equal measure to Sherlock's disdain for etiquette was Mycroft's attention to etiquette.  He engaged with each of his seat partners with a geniality that Charlotte couldn't help but envy.  The envy turned to shock when the sentence, "Mrs. Jennings, I quite agree – did you see that charming Christmas panto at Lyric Hammersmith?" emerged from his mouth.

"In fact I did, Mycroft," Mrs. Jennings said, smiling.  "Most enjoyable – quite possibly my favorite rendition of Cinderella.  My youngest has been bitten by the theatre bug ever since she saw it."

"You saw it, did you not, Charlotte?" Mycroft turned to her, smiling.  "What did you think?"

"Oh, Mrs. Jennings," Charlotte said, letting herself be the charming party guest that Mycroft was setting her up to be, "I'm dreadfully afraid you've been used as a segue.  My mother writes Christmas pantos, you see, and this year's Cinderella is hers."

"No!" Mrs. Jennings said with delight.

"I'll pass on your compliments to my mother, shall I?"

Sherlock stood up abruptly, pulling on her elbow.  Charlotte hastily excused herself and followed.

"Don't let my brother make you insipid," Sherlock hissed.

"Thought you of all people would have recognized someone affecting emotions for data or convenience," Charlotte murmured.

Sherlock said nothing, but his grip on her elbow loosened.  "And what did you learn?"

"That Mycroft does research before dinner parties."

Sherlock chuckled – a low and dry sound which made Charlotte smile in response.

He drew her back into the room with the piano, which had been filled with chairs while they had been upstairs.  They tuned again, and then they only had to wait for the guests to start filing in.

Charlotte was glad she had practiced with sweaty hands and elevated heart rate before – even Sherlock's hands shook a little as he tried to keep himself from twiddling with his bow.  She caught a reflection of her hands in the polished black of the piano and then immediately tried to blot that distraction from her mind.  All too slowly and all too soon, the last of the guests took their seats.

"If I may have your attention?" Mrs. Holmes said softly, but unnecessarily – she immediately had command of the room when she entered.  "I hope you're having a marvelous time; it's such a joy to have all of you in our home. Siger and I couldn't be more pleased."  Charlotte caught sight of Sherlock's father, who truthfully looked like he could be a lot more pleased.  "You're in for a real treat, as they say,"  Mrs. Holmes continued.  "As you know, my youngest Sherlock is reading chemistry at Cambridge" – here she paused for the requisite impressed murmurs – "but he is quite an accomplished violinist.  He very dutifully agreed to play a short programme for us tonight, and he's engaged the talents of this fine accompanist, Ms. Charlotte Savage."  Charlotte nodded her head in acknowledgement and immediately felt like a tosser.

Sherlock strolled in front of the piano as Mrs. Holmes took her seat, and he bowed stiffly.  He repositioned himself in a way where he could see Charlotte out of the corner of his eye, then he turned completely toward her and took a deep breath.  Charlotte realized this was for her benefit – her shoulders had risen up to her ears.  She relaxed and settled her hands on the keys, right where they belonged.  She began their first piece, and with a sidelong glance at Sherlock, he followed her.

Charlotte snagged a glass of mulled wine and a mince pie from the trays carried by several servers milling about the room and settled herself into a corner.  Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but since she didn't know where he had disappeared to, she would wait it out until someone remembered her.

"There you are!" Mrs. Holmes cried, grasping her arm.  "People are dying to meet you.  Where's Sherlock?"

"I…don't know, ma'am, I'm sorry—"

"No matter," Mrs. Holmes said, waving Charlotte off.  "James and Janet Mortimer, may I present Charlotte Savage?"  Then Mrs. Holmes abandoned her with a laugh and a promise to "track down my youngest."

"How long have you been playing?" asked Mrs. Mortimer.

"Twelve years? Or thereabouts."

"We quite enjoyed it," Mrs. Mortimer continued, and there were murmurs of agreement around the circle.  "Yes, I was saying to James, it was so lovely, her parents must be so proud.  Are they here tonight?" Mrs. Mortimer glanced around the room.

"No, unfortunately they both have other engagements this evening."

"Well, please pass on my best to them, and tell them that their investment in your interests has certainly been worth it."

"Thanks very much."

The Mortimers in turn introduced her to the Millers.  "Are you in school?" asked Mr. Miller.

"Yes, I'm at King's."

"Studying?" asked Mr. Miller.

"Music," Charlotte supplied readily.

"Oh!" cooed Mrs. Miller.  "Are you the first in your family to attend university?"

"No…" Charlotte said, bemused.  "My parents both went to Oxford."

"Isn't that wonderful," said Mrs. Miller, in a light and airy tone.

"I went to Cambridge myself," said Mr. Miller, "but I love seeing diversity at our universities."

The Thompsons overheard the Millers, and the conversation around her derailed into a topic about the 'wonderful diversity nowadays,' and she was introduced to the Taylors.

Mrs. Taylor gushed about Charlotte's appearance.  "I could never get my hair into such tight little ringlets, it would be like a lion's mane around my head!"

Mrs. James finally made it around the room to meet her.  "May I ask, where are you from?"

"London," answered Charlotte.

"No," Mrs. James said with a smile.  "I mean, where are you from?"

Charlotte paused.  "Stratford, London?"

The group around tittered as if she had just told an amusing joke.  And that was the moment that Charlotte's considerable amount of patience wore out.  She could not keep smiling and nodding at the compliments 'despite' her age, her background, her family.

Charlotte opened her mouth to tell this group exactly what she thought of them when a woman with dark skin appeared at her shoulder.

"Mr. Holmes requests your presence in the library, Miss Savage."

Charlotte tempered the storm building inside and smiled sweetly to the group. "Pardon me."

She followed the woman out of the drawing room, though winding corridors, and finally through mahogany doors to the library.  To Charlotte's surprise, the room was empty and quiet, except for the crackling fire on one side of the room.  The woman went through the library onto the balcony.

"Where's—"

"He'll be here in a mo'.  Thought you could use a minute."  She fished out two cigarettes and a lighter from her apron, then passed one to Charlotte.

"Cheers."  The woman clicked on the lighter, and they cupped their hands around the flame to protect it from the cold winter air.  Charlotte took a deep drag and wrapped her arms around her middle.  "What's your name?" she asked, mainly to focus on something other than the bracing cold.

"Devan," she said.  Devan was wearing an apron and a black dress, but the cut at the neckline was square and the fabric was shimmery.

"Charlotte.  Do you…work here?"

"No," confirmed Devan.  "It's easy to look like I do, though."

"I wouldn't have thought…" Charlotte's frustration was rising again.  "It's not like I've been passing and suddenly I don't."  She grimaced.  "I don't know why I'm so surprised."

Devan's mouth twisted.  "We all want people to be better than we know they are.  I doubt you'll be so surprised again."

"My mother always says I shouldn't assume the worst.  That people are more sophisticated outside of…where we are."

Devan looked at her.  "And what does your dad say?"

Charlotte smiled bitterly.  "That one half is always going to define me to the rest of the world, whether I like it or not."

Her companion said nothing to that but held out a supportive hand.  Charlotte grasped it, and they stood in a silence Charlotte could not help but be grateful for.  Charlotte didn't think that her feelings could be resolved in one night.

Devan squeezed her hand and said, "It was quite a performance, earlier.  You play beautifully."

Charlotte allowed their hands to unclasp.  "Thank you.  And thanks for back there, for getting me out."

"Glad to be of help."

The balcony door opened and Sherlock stepped out.  "Good God, I've examined amoebas with more personality than my father's friends."  He arched an eyebrow at Devan.  "Shouldn't you still be wooing my brother?"

Devan smiled but said nothing.  Sherlock huffed.

"He'll never abandon his studies.  He loves academia too much."

"Perhaps," Devan said.  "But he hasn't heard my offer yet."

"He's too lazy for field work," Sherlock drawled.

"We'll see."  Devan smiled enigmatically.  "Lovely to meet you, Charlotte."

"You too," said Charlotte, studying them both for some clue to the subject of their conversation.

Devan shut the door of the balcony with a soft click.  Sherlock dug deep into his pockets, but found no cigarettes there.  Charlotte offered him the rest of hers, which he accepted.

"She's trying to recruit my brother," he said.

"What—like a spy?" she quipped.

"Something like that."

Charlotte paused.  "Okay, I was actually joking—"

"He's smart enough, even smarter than me, I'll allow.  But no government wants a spy who just sits on his arse all day and makes deductions."

Charlotte shook her head.  "Sorry, still reeling from the MI6 meet and greet."

Sherlock smirked at her.  He flicked the finished cigarette off the balcony.  They watched the small red light sail and disappear into the blackness.

"Enjoying your evening?"

"Aside from the casual racism?  Why not."

"You didn't meet the Bateses, did you?"

"No."

"I would avoid it, if you can."

Charlotte glared at Sherlock.  "Rather not good to leave me to the wolves, Sherlock."

Sherlock had the decency to look abashed.  "I apologize."  He seemed sincere, despite the previous levity of their tones.

"Accepted," she said.

He looked grim for a moment, then glanced at her.  "We have half an hour until we need to leave.  If you want revenge, I could tell you who in the room is adulterous."

"That's your idea of an apology?"

He considered.  "Money laundering?"

Charlotte sighed loudly.  "I suppose if that's what passes for fun in Hampstead.  Besides, it's bloody freezing out here."

He cracked a grin and led them back inside.

Sherlock kept his word, sharing the secrets of his parents' friends, giggling behind their hands and generally making nuisances of themselves.  They ignored raised eyebrows and disappointed glances in favor of their own cleverness.  The time fell away from them so that Charlotte was surprised when Sherlock said he'd go around to get the car and that Charlotte should meet him up front.

She headed upstairs to gather her things, but she was interrupted when she passed the open door of the study and heard a deep baritone call out, "Miss Savage?"

She halted and stood in the doorway.  "Yes, sir?"

"Do you have a moment?  Or do you need to leave immediately?" Mr. Holmes asked.

"I'm about to leave, sir.  I'm just grabbing my things," Charlotte answered politely.

"Ah, I see.  I'll be brief, then."  He took a sip of scotch.  "All the guests this evening had nothing but wonderful things to say about your playing.  You should be pleased."

"Oh.  Thank you, sir."

"Are you?  Pleased, that is," Mr. Holmes said.

"Yes, very much so."  She paused, then added, "Although I owe Sherlock for a large part of that.  I'm fortunate to play with someone so talented."  She was almost surprised by how much she meant it, at how much she found she would miss playing with Sherlock.

"But perhaps not so fortunate that he is so difficult.  I must apologize on his behalf."

Charlotte's brow furrowed in confusion.  "That is really…not necessary.  No harm done, truly."

"There's no need to be gracious on my account.  I know exactly what my son is like."

"He's really not so bad, sir…"

"You're very kind," Mr. Holmes said, with no trace of benevolence in his expression, "and goodness knows what you must think of me, talking of my son in such terms.  I'm sure you must have drawn some conclusions about Violet and myself, just from knowing him for a brief time."  Charlotte shook her head, but Siger Holmes went on. 

"When my youngest was born, he was a quiet child.  Unnaturally so.  We thought there was something wrong with him, but the doctors said physically he was perfect.  At three years old, he began speaking with full sentences, where previously he would resort to…physical responses in reaction to stimuli.  Not shortly after he began speaking, we all became aware of his tendency to lie.  It began with fibs that all children tell—he saw a dragon, the post man was really made of eels—but soon it evolved into comprehensive, convincing lying.  We were assured that this was a natural part of a child's development, and we put our fears to rest.  Until he kept lying and telling falsehoods well into his schooling, and no variance of punishment would put an end to it.  We did our research and concluded he was a compulsive liar, and we hoped he would one day grow out of it.

"Even then, he grew up with no absence of care, with the best education, and with plenty of other children with whom he could play.  Soon, however, we noticed that none of the children he played with would come back after a few days, and we started getting calls from other parents.  'How could you let Sherlock say such a thing to my son?'  'Where is he getting these ideas?'  We stood by our son, but perhaps we should have shared our findings.  We lost many friendships by keeping silent.

"Then, when he was eight years old, his nanny found him…experimenting…on a deceased cat.  Sherlock claimed it was an autopsy to figure out her cause of death, but by then, as I'm sure you can imagine, his mother and I had grown sick of his lies.

"I doubt that Sherlock would share with you that he has been diagnosed with high-functioning sociopathy.  Ah, I see from your expression that he has not.  Normally I hesitate to share family history with a complete stranger, but I see that you have become close with Sherlock, and I do not wish for you to be harmed.  I think you have a bright future ahead of you, and I would hate for that to be tarnished in any way by your association with my son.

"Sherlock is not your friend, Miss Savage.  He doesn't have friends.  I hope you understand."

All of her mother's reminders about respecting one's elders, her father's warnings about keeping her head down and not riling up others, the stout loyalty she felt towards Sherlock and the certainty that he was being severely misjudged drove her into silence.  She felt sick all over, the sickness that she felt in her stomach when she missed a step on the stairs.  But instead of finding relief when she found sure footing again, the feeling increased.  She felt hot and near tears, and all she could think was to get out.

"I apologize, sir," she said shakily, "but really m-must go.  Good night."  And she hurtled out of the chair and out of the room.

She bolted upstairs, pulled her things together, and ran down the stairs as quickly as her shoes would allow.  She'd have to change clothes at the church.

The car was sitting in front of the house, its engine idling.

She threw her things in the backseat and settled in the passenger's seat.  Sherlock pulled away from the manor, accelerating down the drive.  His jaw was clenched, and she could see white knuckles where he gripped the steering wheel.  It occurred to her that perhaps he had heard his father, but she wasn't certain if that thought sprang from guilt and paranoia or from actual evidence.

"I think our performance went well," she ventured.  No response.

For the life of her, Charlotte could not think of anything else to say.  She stared at the streetlamps until they blurred into streaks of light and tracked her heartbeats by the windshield wipers.  Before she could try to recall the camaraderie they had shared, Sherlock pulled up in front of the church.

Charlotte gathered all of her things and opened the car door.  She popped open her umbrella and stepped out.  Only then did she turn back to Sherlock.

Sherlock was extending an envelope toward her.  "Your payment," he said, not meeting her eyes.

She took it.  "Thank you."  She paused.  "Merry Christmas."

Only then did he meet her eyes.  "Merry Christmas."

She closed the door and stepped back.  The car pulled away.

Charlotte didn't see Sherlock Holmes again for a long time.  At first she wrote e-mails to Sherlock, letting him know what she was up to and inviting him to share his own news.  After a while, and with great reluctance, she accepted the ephemeral nature of their friendship.  She was entering her third year, after all, and she spent every moment not in rehearsals in a practice room, having decided (much to her mother's consternation) to pursue a master's in piano following graduation.  That year she received two Christmas cards: one from Violet and Siger, addressed to "Miss Charlotte Savage" in Violet's beautiful flowing script; and another from Mycroft, whose dignified script was only outmatched by the weight of the paper.  Mycroft added that he hoped "our correspondence may one day resume" and that he "was certain his brother possessed a similar wish."  In the postscript, he congratulated her acceptance into the Royal Academy of Music.  Charlotte found this surprising, since she had as yet told no one about the thick envelope hidden in the bottom of her suitcase under her bed.

Charlotte heard neither word nor whisper from Sherlock Holmes until a few months into her first year at RAM.

The next time she saw Sherlock, she was drunk and he was high.

She had stumbled into the unlocked bathroom for a badly needed piss and found him at the end of a line.  She gestured to her own nose.

"You've got some…just there."

He wiped off the excess and snorted it.  "Thank you," he muttered.  He then examined her closely, though it took him longer than normal.  "You're drunk."

"There's that dizzying intellect I've been missing.  Get out, please."  Sherlock obliged, and Charlotte quickly relieved herself.  She left the loo, only to find him leaning against the wall opposite the door.

"I would say that you're using alcohol as a way to deal with your father's death, or perhaps your subsequent estrangement with your mother."

"Piss off," Charlotte said, turning down the hall.  She realized that Sherlock Holmes was following her, and even more unfortunately that she was not headed back to the party, but rather to a hallway she had never seen.

Sherlock continued.  "But really it's just a way to escape from your disappointing little life, isn't it?  Playing for other people while your outlandish dreams of playing in the Royal Albert Hall diminish with each hour, and with it any hope that you will be happy."

"If I could see fewer than one of you, I would slap you in the face right now," Charlotte snapped.

"Why, because I'm right?"

"No, because you think you're right."

Charlotte could almost see the gears in his head shrieking to a halt.  "Sorry?"

Charlotte looked at him seriously.  "It's one thing to go from minute information and extrapolate from that, but it's another thing to go from a cluster of emotion and try to figure out where it comes from.  Yes, I'm sad about Dad.  Of course I am, how could I not be?  But there's this mass of emotion, underneath that, that I don't know what to call and I don't know what it means or what started it.  It's like…I don't know what I'm feeling or why I'm feeling it.  And it started before Dad, so it can't be that.  I'm happy enough with my life, and yet…I'm bored.  I think I got that expression from you, but it's the best way to describe it.  I'm bored.  Bored of living, sometimes.

"So I went in search of new experiences.  I wanted to try new things.  And this just happened to be one of them."  Charlotte smiled grimly.  "And the fact that it quiets some of the screaming in my head is a bonus."

Sherlock was silent for a moment.  "That was a lot of data."

"It's been building up for a while.  Not to mention I have the whole drunken-truthfulness situation going for me."

Sherlock fidgeted with his shirt cuffs.  "I know…I mean, that thing you were explaining…not the father thing, but the…other things.  I know about it."

They stood in the hallway, lost in their own thoughts.  Finally Charlotte spoke up.  "That thing you were doing earlier," she asked idly.  "Any good?"

Sherlock's eyes crinkled a bit at the corners, and his lips quirked up on one side.  "Good enough to keep me from being bored."

"Got enough for two?"

Much, much later, Charlotte would realize how far over the line they had crossed, but when she was living it she didn't notice when it happened.  Want became need, explanations became excuses, reason became irrationality.  She had heard people describe it as "spiraling out of control," but for her it was a gentle slope and then a sudden drop.  And it culminated in the night that Sherlock and she tried Devil's Foot.

"I made it," Sherlock told her.  "It took me the better part of seven months to get it right.  I tested it on rats first, and the ones who were administered this showed significantly less signs of lethargy after 2 hours than those on cocaine."  He held up a vial of grey ash between them, and behind it his eyes glittered.  "Want to be the first human subjects?"

Charlotte helped Sherlock close all the windows in his flat, and she made sure the door was locked.  Sherlock set up a clean ashtray in the middle of the floor, and they sat on either side of it.  He dumped the ashes into the ashtray, and with a slight smirk of anticipation he lit a match.

The effect was immediate.  Dark smoke filled the room.  Charlotte took a deep breath and began coughing harshly, choking on the fumes.  From very far away someone was yelling, but it sounded like neither Sherlock nor Charlotte.  The room twisted and the shadows lengthened, and suddenly she could feel the movement of every cell in her body.  Her blood cells were growing; they were going to split her veins and pool beneath her skin; her skin would tear open and they'd spill onto the floor.  And she would have to count them all and make sure they got back, except she wasn't sure which cells belonged in which areas of the body.  Could she tell it by sight?  What would happen if she put a brain cell in an artery and a blood cell in her brain?  Sherlock would know.

But Sherlock couldn't help her if he was dead.

Sherlock, who was shaking violently, whose skin was slick with sweat, and whose eyes were white flicks of movement.  She had to get to him.

She stood, and the room didn't so much spin as turn inside out.  She took a step, and then another step, and then another step, and then she could feel the violent heat pouring off of him.

She wrenched Sherlock up by the wrist and hauled him into the bedroom, closing the door behind them.  Not enough.  The smoke was still there.  She pushed him into the bathroom, slamming the door and putting a towel under it.  With a hard yank, she opened the tiny window of the bathroom and breathed a glorious inhale of clear air.  She pulled Sherlock to the window, and they both sucked in as much air as they could.  Charlotte could feel the beginnings of a terrible headache.  Every nerve vibrated as her blood stopped pumping adrenaline.  She turned her attention to Sherlock and blanched.  He was still shaking and sweating, and every time his eyes moved they rolled back into his head first.  He met her eyes for one still moment, just so she could see the fear burning in them, and then he turned and emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl.

Until she died, Charlotte would remember the time she and Sherlock spent in that bathroom.  Sherlock vomited and screamed and sobbed and shook.  Charlotte's pain in her head and nerves had increased exponentially, and in between crying and gasping for breath she wished for death for both of them.  Nothing subsided in those thirty minutes—not the continuous shakes or tears or prayers or pain.  It ratcheted up the scales with no end in sight, and Charlotte could not imagine a time that their world wasn't this.  And then, finally, mercifully, oblivion took them.

The next thing she knew, Mycroft Holmes was standing above her with a terrible expression on his face.  It must have the expression that woke her; its ferocity had sliced through unconsciousness.  When God slew the firstborn sons of the Egyptians, His face may have looked a bit like Mycroft Holmes's did now.

Mycroft took in the cramped room: the open window, through which cold air and London sounds blew; his brother, unconscious and sprawled across the toilet seat; and Charlotte curled up in the corner and breathing shallowly.  His eyes never leaving the scene, he spoke to someone Charlotte could not see.  She had faded out, only to awaken to strong arms lifting her up and out of the bathroom.

There was nothing, and then strange hands were testing her reflexes, poking and prodding and making notes.  Several different people in lab coats listened to her heart and to her breathing.  Charlotte spoke only when asked to speak ("Does this hurt?  How much?"), but otherwise remained silent.  White and chrome faded into yellow and mahogany, and Charlotte awoke to one of the rooms in the Holmes country house and to Mycroft Holmes.

He stood staring at her for several moments.  His face was blank and betrayed nothing.

"The medical staff believe you will make a full recovery.  They assure me this is no small feat, considering the nature of the poison they found in your lungs."

"And Sherlock?"

A muscle in Mycroft's jaw jumped.  "He will also recover."

In the hall, a grandfather clock chimed.  It played its song and sounded two long tolls.  After it rang out, Mycroft said, "I think it would be best for all parties if you discontinued your association with my brother."

"Fuck off, Mycroft," Charlotte said with no hesitation.

"At any rate," Mycroft continued, "I insist on enrolling you both in rehabilitation services.  I have already arranged a leave of absence for you.  I believe you will find your professors have expected such a measure for quite some time.  It may surprise you that your record has slipped below your usual standard.  Not enough for an intervention, which perhaps would have saved us this episode."

"And what if I refuse?" Charlotte asked.

"You are not in a place to refuse," Mycroft said calmly.

"You can't just throw your weight around and make me obey you—I'm not Sherlock."

"You know as well as I that Sherlock hardly obeys me," Mycroft chided.

"Then what makes you think I will?"

"I expect you to," Mycroft snarled, which startled Charlotte.  Mycroft stilled as quickly as he had snapped.  He continued on, quietly.

"I could have you both locked up.  In fact, it would be far easier and much more satisfying than sending you to rehab.  I am still not certain I'm making the right choice."  Charlotte looked down.  He waited until she met his eyes again.  "I am asking you to prove me wrong."

Charlotte stared at him, and then she nodded once.

"I will send the necessary paperwork to your room in the morning.  Sleep well."  Mycroft turned to leave.

"He said—" Charlotte faltered.  Mycroft turned and raised an eyebrow in inquiry.  Charlotte went on haltingly.  "He said—he experimented first.  On rats."

Mycroft looked at her pityingly.  "He lied," he said.  "He does that."  Then he turned and quitted the room.

Though she had spent the last few hours actively fighting unconsciousness, Charlotte now found that sleep was lost to her.

She signed the papers without hesitation the next day.

Better stories than this have been told about rehabilitation from addiction.  As always, the path was neither straight nor clear.  One day is characterized by an impressive force of will; the next day contradicts it completely.  Charlotte swore she was not addicted to anything.  She swore that addiction to drugs was her only problem.  She swore that Sherlock Holmes had nothing to do with it.  She swore that Sherlock Holmes had everything to do with it.  None of these were completely true, and there the difficulty lay.

Later, when she got out, she had to go through another version of rehabilitation all over again and adjust to the real world.  Old friends wanted nothing to do with Boring Charlotte.  Older friends wanted nothing to do with the Previously Unreliable To Say the Least Charlotte.  Thanks to Mycroft Holmes, she had a job and a place to live, provided she attended therapy three times a week.  Sod that man, but he really wanted her clean.

Even if that meant she never saw Sherlock Holmes again.

Which, to be honest, she wasn't sure she could do.

A year of saving money and therapy (and some almost relapses, but only one really scary one), and she re-enrolled at RAM.

At graduation, she found herself offered a position as one of the rehearsal accompanists at the Royal Academy of Dance.  She was mostly sure Mycroft Holmes hadn't anything to do with that.

Her addiction didn't go away.  It still lived and breathed inside of her.  But after a while its voice got smaller and smaller until it was just a whisper in her mind.

A decade later Sherlock Holmes died, and it spoke in normal tones for half a year.                      

Three years later Sherlock Holmes came back from the dead, and it shrieked.

As soon as she saw the Evening Standard proclaim "Redeemed 'Net Detective Back from the Dead," she dialed her therapist's number.  The answering service informed her that Dr. Jones was on vacation, and that in the event of an emergency she should hang up and dial 999.  She raced home, even though nothing was there that would help (not an emergency stash, not even contact information).

She thought, wildly, of Mycroft, and with no way to get in touch with him she went to the last place she had seen him: Sherlock's grave.

It was still there, just as unremarkable as it had been three years ago.  Charlotte supposed it would be removed eventually, but for now it was there—a testament to the fact that Sherlock Holmes had been dead at some point, and it wasn't just an imagined fancy of a recovering addict.

She stood there, hands clenched, trying to think about anything other than the reason why she was there.  She willed herself to leave, but that only brought up thoughts about where she would go where was safe from relapse.  She thought that as long as she could stand here, she wouldn't do anything rash.

So focused she was on not moving that she didn't hear the crunching of leaves until it was too close.  She whirled around and stopped still at the imposing figure of Sherlock Holmes.

"Hello, Charlotte," he said, as if he had shown up at the front door of her parents' home for rehearsal, and not as if he had been dead for three years and she hadn't seen him for the better part of thirteen.

Charlotte couldn't think of anything to say.  Except: "What happened to your face?"

Sherlock reached up to touch a deep grey bruise on his right cheekbone, but then appeared to think better of it.  "Homecoming present."

"I've half a mind to give you a matching one."

"You wouldn't be the first to consider it."

They stared at their shoes.  The air between them seemed thin.  Charlotte had trouble breathing in his presence, and felt like anything she said would cut across the distance too quickly to leave anything but scars.  And as pained as she had felt, Charlotte was inexplicably relieved to see him.  It wasn't as bad as she had been expecting.

He cleared his throat.  "You're clean."

She nodded.  "Since That Day.  You?"

He looked away.  "Seven years, five months, fourteen days."  He grimaced.  "Took me a bit longer to come around than you."

Charlotte peered up at him.  "It does, sometimes."

They fell into silence again.  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.  She tried to think of something to say that wasn't, "So what have you been doing for the past three years, and for the ten years before that," or "Were we ever actually friends or was I just convenient," or "Did I do something wrong other than all those things that were obviously wrong."

Finally, Sherlock said, "I'm surprised to see you here."  It was odd and not at all like Sherlock, who would have previously demanded "Why are you here?" or immediately known from the mud on her shoes.  His uncertainty was so out of character from the person that she remembered that it startled her into speaking.

"Listen," she said.  "I'm not expecting to…to fall into your life again.  If it's easier, you never have to see me again.  I just…I wanted to know that you were okay.  And now I see that you are.  So, that's all."

He didn't say anything.

"Right," she said quietly.  "Well, goodbye."  And turned to go.  And walk away.

"Do you still play?" he called.

Charlotte's heart stuttered.  She turned and walked until she was standing in front of him.  Then she held out her hands.

He studied them, his eyes fever bright with the excitement of deduction.  He put out his hands next to hers, palms up.  She could see the calluses on the tips of his fingers.

Their eyes met, his still bright from study.  And then, at the same time, they smiled.