To that reviewer who rudely said the plot was boring... it's a few chapters in, don't know what planet YOU'RE on. PS: Only a coward posts such a rude review and doesn't leave a signed review. Get a life. Whatever writing I produce has NOTHING to do with you, and if you think I'm going to stop writing just because you posted a rude comment - get over yourself. Some idiotic reviewer isn't going to change that. SEE YOU LATER, LOSER.

My god, he looks so much more casual than the last time I saw him! He looks so... normal, and unprofessional. Richard's wearing a cool blue collared shirt - the button undone at the top and one left undone at the bottom - with black, tailored trousers, leather belt, and expensive black shoes. I'm ashamed to say that my eyes land on his backside as he leads me to the conservatory.

"Your sister and I were just drinking some Irish coffee," Richard grins, showing pearly-white teeth, as I walk behind he and my sister into the posh, white conservatory. What he's said is clearly a lie - my sister has hated whiskey ever since our father bought an expensive bottle and she drank the whole thing the day after her dismal exam results. She'd sworn never to touch a drop of the amber fluid again.

"Oh, that's nice," I smile in return, dropping my cardigan onto the back of a chair nervously. I can see him watching me out of the corner of his eye, but I can't even look up.

Instead, I try to test the waters with my sister, who's walked round the conservatory table to wipe at a non-existent smudge on her priceless glass table. I look up at her, still smiling, and look her in the eyes. She turns up her nose and turns away, unsmiling.

Nothing too strange about that, then.

"How are you keeping, Bethany?", he smiles wide as he pulls my chair out for me. My god, the Irish accent in his voice is stronger and almost sexier than I remember.

"I've been fine, thank you, how are you? How's work?" I reply politely, taking the seat. Instead of looking him in the eyes for too long, I just pretend not to notice his constant stare, tucking a lock of my hair behind my ear in a quick, nervous gesture.

A gleam comes into his eyes.

"Oh, it's same-old, same-old. The usual... annoyances," Richard says, his eyes taking on a far-away and slightly cold look. When I smile uncertainly at him, he returns back to Earth and gives a small laugh before sitting down next to me.

Where on Earth has my sister gone? She knows how awkward I get in these situations! Something isn't adding up. If he's a client, she wouldn't want me to even breathe near him for fear of embarrassing her. Anne should be in here now, glaring coolly at me and shooing me away. Instead, she's outside the conservatory looking around her magnificent garden with a distant stare, sitting on a bench.

"Is she not joining us?" I frown a little, playing the fool. His eyes dart to where my sister is staring out at her garden, then back to me, simultaneously pouring a cup of Irish coffee for me. Damn, I don't drink coffee.

"Oh, she mentioned she was tired and wanted to tend to the garden."

Another lie - my sister employs a gardener. Why on Earth would she get her hands dirty when she's so wealthy?

"Is that okay?"

I must have blinked strangely or showed some kind of reaction. Probably my lips, they usually give me away. I must have pursed them slightly or something.

"Yeah, of course... though I should point out that I don't drink coffee," I reply sheepishly.

He stops pouring, and looks to me with a strange expression.

"Oh, your sister should have told me that, what a shame..."

"She probably doesn't know...", I say shyly, watching as he lowers the coffee pot and picks up a pot of tea.

"Why wouldn't she know, you're her sister?" he grins at me again, plopping the pot back on the table and handing me a cup. I thank him. Oh lord, this is so mighty awkward.

"We're not..." I glance to where my sister sits, making sure she can't hear me as I lower my voice, "we're not exactly close," I confide in him.

Richard sits down in the posh Louis Ghost Chair beside me, and continues to faultlessly grin at me, raising his cup to his lips.

"I got that impression. Your sister is..." he drifts off while trying to find a word.

Cue verbal diarrhoea.

"A bitch?" I supply automatically, and then my mouth drops open in recoil to what I just blurted out. Oh lord, this is so embarrassing! Why, Bethany? WHY?!

Thank the Lord, he laughs. Oh, how I'm so glad that he has some sense of humour that makes me feel slightly less embarrassed.

He carries on laughing, and says "You may be right there", in-between his chuckles.

"That just slipped out, oh God, that was awful of me," I cover my flaming cheeks with my hands. I don't even want to look at him, I'm so embarrassed.

Then, suddenly, I feel his hands on me. He has rough skin, but not too rough. Richard's fingers close around my wrists lightly and gently pull my hands down from my face. The contact seems to have some sort of effect on him – his fingers linger ever so slightly on the inside of my wrist.

"Don't worry, I've said worse about my family. I promise not to tell your sister," the Irish voice is still laughing.

My hands now lowered, I look up at him and give him a sheepish and embarrassed little glance, willing my inflamed cheeks to go away.

The situation was just strange, to say the least. Walking home now, I can't stop thinking of the tense atmosphere I had just left. I'm walking home with my eyes staring down at the ground, deep in thought, with my feet habitually going in the path home through London.

Mostly, it was just weird. After my little slip-up and calling my sister a bitch, I was able to loosen up a little bit and not be so shy around Richard. Anne eventually came back into the conservatory after tea, and sat silently in the room tending to business on her phone. I smiled a lot, shyly glancing at my sister more than a few times to see how she was. But she avoided my eyes. She avoided Richard's eyes also, and sat next to him, looking as small as I've ever seen her, and stared out at the garden. Occasionally, whenever Richard hinted at perhaps seeing me again - which I inwardly squealed at, because I'm girly like that - she would glance over at him and he would stare back, and a look would pass between them. That expression from earlier would come on her face again, and then she would turn back to the garden and her BlackBerry.

The time with Richard was nice - even though my domineering sister was there and I still don't know why I was brought there by her - but Richard is nice. Maybe a little too good to be true, actually. I've met him three times in total, and yet he seems to know me better than my sister (and she doesn't know me well at all). He'd see random details on me, on my clothes and hair especially.

It's strange, but he reminds me of Sherlock Holmes.

My nose suddenly slams into something that's soft, slightly woolly, yet hard underneath. In shock by the sudden impact, I put my hand to my nose and look up apologetically.

From one enigmatic man to another - Mr Sherlock Holmes is standing in front of me, having turned around, oblivious to the fact that my nose just took a hit, and smirked at me.

"Ah, Miss Hopkins. I trust you had a pleasant time at your sister's?"

"I... how did you know I was at my sister's?" I put my hand down from my face in surprise.

"I know she lives on Oxford Street, which is the direction from which you came, also you have the same expression on your face as I do whenever I spend any length of time with my own sibling," he explains, simply, his nose turning up when he mentions his sibling.

"Interactions with my sister are never pleasant, but this one was something else indeed..." I sigh quietly, then look up and notice where we are: Baker Street. Damn, I'd forgotten that John mentioned that they share a flat together on Baker Street. It never occurred to me before now that to get to my sister's and back, I had to pass through this street.

My mind then turns to what on Earth he's doing randomly stood outside his flat, then it clicks in my mind when an exasperated John flings open the front door of number 221. He's only wearing boxer shorts, plain white T-shirt, and a befuddled yet sleepy expression accompanied with tousled hair.

I blink at him, though finding his appearance rather funny - it must be the polar-bear-patterned boxers.

Oh, John.

When he notices that Sherlock isn't alone, he tries to subtly use the door to shield the lower-half of his body. It's so hard not to giggle, right now!

"How many times have I told you to remember your keys, Sherlock? I don't like showing the world my pyjamas," he exclaims.

"22 precisely, what a ridiculous question to ask as you open the door," Sherlock raises a condescending eyebrow at his roommate, obviously not noticing that the question was rhetorical. He really is a sociopath, isn't he?

John gives an angry sigh in response, gives a tiny smile in apology to me, then darts back upstairs, being careful to still use the door as a shield. This must be one of the many drawbacks of living with Sherlock Holmes: the constant spontaneity.

Speaking of the devil, he gestures coolly to inside the flat with a long, white hand.

"Oh, I can't," I protest - although I could spare the time, I didn't want to have any more awkward interactions today.

"Nonsense", Mr Holmes exclaims, and then ignores me to dart up the stairs. I blink, stunned. I then nervously sigh, step in awkwardly, unsure of my surroundings, and shut the door behind me.