A/N: Hey guys! I've had this one saved up for a while and just now finally decided to post it. It's Shinichi/Shiho (no surprise there) but AU. My biggest concern was keeping them in character, so PLEASE REVIEW and let me know how you like it.

Btw, it's a one-shot. So don't expect an update!

Inspired loosely by Taylor Swift's "Enchanted."

July 25, 2013 at 12:15 AM

i was enchanted to meet you

She hates social events. Too many irritating people desperate to impress, too many conversations she'd rather not have, too loud music, too much alcohol (which is pretty ironic). She's an introvert, she'll readily admit it – and she's tired of forcing laughter.

She settles for entertaining herself by watching couples trip over one another's feet as she sips her wine and waits for Gin to finish whatever mission he was given and happened to drag her to in a dismissive attempt to compensate for their cancelled dinner date.

"Bored, too?" A voice from behind interrupts her idle musing.

She turns around. A boy about her age – that is, eighteen – faces her, his hands placed casually in his vest pockets and a smirk on his handsome features.

She swears, if another guy tries to hit on her, she will dump the contents of her glass all over his pretty face. So she gives the handsome stranger her patent "please don't associate with me" look and turns back to the dance floor.

He's still there. She can feel his presence.

"Judging by your irked expression, you clearly don't want to be here," he says, ignoring her trying to ignore him. "And you've been standing at this spot near this door for quite some time. So I'm guessing you came here with someone, and as that person is busy, you contend yourself by waiting at a spot where they can easily find you later and you two can finally go home."

God, how irritating can one person be?

"Wrong," she deadpans. "I'm irked by your presence and I just really love doors."

He chuckles (a little nervously, she notes with satisfaction), his baritone sending shivers down her back. "Okay, sorry for bothering you."

She blinks. Glancing surreptitiously to her right, she can see that he's still there, punch glass in hand, watching the dancers exactly as she had been doing about two minutes ago. They stand in silence together. Long enough for her to finish her drink.

"Refill?" He suddenly asks, eying her empty glass and holding one himself. She's about to say no, but well, she is still rather thirsty and the bar is just so far away…

"Yes, thank you," she replies softly, handing him her glass. "Sherry."

He pauses. "Are you introducing yourself or telling me the name of your drink?"

Lightly surprised, she smirks. "That's the name of my drink, Sherlock."

"Ah." He laughs and heads over to the bar, and she seizes the opportunity to study him a bit closer.

He moves deftly and confidently. His lean but not scrawny built vouches for his athletic ability – she guesses either baseball or soccer – and his slacks, shirt, and navy vest are not a size off, she notes detachedly. His features are boyish yet his tone conveyed maturity. And regarding his hair – well, she wonders briefly if he ever bothered with a comb.

He's making his way back to her, her blood-red drink in one hand and some non-alcoholic one in the other, and she peels her eyes off him to appear engrossed with the band.

"Here you go, Sherry."

She feels her heart jump before realizing he is kidding. She takes the glass. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She's prepared for another comfortable silence when he suddenly pipes up. "You've been eying that dance floor for quite some time."

"For such affluent guests, you'd think they might be able to afford some dance lessons," she shrugs and he laughs, tipping his glass slightly towards her.

"You – uh, you want to show them how it's done?"

She doesn't really feel like telling him that she was only staring at the dancers to avoid looking at his face, so she actually considers it. Her eyes roam the ballroom but Gin is nowhere to be found so she reluctantly accepts the stranger's hand and allows him to guide her towards the middle of the room. He certainly is intriguing. Why, he hasn't even bothered to know her name. She doesn't know whether or not to feel offended.

They set down their drinks and maneuver their way to an empty spot. He smiles with what she recognizes as shyness (he's just a whole load of contradictions, isn't he?) and places a hand on her waist. She lets him lead.

"Sorry," he mutters after a short while. "This is more or less my first time."

She blinks. "For your first time dancing, you are remarkably adroit on your feet."

He grins and shrugs. "Well, I do play soccer. And my mom tried to teach me this morning. Actually, she's the one who dragged me here, since, apparently, the host is an old friend. She bribed me with the 'Limited Edition 1984 Sherlock Holmes Boxed Set,' but only if I danced with a pretty girl, too."

She halts abruptly, causing him to stumble. "Ah, well, mission accomplished. Congratulations." And she walks away, deciding that if Gin doesn't show up soon, she will chop off his precious hair and donate it to Locks of Love.

"Hey, where are you going?! Er – Sherry!" Of course he's following her.

She turns. "Yes?"

"Why'd you just leave like that? Am I that bad a dancer?" He rubs the back of his neck warily.

She actually laughs. That short flare of indignation that he was only talking to her because his mother bribed him had evaporated, only to be replaced by fatigue and minor embarrassment.

"Just awful," she responds. "But no, I'm just getting quite tired and my boyfriend should be done doing whatever the hell he's doing by now."

"Boyfriend?" the stranger frowns and she wonders briefly if he is actually jealous, despite having just used her for a Sherlock Holmes boxed set.

"Yes." She decides that she doesn't want to talk about Gin. "I'm a bit peeved that you only danced with me because mommy told you to. But you think I'm pretty, so I guess I'll let you off the hook."

He blushes and she takes a picture in her mind. Rather than responding, he wordlessly takes her hand and pulls her towards the dancers once more. "C'mon, my mother hasn't seen us yet and I'm desperate for that boxed set."

She lightly punches his arm but allows him once more to hold her waist as she places her hands on his shoulders. He is slightly taller than her so she is able to rest her head comfortably on his chest even though she's not quite sure what possessed her to think that in the first place. He is warm, not physically, and she is just so inexplicably drawn to him.

"What am I doing?" she thinks aloud. He chuckles and she feels his chest rumble a tiny bit about where her ear is. "You've gotten me drunk," she impassively accuses, lifting her head to meet his ocean eyes.

"Nonsense," he retorts. "You've had – at most – three dainty glasses of light wine."

"You've been watching me or something?"

"I, er – I'm a detective," he splutters but recovers quickly. "I'm more observant than the average guy."

She smirks but lets it go. "Well, Sherlock." His eyes glint at the moniker. "Any special lady in your life? Found your Irene Adler yet?"

He chuckles, abashed. "No, not really. Actually, I've been abroad for this case for quite some time now. So my social life's been a bit stagnant. I suppose that's why my mother dragged me here tonight." His eyes grew notably dimmer and she briefly wonders what – or who – he may have left behind.

"Why not focus on cases at home?" she inquires, fighting the urge to rest her head against his chest once more. She's tired. Very, very tired.

He thinks about it for a moment. "As a detective, my job is to uphold justice and truth. And unfortunately for all of us, immorality and deceit have no geographical boundaries. I intend to do all that is within my abilities to preserve and foster righteousness, even if it means making sacrifices."

A little awe-struck (whether at his upright sense of morality or his naivety, she isn't quite sure), she ponders his words. She thinks about the Organization, and its headquarters across the globe. She thinks about her own work, and the case of red and white capsules that lay not-so-innocently on her lab desk, and she feels the familiar sensation of unpleasantness towards what she is doing in her gut. She thinks that it would be in both their best interests if they never saw each other again.

She just can't seem to pull herself out of his arms – out of his warmth.

"Another thing," he continues after apparently giving it some more thought. "I am drawn – almost magnetically – to certain cases, in such a way that it would be near impossible to pry me away from a good case, regardless of the inconvenience. It's a blessing and a curse, I suppose."

She smiles humorlessly. "Well, it must be nice being able to do what you love."

His analytical eyes gaze at her with such intensity that she's tempted to look away. Of course, she stubbornly stares back.

His lips part and she briefly entertains the thought of kissing them before mentally chastising herself. Handsome, self-righteous men, classical music, and slow dancing are not a good combination for her mental state, evidently. She begins to plot her means of escape.

"You know," he finally speaks up. "I've been trying to deduce your occupation since we first spoke but I must admit that I am positively stumped."

She can't help but smirk. "Well, I imagine it must be hard to come to any conclusion without your typical ink stains on sleeves, grime beneath the fingernails, or physical scars and markings."

"You might make a decent detective," he says, amusedly.

She shrugs. "I've read a bit of Doyle myself."

"Hm…" He's staring unfocusedly at a spot above her right shoulder, frowning in deep thought. She's perfectly content just watching him so absorbed.

"Well, to begin with, you probably work in the science or medical field," he murmurs, gaze still unfocused.

Her stomach drops but her face betrays nothing. "And what makes you think that?"

"You're extremely accustomed to wearing latex gloves," he states simply. "Scientists who customarily do lab work wear gloves as a safety precaution, to protect their hands from contact with toxins and chemicals and such. Of course, you'd take them off before eating or drinking. Before accepting that glass of sherry and while you were offered an appetizer by that server earlier, your right hand moved instinctively to your left wrist – as if to remove a glove."

"I could be a gardener," she refutes. "Or I might come from a region with cold climate. How do you know I wear medical gloves?"

He laughs. "You aren't a gardener. Your skin is flawless and unexposed to weather. And for someone supposedly accustom to the cold, you sure had a lot of goosebumps earlier... They're gone now, though."

"Food handlers wear latex gloves," she counters stubbornly. "Truth is, I work at McDonalds."

He laughs again. "Nah, you're far too dignified.

"But I'm right, aren't I? And furthermore, I'm going to presume that your alleged boyfriend is here on business. Why attend a social event and bring a date if you're not going to be social or entertain that date?"

"Irrelevant," she says dismissively. "But regarding my occupation – any further deductions, Sherlock?"

"I told you, I'm stumped," he huffs. "Science is an immensely broad field. You could be a botanist categorizing East Asian plant species, or a microbiologist studying fungi, or a toxicologist working for an underground organization, for all I know."

She stiffens and he peers concernedly at her.

"What is it?"

Gin chooses that precise moment to enter the ballroom, whatever assignment he had completed, and she mentally thanks his perfect timing whilst feeling oddly dejected at the same time. It's time to go, she says to herself, but again, she can't seem to bring herself to actually do it.

"There's my boyfriend," she thinks on the spot. "But I'm still a bit irritated at him for ditching me so I think I'll stay here a little longer with you."

The detective smirks, looking mildly pleased. "Glad I'm such good company."

"About as good of company as Holmes was himself," she volleys with a near identical smirk. "That is – not at all."

"Ouch." He clutches his heart in mock hurt. "But while we're on the topic of Holmes, what was your favorite case?"

She rolls her eyes at his fixation on Doyle's character. "That's difficult. But I'd say 'A Scandal in Bohemia.' I quite like the idea of Holmes being beaten by a woman's wit."

He laughs. "I should've known."

She shrugs and then catches Gin's eye across the room. He is wearing his typical scowl and gestures for her to come over. It's time to leave.

Suddenly, a shrill scream pierces the carefree atmosphere. The detective whips his head in the direction of the noise and she slips away, skillfully weaving through the maze of slightly panicked guests until she is at Gin's side, her arm hooked through his.

"What were you doing?" he growls as they move towards an exit. Someone is shouting something about a dead body and a crowd begins to build. They're nearly at the door now, ready to leave knowing they won't be missed.

"Waiting for you," she responds dismissively. "Took you long enough."

He grunts. "Bastard was being more difficult than he needed to be. But it's done."

She doesn't say anything, just glances back one last time. In the midst of the chaos is her detective, calmly shouting orders to a terrified server before spotting her, a room away, and they look at each other.

He too seems to freeze. She sees something dawn in his eyes but a harsh tug on her arm tears him from her gaze. Before she knows it, she's in the Porsche, Gin driving them fifty miles an hour away from the hotel, and only one person will ever know she was there. Her heart has yet to stop thumping.

And all she can think about the whole ride back is how cold she is.

(Please don't be in love with someone else,

Please don't have somebody waiting on you)

fin: January 17, 2014 at 6:01 PM