A/N: Alright, I admit it- this is basically a shameless OC insert starting from 'A Study In Pink', with a few decent twists in the canon. But this particular plot-bunny has buried its way deep into my mind and won't leave me alone, so I just couldn't not write it. The plotline should follow canon (roughly; it will end up diverging after Season 3) with John/Mary, possibly some Lestrade/Molly, hints of Mycroft/Lestrade and a dash of creepy one-sided Sherlock/Moriarty thrown in, just because I can. And there will be lemons, but it will take us a while to get there yet.

In any case- enjoy.

.:~*~:.

Intricate (adj.)
1. having many interrelated parts or facets; entangled or involved
2. complex; complicated; hard to understand, work, or make

roseus : roseate (bright or promising, incautiously optimistic); aural (of or like the dawn); incarnadine (of a crimson colour, or to stain with blood red)

Chapter I
Roseus

January 30, 2010

Sherlock Holmes was not a man to feel apprehensive often.

Apprehension was, in essence, just a milder cousin of fear, and most fears ultimately stemmed from being confronted with the unknown. Sherlock, however, lived in a world of perfect truth; no one could lie to him, no one could keep a secret from him, and the facts of everything unravelled beneath his mind in an effortless cascade of information. Nothing was unknown. Hence, he had nothing to fear.

At least, that was what he told himself as the black cab steadily coasted to its destination, feeling his insides twist nervously.

He glanced out of the window, at the streets rolling past. London was starkly beautiful in the winter, grey and austere, slashed with occasional colour from cars and shop windows; its skyline was cut by both ancient stone and modern steel and glass, spires and jutting roofs and domes sculpting the horizon, sulphurous fumes and the constant thrum of traffic uncoiling from concrete pavement and into bright, cold ivory skies. The clench of his stomach eased. This country and its government might belong to his brother, but London was Sherlock's city, if only in essence: aloof, sleepless, always on the cutting edge. Just like him.

Sherlock almost felt a wash of relief when the taxi drew up to the kerb, and he saw that his potential flatmate was already there- seven o'clock sharp, as requested, perfectly on time. It was no surprise, really. The most innocuous habits were always the hardest to break, and Sherlock had found that punctuality was part of the hallmark of former military service. John Watson was five-foot-seven of wasted talent, in his opinion; a skilled doctor and solider extracted from the battlefield thanks to a single bullet, dark brass-blonde and his posture as steady and upright as a pillar, despite the aluminium cane aiding a limp caused more by the mind than the body. The stranger that Mike Stamford had bought into the laboratory of St Bartholomew's Hospital was oddly interesting; jaded and hardened by all he had seen, his façade sturdy and almost infallibly composed thanks to his training, but damaged underneath nonetheless. Sherlock had found a rare glimmer of respect for Dr Watson.

Living with him, then, would hopefully be a breeze. That was, if all went well this evening.

John halted at the steps of the door marked 221B in gleaming brass letters, lifting the wrought metal knocker and rapping sharply- and Sherlock took that as his perfectly-timed cue, sliding out from the backseat of the cab.

However, it was at that very moment the he noticed her- a figure was suddenly at the doctor's heels, as though having fallen behind and catching up. Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the unexpected apparition. She was no older than twenty, slender, with a sheet of silken blonde hair spilling to her ribs- like some ancient Roman sculpture bought to life and redressed in twenty-first century fashion. He surmised, from John's comfort with her sudden proximity, that she was associated with him in some way, though he couldn't quite tell how- yet.

Sherlock stepped out onto the pavement, into the crisp evening air, the slight breeze ruffling his hair and unbuttoned coat. "Hello," he said smoothly, snapping the cab door shut and handing the fare to the driver through his window.

John turned, as did the young woman he was with. "Ah, Mr Holmes."

"Sherlock, please," he corrected swiftly, shaking the doctor's hand, before turning a piercing gaze on his companion. She was pretty, he noticed idly: as incarnadine, cool and delicately sparkling as a flute of rosé in the height of summer.

"My cousin," John added, gesturing towards her by means of introduction, "Scarlett Rossini."

Sherlock, out of politeness, offered his hand. "Sherlock Holmes."

Her hand slipped into his, bare skin contrasted against the supple black leather of his glove.

"Pleased to meet you," Scarlett Rossini said, the shadow of a smile at her mouth.

In the few seconds that followed, Sherlock performed a swift visual scan, an analysis rapidly forming. Cousin, John had said- Sherlock had assumed up until that very moment that John was not close to his extended family by any stretch of the imagination, so therefore Scarlett must be a highly notable exception. Her opinion must matter to John, especially if he had bought her with him today. Sherlock would have to find a way to get on her good side, and quickly.

He swept his gaze over her, drinking in the details. She was darkly dressed, stylish yet sturdy. A closely-tailored black coat skimmed just below her hips (high-collared, double breasted, military-style epaulets and heavy silver buttons) coupled with dark-wash jeans (ochre-yellow stitching on the outside vertical seam, small wear in the left knee) and ankle boots (well-worn, rather pretty, yet formidable, with a thick three-inch heel). The tongue of yellow and black ribbon at the back of the heel identified the brand as Doc Martens, renowned for producing footwear capable withstanding years of abuse and still remaining absurdly comfortable. She wore no jewellery, or at least none that he could see. So, she was practical, but not above the call of fashion. Her hair was natural both in colour and style, left loose about her shoulders, and she wore almost no makeup- a glossy smudge of raspberry lip balm, black eyeliner that contrasted sharply with the light colour of her hair- all suggesting a lack of vanity. In that case, her slim figure was most likely due to a hobby rather than deliberate maintenance: ballet or gymnastics, judging by the unconscious grace of her movements. And she was quite obviously a university student. Everything about her, from her age to their location, attested to it, confirmed by the durable messenger bag slung over one shoulder, burdened with two- no, three- heavy tomes, the outline of their corners just visible as they pressed against the thick fabric. From his overall first impression, he would guess that she was taking a science or mathematical degree. Sherlock reconsidered the wear in her jeans- small, no bigger in diameter than the head of a pin, neat and clean without any visible scorching or fraying- an accidental chemical burn, perhaps. She was Chemistry student, then- most likely.

Sherlock released her hand, filing the information away in his memory palace, tucking it inside his temporary dossier on John. He would appeal to her intelligence, impress her with his own- perhaps flirt, subtly. Many were under the false impression that, because he did not bother to employ it very often, that he had absolutely no concept of charm. How very wrong they were. However, he would have to be careful not to trip off John's protective instincts- which he no doubt had, considering her age compared to his and how disarmingly attractive she was.

"Well, this is in a prime spot," John noted, his gaze sweeping over the street. "Must be expensive."

Sherlock caught the insinuation, and was quick to ward it off. "Mrs Hudson, the landlady, is offering me a special deal. Owes me a favour." He was unable to stop himself from slipping in the anecdote. "A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"Sorry, you stopped her husband from being executed?" John clarified.

"Oh no," Sherlock said, smiling lightly, "I ensured it."

Before either the doctor or his cousin- her expression now curious and mildly amused, Sherlock noted with satisfaction- could formulate a reply, the ink-black door clicked open. On the other side, Martha Hudson, wearing a velvet dress in a rich shade of aubergine, smiled widely at him, and Sherlock returned the gesture almost instinctively.

"Sherlock," she said warmly, hugging him the moment he was close enough. It was, perhaps, a little excessive- but his earlier announcement that he may have found a potential flatmate had left her in a persistently good mood the entire day. Sherlock was willing to admit that he tolerated precious few people- the majority of the human population were either stupid, annoying, boring, or a combination of the three, in his opinion- so the very prospect of meeting some that he was willing to share living space with had been a delight to Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock kissed her cheek, before stepping aside and indicating the two figures outside the door. "Mrs Hudson- Dr John Watson and Scarlett Rossini."

"Hello," she greeted the guests with equal enthusiasm, inviting them inside with a beaming smile. "Come in."

The three slid past her and into the hallway as she stood aside, closing the door behind them. "Shall we?" Sherlock suggested immediately, and without waiting for much of a reply, quickly led the way up the staircase. The cousins followed- Scarlett first, fingertips skimming over the walnut banister- and John second, keeping a stubbornly brisk yet struggling pace with the use of his cane. Sherlock paused, waiting until they had both made it to the landing before opening the door and stepping inside.

The flat was in a state of what could only be described as tenuously controlled chaos. Almost every square inch of flat surface was dominated by boxes, assorted clutter, stacks of papers and files. The décor underneath had a hint of pseudo-Victorian era charm to it, the floor carpeted in a deep iron-oxide red, the furniture beautiful, dark, leaning towards ornate; the rows of shelves built into the walls of the living room were crammed and spilling over with books, a floor-length pair of windows facing the far wall, overlooking the street below and flooding the spacious open-plan lounge with natural light. The adjoining kitchen was more modern, the teak dining table in the centre covered in a complex system of plastic delivery tubes, condensers, bottles, glass vials, conical flasks, distillation towers- an ongoing experiment held in stasis under the hanging light above it.

Sherlock pulled off his gloves, and looked to John expectantly.

"Oh, this could be very nice," John said, his expression slowly growing into deep approval. He glanced at Scarlett, who returned his look with a neutral smile that said both nothing and everything. "Very nice indeed."

Sherlock released a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "Yes," he said, feeling instantly lighter. "Yes, I think so- my thoughts precisely. So I went straight ahead and moved-"

"- as soon as we get this rubbish cleaned out- oh."

They had spoken simultaneously. As soon as they each realised what the other had said, an awkward silence permeated the room.

Sherlock felt a hot flash of embarrassment lance through him, the tension in his stomach returning with a vengeance. Pivoting on his heel, self-conscious and uncharacteristically flustered, he immediately turned towards the closest batch of notes left scattered over an end table.

"S-so this is all, uh-"

"Well, obviously I can, um- ahem- straighten things up… a bit." With his back turned and focused on throwing a handful of files haphazardly into the closest box, Sherlock didn't see Scarlett knock the heel of her boot against John's ankle reproachfully, glaring, and John wincing in an uncomfortable admission of his monumental, if accidental, faux pas. Concluding his hasty tidying by gathering a sheaf of letters, placing them on the mantle and stabbing the stack with a stray pocketknife, Sherlock turned back towards them.

Something had seemed to have caught Scarlett's attention.

"A skull?"

He glanced down it, resting innocently on the mantelpiece beside him.

"Friend of mine," he explained automatically, before remembering that it wasn't exactly normal to refer to inanimate objects as such. "Well, I say friend…"

Fortunately, Scarlett didn't appear to be listening too intently. Strands of champagne-blonde hair slipped over her shoulders as she moved closer, leaning forwards and examining the skull, fascinated. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. She had a taste for the macabre- a refreshing trait, he had to admit. She lifted a hand to touch the skull, but hesitated a few centimetres short, glancing up at him in silent question.

Sherlock held out his hand in invitation. "Oh, please."

Scarlett's smile blossomed at his permission. Carefully, she picked up the skull, thumbs held delicately at its jaw, her touch light but secure upon the scoured-clean bone.

"What do you call him?" Scarlett asked as she lifted the skull until its eye sockets were level with her own, grinning back at it. "Yorick? No, wait, that's too obvious- Ichabod?"

Sherlock, stripping off his coat and scarf, draping both over the back of a chair, threw an appreciative smile over his shoulder. "Marie Antoinette."

Scarlett laughed delightedly, and Sherlock couldn't help but smirk.

John, meanwhile, unnoticed by his cousin or potential flatmate, was smiling to himself. John knew better than almost anyone else on the face of the planet that Scarlett Rossini could be harder than diamond when she chose- in fact, it was arguably the reason why John got along with her better than the rest of his extended family; she preferred to keep her heart hidden up her sleeve, rather than stitched permanently upon it. But Scarlett was never anything less than compassionate, sweet to the core, and fiercely empathetic- and together with the natural charisma inherited from her mother, it culminated in a unique gift: the ability to change the atmosphere of an entire room in a single move.

For John, it was like watching her pull a thread- tension unravelling and transforming into levity without anyone realising, like an elaborate parlour trick.

"What do you think, Dr Watson?" Mrs Hudson asked warmly, joining them and snapping John out of his reverie, retrieving an empty cup and saucer from the coffee table. "There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

John was openly nonplussed. "Of course we'll be needing two…"

"Oh, don't worry," the landlady was quick to reassure him, "there's all sorts 'round here." Her voice dropped confidentially as she left to dispose of the cup in the kitchen. "Mrs Turner next door's got married ones."

John looked incredulous, glancing expectantly at a deliberately oblivious Sherlock- he had heard, of course, but could have cared less about the implication- to correct her.

"Good to know," Scarlett commented nonchalantly, setting both the skull and her bag down carefully. She drifted away into the kitchen, circling the table, idly examining the web of apparatus arranged on its surface as Mrs Hudson bemoaned the mess. Something clicked into place Sherlock's mind as he watched Scarlett out of the corner of his eye, flipping his laptop open; her reaction to an object so closely associated with death, the fact that she was Chemistry student- she was looking into a career in forensics. No wonder John hadn't seemed to have had any qualms about bringing her with him to see the flat: if the girl wasn't perturbed by corpses, few other things would make her very uncomfortable by comparison.

"I looked you up on the internet last night," John said abruptly, having collapsed into one of the newly cleared armchairs, his expression unreadable.

Sherlock turned to face him, tucking his hands into his pockets nonchalantly. "Anything interesting?"

"Found your website. The Science of Deduction."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile proudly. "What did you think?"

John shot him a sceptical look. Sherlock's expression fell instantly, mildly hurt.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie, and an airline pilot by his left thumb," John rattled off, his dubious expression remaining.

"Yes," Sherlock said, a little stiffly. If there was anything that set him on the defensive, it was someone doubting his intellect. "And I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone." John's jaw flexed slightly, a curtailed replica of his reaction in the laboratory yesterday- Sherlock had to admire his self-control- and Sherlock's gaze flicked over to the young woman watching them from the kitchen, making eye contact unflinchingly. "And in Scarlett, I can tell her intelligence by her jeans, and her years of dancing experience simply by her gait."

Scarlett skimmed her gaze over him, her eyes alight- the criminal forensic enthusiast Sherlock had identified in her was shining through unashamedly.

"How?"

Sherlock smiled enigmatically, and turned away, adjusting a sheaf of freshly transcribed sheet music unfolded on his stand. He would hold back for the interim; people generally didn't like to think that their personal life was being telegraphed by tiny details available to the casual, if highly attentive, observer. There was no need to make them both uncomfortable, he decided.

"What about these suicides, then, Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson said, emerging from the kitchen with the latest newspaper unfolded before her. "Thought that would be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

"Four," Sherlock corrected her abruptly, moving past his music stand towards the nearest window, his heart suddenly leaping. A police patrol car had pulled up outside on the street below, bright blue and red lights swivelling on its roof. "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

"A fourth?" Mrs Hudson echoed, alarmed.

Sherlock swivelled towards the open doorway of the flat just in time to see a familiar figure climbing the stairs, his steps hasty and unhesitant, shrouded in a long sable coat. Detective Inspector Lestrade- grim, capable, with salt and pepper hair and a strong yet lined face that spoke of years of dedication and carefully honed skill; there was a good reason why Sherlock refused to work with anyone in New Scotland Yard but him- swiftly entered through the open unlocked door.

"Where?" Sherlock asked, disposing of all meaningless preamble.

Lestrade halted. "Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

The DI sighed, slightly breathless. "You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yes?"

"This one did," Lestrade said, with the kind of straightforwardness only a member of the police could lay claim to. Sherlock's interest was instantaneously sparked, though he hid it well. John and Mrs Hudson simply looked on, the former bemused, Scarlett listening in from the kitchen, unseen. "Will you come?"

Sherlock paused for a split second, his eyes narrowing. "Who's on forensics?"

"It's Anderson."

He looked away immediately, grimacing in displeasure. "Anderson won't work with me."

Lestrade was nigh upon exasperated. "Well, he won't be your assistant!"

"I need an assistant."

Seeing that he was getting nowhere, Lestrade cut to the chase. "Will you come?"

"Not in a police car," Sherlock replied coolly, turning back towards the window, "I'll be right behind."

Lestrade nodded, a metaphysical weight lifting off his shoulders. "Thank you," he said. Turning to the two other individuals in the room- those that he could see, at least- he nodded again and exited as brusquely as he had entered. Sherlock was motionless and impassive as Lestrade left, feeling John's questioning stare upon him, struggling against the insistent beginnings of a smile.

When the front door finally snapped closed downstairs, his façade finally cracked.

"Brilliant!" Sherlock exploded, leaping up into the air, fists clenched triumphantly; he could already feel a euphoric shot of adrenaline thrumming through his veins. "Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" Sherlock twirled across the room, retrieving and refitting himself with his coat and midnight-coloured scarf hastily. "Mrs Hudson, I'll be late- might need some food."

Scarlett slid out of Sherlock's way as he reached over to pick up his small leather-bound examination kit from the table, and he smiled at her impulsively as he passed, elated by the new development on what had been an already intriguing case. "I'm your landlady, dear," Mrs Hudson was saying sternly, unperturbed by his sudden mood shift, "not your housekeeper."

Sherlock rolled his eyes emphatically at the wall. "Something cold will do. John- Scarlett- have a cup of tea, make yourselves at home." He tore open the door, the slab of carved wood swinging violently on its brass hinges. "Don't wait up!"

With that, he was slamming the door shut behind him, almost sprinting down the stairs. Today was a good day, Sherlock decided exultantly, pausing only to slip his kit into the deep outer pocket of his coat. A fantastic day. New case, new flatmate- his mind was already deliciously occupied, turning over countless possibilities and undiscovered solutions to another puzzle.

It was just as he was about to stride briskly out of 221 Baker Street when he heard a short, sharp shout from upstairs.

Sherlock froze.

His mind whirred like silver clockwork. John Watson, army doctor, invalided home. Hyperaware. Frustrated by a lack of venture, no doubt; the sudden monotony of civilian life must seem so grey in comparison to the high-stress realm he had been forced from, and the commonplace sympathy for his situation so grating. And it looked as though they were going to be coexisting in the same space very soon. Sherlock certainly thought it would be a bearable arrangement, at the least.

John and his expertise could be of use to him.

And Scarlett; Scarlett was important to John, that much was clear. She was interested in forensics. She was not unintelligent. Her input could be of value, potentially, and the gratitude Sherlock would receive from her for providing rare and much-envied experience for her career could go towards a good opinion of him. If Scarlett liked him, it would be that much easier to secure John as a flatmate.

Sherlock closed the door decisively, and turned to walk back up the stairs.

Silently stepping back into the open threshold, Sherlock saw that John was still seated in the dusty red armchair, Scarlett hovering behind him, reading the newspaper over his shoulder. "You're a doctor," Sherlock murmured musingly, pulling on his gloves. John started, looking up at him. "In fact, you're an army doctor."

John, realising that the statement was directed at him, rose to his feet with less difficulty than might have been expected, even with his cane. His psychosomatic limp was already diminishing, Sherlock realised; if John kept up this pace, he calculated that he could erase it completely by the end of the night.

"Yes."

"Any good?" Sherlock asked, conscious of Scarlett's gaze locked on him cautiously.

"Very good," John said, confident but without arrogance.

Sherlock believed him. "Seen a lot of injuries, then?" He pushed further, stepping closer. "Violent deaths?"

"Well- yes."

Sherlock's tone softened slightly, realising that he was about to probe close to a rather raw nerve. "Bit of trouble too, I'll bet."

John's chin lifted slightly, unyielding. Sherlock's opinion of him spiked, only solidifying his resolve.

"Yes, of course. Enough for a lifetime- far too much."

Sherlock stared into him for a moment, holding back a smile.

"Want to see some more?"

John's reply was immediate and zealous. "Oh God, yes."

Sherlock immediately turned and strode out of the flat once again, immensely pleased, this time with John close at his heels. He was already out on the landing before he remembered the second part of his decision and, swivelling around, ducked back into the flat briefly.

"Scarlett," he said sharply. The blonde turned to look at him, surprised, brushing her fringe away from her face. "You may as well join us. With your career aims in forensics, I'm sure you would find it valuable."

Sherlock flashed his most charming smile for good measure, and winked brazenly.

Scarlett hitched a single eyebrow, replying with an amused but unaffected quirk of her mouth, and wordlessly retrieved her bag. Sherlock swept out victoriously.

"Sorry Mrs Hudson," John cheerfully called out to 221A as they descended in a concerto of footsteps on wooden stairs. "Scarlett and I will have to skip the tea. Off out."

"All three of you?" Mrs Hudson said in amazement, appearing in the hallway from her own flat. Sherlock turned to her, grinning unashamedly.

"Impossible suicides? Four of them?" He grasped her shoulders. "There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!"

He kissed her cheek exuberantly, and Mrs Hudson batted him away. "Look at you, all happy," she said, pursing her lips, her expression instead more exasperatedly fond than genuinely reproving. "It's not decent. Oh, go on…"

"Who cares about decent?" Sherlock hissed through his teeth, almost sprinting towards the door, his new acquaintances in tow. "The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!"

The taxi ride was fraught with a strangely peaceful flavour of tension. The luminous reflections of streetlamps passed over the dark glass of the windows, other cars traversing parallel lanes in a brief vehement glare of headlights, scarlet double-decker buses prowling the main streets on their usual routes, studded with orange lights and their interiors glowing uncannily. Sherlock was focused on his smartphone, reviewing the details of the serial suicides released to the media. John sat beside him in silence, his sideways glances at Sherlock admirably patient, with Scarlett seated opposite them both and apparently more interested in her view from the passenger window than anything else.

Eventually, Sherlock lowered his phone. "Okay, you've got questions."

"Yeah," John said in a flat tone, "where are we going?"

Sherlock glanced at him in profound boredom. "Crime scene. Next."

A message alert chimed through the backseat of the taxi. Scarlett flipped out her phone- a sleek, cherry-red device with touchscreen interface and a solitary sterling silver diamante charm, wrought into the shape of her initials, hanging from it. The model was sophisticated, a year old, yet in very good condition; wealthy parent or guardian, Sherlock deduced automatically. Her sense of independence meant refusal of their financial assistance, however, and good treatment of her few luxury items, not unlike her cousin.

"Who are you?" John said bluntly as Scarlett read the text swiftly, ignored it and replaced her phone. "What do you do?"

"What do you think?" Sherlock replied challengingly, testing the limits of the doctor's intelligence.

"I'd say… private detective…" John began tenuously.

"But?"

"The police don't go to private detectives," he concluded.

Sherlock smirked, pleased that John was successfully keeping pace. "I'm a consulting detective," he said smoothly. "The only one in the world. I invented the job. It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

John's response was almost laughing. "The police don't consult amateurs!"

Sherlock felt his entire body tighten, his nerve endings crackling with indignation.

The comment had unknowingly dealt a disproportionately harsh blow to Sherlock's pride, especially considering that it had been delivered with more casual incredulity than genuine malice; but pride was pride, and Sherlock Holmes' was founded deeply- almost exclusively, although he would never admit to it in so many words- in his own intellect. Regardless of what anyone said of him, regardless of how they tried to criticise him, he knew that one certain fact- his personal cogito- was that he was remarkably, indisputably clever.

He glanced at John sharply, keeping his expression carefully neutral, and looked away.

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

"Yes, how did you know about that?"

"I didn't know. I saw." Although he knew he might come to regret it on only a few minutes, Sherlock simply could not help himself- his pride was wounded. He inhaled, and swiftly launched into the details of the deduction he had made within less than a few collective seconds upon meeting John Watson in the chemical analysis laboratory of St Bartholomew's Hospital. "Your haircut and the way you hold yourself says military, but your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's- so, army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned- but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. You limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says that the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic; wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan," Sherlock lifted his chin, concluding crisply, "Afghanistan or Iraq."

He clicked his final consonant curtly, and awaited John's reply.

"You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp; of course you've got a therapist," Sherlock said dispassionately, pleased to see that John had abandoned all outward signs of amusement. "Then there's your brother," he continued. "Your phone: it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. If you're looking for a flat-share, you wouldn't waste money on this- it's a gift, then. Scratches: not one, but many over time- it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this- so, it's had a previous owner. The next bit is easy: you know it already."

John's eyes gleamed with realisation. "The engraving."

"Harry Watson," Sherlock quoted from memory. "Clearly a family member who has given you his old phone. Not your father; this is a young man's gadget. It could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live- unlikely that you have an extended family, certainly not one that you're close to- Scarlett is the exception, not the rule. So, brother it is. Now, Clara- who's Clara?" Sherlock intoned with the faintest of amused drawls, honestly beginning to enjoy himself. "Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment; expensive phone says wife not girlfriend. She's also given it to him recently; this model is only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then. Six months old, and he's just given it away? If she had left him, he would have kept it. People do- sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it- he left her."

Sherlock finally paused for a short breath. "He gave the phone to you- that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation- yet you're not going to your brother for help? That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How," John interrupted, "can you possibly know about the drinking?"

Sherlock grinned wickedly. "Shot in the dark," he admitted. "Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You'd never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go- you see? You were right," he finished without breaking stride.

"I was right?" John echoed disbelievingly. "Right about what?"

His voice was almost bored, but he felt a ripple of satisfaction suffuse through him. "The police don't consult amateurs."

And with that, Sherlock bit down on his tongue and silently waited for the usual response: acrimony and bitter, instant distancing.

"That was brilliant."

He almost started at the quiet crystalline remark, the voice emanating from directly opposite him. Sherlock had completely forgotten about Scarlett's presence; and, looking up, he was taken off guard to find her expression remarkably soft for someone whose cousin's personal life and most sensitive family conflicts he had just mercilessly deconstructed. On the contrary- a captivated and utterly admiring smile was coiling at her mouth, her gaze open and candid, containing genuine warmth.

Sherlock was momentarily lost for words.

"Do you think so?"

"Of course it was," John cut in with hearty agreement, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "It was extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary."

Sherlock felt a second flourish of pride seeping up inside him at the realisation that neither John nor Scarlett were offended or deterred by his ruthless demonstration- this time, the feeling was combined with something slightly heated and liquescent, and almost unfamiliar.

"That's not what people normally say," he muttered, half to himself.

"What do people normally say?" John asked.

"Piss off," Sherlock quoted with a dry smile. John grinned slightly, and the atmosphere lifted.

"Somehow, I believe that. You're not exactly- subtle, Mr Holmes," Scarlett criticised, her smile becoming wry. Sherlock returned the look, unoffended; in his deductions, subtlety's only place was in the nuances of his reasoning and the evidence before him. "Then again- in my experience, people tend to reject out of hand whatever doesn't fit in with their personal standards of normal anyway," she continued thoughtfully. "They don't like what they can't comprehend. It's a shame. Plenty of revolutionary minds are outcasts for most of their lives, because of something as ridiculous as petty jealousy. Isolation might drive them to excel, but most people won't feel truly comfortable in who they are until they feel accepted, if only by a handful of close friends."

Sherlock raked his gaze over her curiously, processing her words. "How very astute," he commented lightly, "apart from your last statement, of course. There are many great minds who could care less about social acceptance. They only need recognition for their ability- nothing more."

Scarlett rested her jaw upon the heel of her hand, her elbow propped up against the ledge of the passenger side door. "Speaking from personal experience?"

"As a matter of fact," Sherlock said, turning to look out his window, "yes. I cannot understand why people crave approval from each other. Why bother living up to someone else's expectations?"

"So it means nothing to you- other people's opinions of you."

"Precisely."

There was brief pause.

"Liar."

The word was uttered so softly that it could have easily been lost under the deep crackling hum of the cab's engine, yet simultaneously with a strange kind of force. The two syllables held a knowing quality, unspoken empathy, designed so that Sherlock could ignore it if he wanted to- but still he turned to her with an acidic retort already on his tongue.

It was then that, for the first time, he noticed it.

Scarlett Rossini's eyes cut.

Almond-shaped, lashed with long brushstrokes of dark bronze, irises of clear silver-grey- it seemed impossible, but they could only be described as the colour of a mirror: Sherlock could actually see his own reflection in them, flickering like a zoetrope under the passing lights. They were by far her most striking feature- the conventional look invoked by pale golden hair and a vaguely Mediterranean bone structure was ruined in a heartbeat, soft bland prettiness permanently replaced by something with a beautiful, striking edge.

Sherlock stared, silent and fascinated.

Before he realised it, the moment for response passed. With an unobtrusive smile, Scarlett turned away, and the interior of the taxi sank back into silence.

Sherlock leaned back in his seat, and made a note in the temporary file he had created for the doctor and his cousin, until he could locate an appropriate room in his mind palace to store them: Scarlett Rossini, Dr John Watson's cousin. Possible Italian heritage. Chemistry student. Forensics career aim. Dancing experience. Well-read. Intelligent. Hard to unsettle.

Possibly interesting.