Sherlock-When the Day Met the Night

Ok, so welcome to my first Sherlock Fic. Firstly I'd like to thank Jemima123, XxLovelyLittleMexX and CrazyLara who have all been fundamental in the inspiration of me writing this fic. All three can be found on my Favourite Authors tab on my profile.

I have an idea where this fic is going and how it's going to end...but it's not set in stone. That's where you come in. Inspire me... point out things if you think Sherlock is being OOC and most importantly... ENJOY THE RIDE.

Following the POV of the character you meet in this chapter and, occasionally, Sherlock's you will see how their relationship progresses from professional to personal. Can she get out of her routine and solitude to let Sherlock in? Can she teach him about empathy and compassion before he pushes her away? Can they both navigate the bumps in the road to reach a happy ending?

A/N 26.7.2013

I'm currently editing this story. It has come to light that there are a number of grammatical errors that I need to clear up. Some of the content in here *MAY* change as a result of an insulting suggestion that my story is just a Sue with a plot.

I'll also point out that the tea shop I reference in this chapter is not actually a sit-down-and-drink-tea but a buy-the-leaves-and-brew-yourself kind of shop. In was an error on my part, but it feels a little Harry Potter/ 9 ¾ so I'm leaving it in. How did I find out? I went to the shop for a cuppa… and came out with about 30 cups worth of leaves.

For those who are new to my story, please drop me a review, let me know what you think. I need some honest opinions about this story.

Chapter One: Do You Know What I'm Seeing?

There's a reason I said I'd be happy alone. It wasn't 'cause I thought I'd be happy alone. It was because I thought if I loved someone and then it fell apart, I might not make it. It's easier to be alone, because what if you learn that you need love and you don't have it? What if you like it and lean on it? What if you shape your life around it and then it falls apart? Can you even survive that kind of pain? Losing love is like organ damage. It's like dying. The only difference is death ends. This? It could go on forever.

Meredith Grey, Grey's Anatomy.

I was happy in my own world! Until him! He threw me off my guard and sent my idea of life into a spin. For someone who was so straight laced, he disregarded everyone else's comfort zones with reckless precision. I didn't know when I first met him that I'd fall in love with him- this is not one of those stories. In fact my first encounter with him left me wanting to get out of his company as fast as possible and never lay my eyes upon his sculpted face again. Of course he had other plans, he always did. He also made me a proposition I couldn't refuse.

I was sat in my favourite tea shop on Neal Street, writing about nothing in particular. I'd just finished writing a biography for an Essex socialite and awaiting the cheque for a timely completion. I'd been given an advance for another, but the publishing house had yet to arrange a meeting, so I had time to myself. This way of living had become a routine: wake up at 6am with a headache that only a caffeine fix could cure. Trying to ignore the throbbing of my head, I'd shuffle into the bathroom and take a quick shower. As soon as I physically could, I'd get out of my cramped, lifeless and uninspiring flat with my bag clutched to my shoulder. I'd move quickly down the staircases. I often contemplated moving; I had the money to, but I didn't see the point when I only spent my sleeping hours there. Looking back, I guess I was scared that if I had a more comfortable place to live, I'd never actually leave.

The smell of the second floor was unavoidable on the journey out of my building. I was certain even those with stronger stomachs than my own would be void of their contents if they were adventurous enough to have breakfast before leaving my confines and entering the urban jungle that was London via the rubbish dump that was the second floor. Of course, it was only a theory as I'd never invited anyone to my accommodation. Never knew someone well enough for them to be understanding; after all I hated living there. I'd not been able to call anywhere home in many years. Little did I know that within the year I would indeed have a place, and a person, to call home.

Once outside the seven floored flat, armed with all the things I'd need to keep me entertained for the day, I'd take a lung full of morning air and make my way to the tea shop using the most direct route that I knew of. I was never in a rush. While the shop would be busy when I arrived, it would be a mixture line of lawyers, bankers and other office workers stopping for their morning fix of caffeine. They'd leave with their drug in a large cup and the shop would remain empty until at least 10am when the new mothers would begin their day with a morning tea. I'd wait in line, immersed in my own world; encased in a blast of music that prevented people from speaking to me. It was easier that way. I'd remove my headphone for enough time to order my first and only cup of coffee of the day. It's always highly unnecessary, the girls behind the counter know my order, but it's only polite. I always take my usual seat in the far corner of the shop, stuff my headphones back into my ears and begin my scribbling, or typing; whatever the mood, or current job, called for.

I had a routine. I'd stay there all day, sipping on tea. I'd see other customers get drinks for free if they stayed more than an hour. Never me, the most I was given was a rolling tab that I was to pay at the end of the day so that I didn't have to leave my seat except to nip to the toilet. It was the way I liked it though. Things were never for free. Everything had a price. Just like my routine had a social price. I sometimes felt I lacked company, friendship and companionship. But, at least this way, I knew where I stood and no one could hurt me by taking it away from me.

Nothing changed, ever.

That was, until he sat down in the vacant seat across the coffee table from me. Everything changed from that moment on. If he asks, I'll deny it.

'Excuse me?' I yanked out my headphones a little harder than I meant to and glared at the man who had yet to remove his thick coat or scarf, despite it being rather warm inside the shop. I was hoping to convey anger; however, whatever expression hung on my face amused him no end. I cursed my facial muscles for being so inept at channelling anger. 'I could be waiting for someone.' I argued. I didn't want to lie and tell him that I was waiting for someone, mainly because I couldn't lie, partly because I had the feeling that this stranger could see right through any invention. 'The polite thing would be –'

'- to ask if the seat was free, I agree. But, how do you suppose I enquire about the ownership of this chair with your music so loud?' He pressed his lips into a line that became something I later identified as his signature quirky smile. He drew his mug up to his lips but paused before he took a sip. 'Besides, it's quite clear you are not waiting for anyone.' I knew it was a loaded statement engineered to draw me into a conversation. I had a choice to make; I could ask him how he knew I wasn't waiting for anyone or I could be rude, throw him an attempted dirty look and go back to my ramblings. Ah hell, this was going to make my blood boil and my head ache. While I was contemplating my choices, he'd begun drinking from his mug, oblivious to the inner monologue that was tearing my head apart.

'How-' I began to ask. I noticed his Adam's apple vibrate as he suppressed what I could only perceive as a laugh. It was exactly what he wanted. He'd wanted me to ask. For some reason he wanted to engage me in conversation. He sighed, stretched and then relaxed into his seat. Ok, so he wants to talk at me.

'You're faced away from the door and you're not sat rigidly like many people who are awaiting company, always on edge because they don't want to miss their companion. You have three cups on the table, all yours from the smear of gloss on the lip of the cup.' I couldn't help but chew on my bottom lip at this observation. 'Incidentally from the random pattern your gloss has left, you could train yourself to be ambidextrous. The waitress likes to give you space, hence the build-up of cups.' He observed her further. 'In fact, you're sat in such a way that means you can't see a single person who enters the place which, from an anthropological view point, is rather anti-social.' He drank deeply from his mug and placed it down on the table. I could smell peppermint and it reminded me that I was thirsty. I drank from my own cup, trying not to wince as the stone cold tea trickled down my throat. 'The items you have with you aren't props either; unlike the woman behind you who has failed to turn the page of her book since she arrived. She also has a mobile phone, which will soon lose power because she keeps checking it for a message from her companion, who is-' He looked to his vintage watch. '-about 30 minutes late.'

I felt my brow tighten. I was confused; what did the woman's phone have to do with me?

'You have your phone in your bag and on silent. You are not expecting any calls.' He explained as if he was simply telling the time. It unnerved me.

'Ok, but just because I'm not expecting anyone doesn't mean someone I know won't arrive-' was that pity I saw flash across his blue eyes just before he cut me off?

'How would someone recognise you from the back of your head? It's a rather bland, undefined head. No... You know very few people in London. You originally came out to work in tea shops to try and meet new people, but your failed attempts at humour with the staff here has drained you of your confidence, so you now convince yourself that merely being around people while you have no work is enough to stop you feeling alone.' There! That right there was faux pity. This pompous man was either patronising me or he genuinely didn't know how to express empathy. Either way, I was angry. He was sitting there, plucking me from my happy isolated, ignorant existence and then making it out that it wasn't good enough. It wasn't, I wasn't happy. It wasn't good enough and I knew that, but who was he to point it out?

'I'm working right now, actually.' I declared, a little too prickly for my liking; I didn't want this stranger to think he'd gotten to me. Which, of course he had. It was going to be a three scoop evening at home. Nearly a whole tub of ice cream would be rammed into those three scoops. Good thing too, because the freezer didn't really work, so the ice cream only ever lasted a week before growing those unflattering crystals. Eating a family portion of ice cream was something I would punish myself for by going for a run at nine that evening instead of watching the film that I'd planned all week to watch when I'd seen it advertised; totally predictable.

'You're writing by hand,' He insisted. 'If it was paid work you were doing you'd be working on a laptop; it's less personal and not your preference; however, it is efficient. Your phone is on silent because you are working on your own novel, a fiction piece. You want a day to yourself, to write down your own ideas before your talents get used on some random celebrity's biography.'

''Well as you said, I have a day to myself and I'm choosing to spend it alone. So, if you don't mind; I'm going to get back to my work.' I stuffed the headphones back into my ears until I was sure the only way of getting them out would be through a pair of tweezers, I bent my head over the desk to stare at my half-filled page, hoping I was obscuring the ramblings from the observant man. I was trying to ignore the man who was currently scrolling through his phone while sipping on his tea. The man who made me feel so naked and vulnerable that I wanted to cry. Something didn't sit right with me; he'd passed me another loaded statement that I just couldn't get away from. I had a question and from the smile creeping onto his face, he was counting down to the removal of my head phones. I yanked them out with a sharp tug, but he spoke before I had chance to open my mouth:

'I know that your phone is on silent because, Miss Doyle, I've been trying to contact you. I'm Sherlock Holmes and I'm in need of your assistance.'