Sherlock's Interpreter {Sunday Updates}

Chapter 7: I Have The Letter

The docks were a half-hour drive away, and the silence in the car was as thick as the hazy fog that ascended around their car. Or so Charlie thought.

She rubbed her forehead and leaned her elbow against the window. What happened? Her plan to drug Shiro's man was foolproof. The same dose of morphine worked perfectly on the others. Boom, just like that, they were out cold and none the wiser as she snatched her mother's letters from under their idiot noses. She rubbed her forehead and let out a long stream of air. There was no way she had given him the wrong dose!

"Ask me your questions? I know you want to."

Charlie glanced over her shoulder and met Sherlock's eyes. Her jaw tensed. The headlights from passing cars cast snatches of light over his face, and in those brief moments, she could see an infuriating smirk planted on his face. Her hands balled into fists. He should still be sleeping on the floor of the Tsutenkaku Tower!

"Why didn't the tea knock you out?" she managed, trying to keep her voice as emotionless as possible. Why give him any reason to think he was getting under her skin, though that was precisely what he was doing. "You dumped it in that plant you were hiding behind, didn't you?"

His brows lifted over penetrating eyes, eyes that took their sweet old time perusing her face. She inwardly growled.

"I'm sure you're curious," he said matter-of-factly. His lips curled a little more as he set his gaze to look out the window.

Charlie turned angrily in her seat, her mouth forming a tight line. She had been in the man's presence less than an hour, and already she couldn't stand him! How dare he dismiss her!

After several frustrating minutes of silence and Charlie's temper rising a few more degrees, the smugness returned to Sherlock's voice. "If you must know, I've built up a tolerance for morphine," he said. "That piddling amount you added to my tea actually helps me think. You did me a favour, Charlie Magnussen."

"Piddling amount?" Her brows drew together, but she refused to look at him. "That amount knocked out bigger men than you. There's no way you finished the tea."

She switched to Japanese, and the anxious words spilled from her mouth, "Toma, did he pour the tea into the plant?"

"I assure you, I finished the tea," Sherlock said. "If you must know, I'm a drug addict."

She whipped her head around, and his gaze locked onto hers.

Was he serious? A drug addict? She studied his face, and the unwavering stare that greeted her made her jaw tighten. Who the hell was he?

"I don't believe you," she said slowly.

She turned back around in her seat. Why did this man rattle her so much? Was it his arrogance, the way he waved her mother's letter and threatened to let it fly? How could he possibly know how precious those letters were to her?

She sighed deeply and tried to focus on the passing blur outside her window. Of course, it didn't matter anyway. She was the one with her mother's letter. He was lying!

But. . . but what if he wasn't?

Charlie reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the envelope Toma had given to her at the Tower. Her mother's flowery handwriting was on the outside, but where was the postmark?

She could feel the man's eyes on the back of her head. She knew he watched her intently as a lump formed in her throat. Where was he from? England? London? That's it! The nuance of his accent was unmistakable.

She stared down at the envelope in her hand and rested her finger against the seal. Normally, she would squirrel away to a private place and open her mother's letters like she was about to unwrap a gift on Christmas morning. Well, at least she could pretend to know what Christmas morning was like. Pretend she wasn't at the boarding school staring out the window as her classmates went home with their parents. Pretend she wasn't hurt, or surprised, or angry when she spent the holiday with the Headmistress. . . every holiday.