The Tables Are Turned (Sherlock x OC)

Chapter 8

Five minutes later I was in the back of a cab, smushed between Sherlock and John.

The cab let us off outside of a lovely old brick building with a brass door knocker crooked, and '221B' underneath the knocker.

John fiddled with a pair a keys and opened the door to reveal a kind looking old lady. I quickly deduced her, finding her husband having been executed by the electric chair in Florida for running a drug cartel. This wonderful old lady had been typing for the drug cartel, although she didn't know it was one until her husband's arrest. She wasn't particularly fond of her husband, as she had obviously hired Sherlock to make sure her husband was executed, but there was still some attachment, as she still wore her wedding ring.

I held out my hand the the lady, and said, "Hello, I'm Charlotte, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"I'm Mrs. Hudson deary," she said in a voice as sweet as she appeared, shaking my hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you as well." Her eyes flickered to my cheek. "You've got quite the cut there," she said.

"It's just a scratch, It'll heal in a couple of days," I said dismissively.

"That's an extremely bad cut," John said. "It'll scar if not treated properly."

"I'm not worried about scars," I said. "I am slightly more concerned about my broken rib."

John and Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened, and John ushered me up a set of stairs to a door labeled 221B. John bustled into another room, and I inspected the flat.

A array of beakers and petri dishes were scattered over a table in seemingly random positions, but they were familiar to me. A human skull was planted on the mantle, and I remembered the case when we got the skull. We were trying to find the grave of a man who had supposedly died, but had been spotted a couple days earlier. We accidentally fell into an unmarked grave, and the skull had fallen into my bag. We realized I had attained it after we had fallen onto Sherlock's bed and it rolled out of my bag. We had named the skull William.

"William," I murmured, picking the skull from off the mantle.

I reached out to touch the top of the skull, and a hand snatched my wrist. I whimpered in fear and clenched my eyes shut tightly.

A pair of lips brushed my ear. "What did you say?" Sherlock growled in his deep baritone voice.

I breathed a shaky sigh of relief and I opened my eyes to find John with a medical kit in hand, staring at Sherlock and I.

"William," I whispered. "That's the skull's name."

Sherlock let go of my wrist and stepped back to sit in his chair.

"You named it after Shakespeare?" John asked, bustling forwards to set me down on the couch and take my pulse.

"No, after Sherlock," I said, a bit puzzled.

"What?"

"Sherlock," I repeated. "His full name's William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

"Why didn't I know about this?" John snapped, spinning to Sherlock.

"You never asked," Sherlock replied smoothly.

John turned back to me and applied a type of cream to my cheek, then added a gauze to slow the bleeding. He made to lift my shirt and I inhaled quickly in shock.

"I need to lift your shirt to assess the damage to your rib," John said soothingly.

I nodded.

"Just don't mind the scars," I said to John. "They're old and already healed, so they're of no importance."

John and Sherlock both gave me quizzical looks, then John lifted my shirt up, revealing my scarred and tortured stomach.

I didn't need to look down to understand why John and Sherlock both gasped in horror, I knew each and every one of my scars by heart.

Sherlock recovered first, and he made eye contact with me. I stared down at my hands in shame.

John prodded my rib gently, and I made no reaction, although the pain was atrocious.

"You've got a badly broken rib," John said, stepping back. "And some of these scars are fresh. We'll need to get you to a hospital."

"No!" I protested. "Just wrap my stomach, I'll be fine enough with that. I've suffered worse."

John's eyes narrowed. "Do you self-harm?" He asked, pulling up my sleeves to reveal my arms, and tilting my neck up to examine that scar.

I opened my mouth to speak, but Sherlock beat me to it. "Of course not John, don't be daft," he said, startling me at his rudeness. "The cuts are straight. If they were self-inflicted they'd be more slanted, diagonal even."

John nodded and examined me a bit more.

"What happened to you?" I said to Sherlock.

"What?"

"What happened to you? You used to be so kind and thoughtful and you were cheerful and energetic, and-- and you SMILED!" I said. "What happened to the Sherlock I knew? What happened to my Sherlock?"

"Your Sherlock is dead," Sherlock snapped. "Your Sherlock died along with Charlotte! And nothing you can say will convince me that you are Charlotte!"

"What if we took her to get a DNA test?" John suggested after an awkward silence.

"I'm an orphan, John," I said quietly. "They don't have my DNA. But we could check my fingerprints."

"Fingerprints can be faked," Sherlock dismissed the idea.

"No they can't," John said, confused.

"Moriarty could've replaced the fingerprints on file with hers," Sherlock explained, annoyed.

"But you can't replace memories," I pointed out.

Sherlock sighed. "I suppose not."

He stood up and stomped off into another room, coming back with a piece of paper and a pencil, and a fingerprinting kit.

I smiled. Now we could watch Sherlock draw. He rarely ever drew.

"What are you going to do?" John asked.

Sherlock ignored him, so I took up the initiative to speak for him.

"He's going to draw my fingerprint," I said.

"You can draw?" John asked Sherlock.

"Of course I can draw," Sherlock sniffed. "I just choose not to."

He fingered the pencil lightly, then did stroke after stroke of lines, drawing a masterfully exact copy of my thumb's fingerprint.

"Brilliant!" John exclaimed in awe.

"It's just a pencil and paper," Sherlock said, seemingly miffed. "Quite easy enough."

He passed me the ink pad, and I pressed my thumb to it lightly, but hard enough so that my thumb had a reasonable amount of ink on it. I pressed my thump to the paper, right next to Sherlock's drawing, and held it for 2.3 seconds before removing my finger. We all leaned forwards in apprehension as Sherlock examined the prints.

"They're the same," John said. "Exactly the same."

Sherlock hung his head and clenched his fists, letting out a quiet sigh.

"Sherlock," John said hesitantly. "What exactly was your relationship with Charlotte?"