Orphan on Baker Street

Ninth: Gerald

Sherlock and I step up on the small square of cement in front of 152's door. He lifts the knocker and uses it to knock twice. A man not much taller than I am opens the door, his salt and pepper colored hair puffing slightly in the front - like someone a lot younger than him would wear.

"Hello," he says with a friendly smile. Who I assume to be Gerald curves his dark lips up in a smile. "Did you make an appointment? I don't remember having anyone at this time." He checks his watch just in case.

Sherlock and I exchange a glance. "Uh, no," he starts before turning back to Gerald. "Sorry about that, truly."

"Don't be. Please, come in," Gerald exclaims happily. Then he steps back, and the two of us walk in.

The first room we enter is wide with lots of shelves, fake plants, and stain glass windows. A forest green leather couch sits diagonally facing the door and a matching arm chair.

"Sit, please. Make yourselves at home," Gerald says, gesturing to the couch as he sits in the armchair. We sit.

"Well, first things first: I'm Ben Cumberland, and this is my niece, Rosalie."

"It's nice to meet you Ben, and Rosalie. I am Doctor Gerald Watkins," he says with another smile. This man is too happy for my taste.

"Oh, I know," Sherlock says with a wide grin. "A friend recommended me. Well, actually, multiple friends."

"Really?" the man inquires with raised eyebrows. "That's quite flattering. Now, which of you seeks my assistance?"

"Me," I croak sadly. The entire time I've been slouched on the sofa, not even bothering to remove my backpack. Sherlock looks over to me worriedly.

"She, uhm," he stutters and looks back over to Gerald. "She has an alcohol addiction." Sherlock pats my hand on the sofa between us comfortingly. I just glare around the room.

"The first step is admitting... have you admitted to this, Rosalie?" Gerald asks. Looking over to him, I sit up and notice he's got an indentation peeking from under his rolled up sleeve - like he recently had on a tourniquet. I quickly look up to his face.

"Earlier in the week, I came home from some drinks with friends - who aren't alcoholics," I shoot a glare to Sherlock before continuing in the therapist's direction, "and I told my uncle I wanted a pub for my birthday." My face warms as if I'm embarassed, but in reality, I'm just thinking about the grocery store clerk with no trousers on.

"Oh," Gerald says in a devastated tone. "Was this just a drunken wish, or do you truly want a pub?"

"I think it was... a little bit of both," I say, glancing over at a bookshelf. There's a hidden camera. If we came unexpected, it shouldn't be on right now.

"Ben," Gerald says, turning to Sherlock. "Do you mind stepping out? I think this session could go better if she felt more like she was talking to just me."

"Don't mind at all," Sherlock says with a small smile. He kisses my temple before standing. "I've got to use the loo anyway. Where might that be?"

"Down that hall, it's the first door on your left," Gerald responds. Sherlock nods his thanks before jogging off behind the couch and down the hallway.

"So," Gerald says, leaning back in his chair. "When did your alcoholism start?"

"Just after my aunt left Ben... They were raising me together since they couldn't have a child of their own, and my parents died," I say softly.

"How did your parents die?"

"A car accident," I lie perfectly.

"When was the last time you had a drink?"

"Last night at the bar with my friends."

"And earlier you said they weren't alcoholics?" he asks curiously.

"No, they aren't alcoholics. But Uncle Ben thinks they are."

"Why do you think that is?"

"Um," I hesitate. "I don't know. He thinks they're a bad influence but not just because I go out to bars with them every now and again."

"Do you think they're a bad influence?"

"Yes," I say too quickly. My voice sounded higher than usual, and I frown.

Gerald slides a pen and notepad from his breast pocket and scribbles something down. "Why do you hang out with them, Rosalie? Is it because you think they're valuable friends who can change?"

"Um," I pause again. In my head, I try to convince myself my lies are fine. "Well, I know they won't change. I guess I just..." My brain can't make up an ending to the sentence quickly enough, and I stare sadly at the therapist.

"You guess you just want someone that will... stick around?" he finishes for me.

"Yes," I say excitedly. Then I shrink back into the couch and nod, "Yes. A lot of people have left me, and I want people that I know won't."

"Do you think your Uncle Ben will leave you?" he asks with a head tilt. His pen hovers over the paper on his notepad.

Staring at his pen, I say, "Yes." He writes something quickly before glancing up at me.

"Pay attention to what I'm saying, not what I'm writing," he says with a wink. "Why do you think he'll leave you?"

"There's nothing stopping him. Plus, I'm an alcoholic teen. What's to love about that?"

"Rosalie," he says calmly, sitting forward in his chair. "You're his niece."

I cut him off, "That didn't stop my aunt from leaving." I scowl and gulp; it's time for the tears.

"She left because of her relationship with your uncle, not because of you."

When I blink, warm liquid slides down my cheek, and it takes all of my energy not to smile with pride. I'm a great actress. I sigh.

"Rosalie," a voice booms from behind me. My hair fans out behind me as I spin my head to see Sherlock walking over from the hallway. He holds a phone in his hand.

"It's your aunt; she's in the hospital," he says hurriedly.

"But you two are divorced," I say with a frown.

"We also need to change our emergency contacts. Come along," he says, taking my hand. I walk behind him quickly.

"Oh," he stops in front of the open door. "Thank you, sir. I'll be sure to call back on a more convenient date to arrange an appointment."

"And I'll be waiting," Gerald replies with a smile. Sherlock nods to him before rushing out of the house.

"What was that?" I ask once we're a few paces from the therapist's home.

"The shooter wasn't targeting Gerald," Sherlock explains, waving a hand out into the road. "It was Gerald."