...Okay. He looks familiar. And his death those several months ago was really very suspicious, and she doesn't think anyone has been doing her morgue trick in New York City. And his more reclusive identical twin's body was never found at all. (If there was an identical twin, and not just Tony Stark theatrically pretending to be two people with mirrors or holograms or Photoshop and cooperative witnesses giving insistent interviews and then suddenly being dead and no longer able to pretend. There was, after all no sign of a twin before a sudden debut when he - they - was or were fifteen, and... "Sherlock Holmes", really? There's not even a hint of a twin in Tony's birth announcement, which she checks because that's the obvious thing to check.)
Come to think of it, Mr. Does Not Stick To Flypaper never introduced himself.
She supposes that his cute laser trick didn't work that well, if he got got. (But she saw it burn him. It's a clever weapon, should take almost no skill to wield a continuous beam - what kind of onslaught could have gotten around that?)
Nothing about her routine changes in response to this information.
Until several days later when she's crossing another neighborhood (seventeen to go) and - he just keeps popping up, doesn't he?
"There could be collateral damage, or they could be plotting to blow up the elementary school or something sinister like that - non-vampire demons won't be repelled by the crosses around the place."
"I would like to have the information," she says, which isn't quite an answer to his question.
The cruiser stops short when Charlie recognizes Sherlock, and he leaps out, weapon drawn and pointed.
"Dad!" shouts Bella. "Don't shoot! Just - go on the porch, or inside, but don't shoot him again, okay?"
Bella chooses a different window to stick her head out of so she can see them both. "Dad, this is Sherlock. I'm not letting him within arms' length but for the time being he seems worth letting live, okay?"
"...Bells, he killed -"
"They killed a person, didn't they?"
Charlie nods slowly.
"They weren't humans. Look at the colors of the blood on him - I know it's dark, but you can see it's not red, right?"
Charlie nods again, still slow.
He's sitting out of porchlight range. More or less. Sherlock raises his hand in a little wave, and otherwise lets them get on with their conversation.
Charlie nods again. He lowers the gun, regards Sherlock, and holsters it.
"Thank you," he says. And wryly, lazily, cheerfully, without the least hint of anger: "I am very annoyed about what you did to my coat."
"You look like you're having fun. Have you even got the bullet out of your shoulder yet?"
"Will it otherwise remain open forever or will it just heal around the slug?" Bella inquires. "I suppose removing it is wise either way, but I'm curious."
"Then you should take it out unless you want to have a chunk of metal in your shoulder forever or reopen the wound at some point, shouldn't you?"
"I suppose so, yes," he says. "But it is likely to be an unpleasant job, and I would much rather just lie here and giggle to myself."
"If I wait a week for you to get it, you will have to dig it out with a knife, which will be even less pleasant," he says. And sits up. "Ah, fuck it. Will you be staying in tonight?"
He climbs to his feet, favouring the wounded shoulder a little.