They each hauled themselves through the window and ducked under the broken fence, just as they had done a few hours ago. It was still very early, probably coming up to six, Hazel judged by the light level, so there were very few people around to see her in her pyjamas.
"Where are we going?" Hazel squeaked nervously, jogging a few paces to keep up with Sco – Sherlock's long strides.
"Home," he said bluntly.
He stopped on a corner and seemed to sniff the air, before crossing the street and heading left. Hazel followed him unquestioningly, which he approved of. Silence helped him think.
As they approached the main road, which couldn't really be avoided, Sherlock took to bounding down alley ways again, to avoid being seen. Hazel huffed, disgruntled. Her school shoes were thin flats and offered no support against the cobbles. She was bound to twist an ankle at some point.
"We're dead and you're in your jammies," Sherlock remind her as they waited for people to clear off at the next crossing.
He had a point, and she understood. Well, mostly understood. She was still reeling from the shock and confusion, and she was disheartened by her own willingness to follow this strange man wherever he was going. But she had nothing and no one, heck, the only thing she'd have come the ten o'clock news would be her pjs and a death certificate. She gulped back her tears and Sherlock gave her an irritated look, but he quickly wiped it off his face, aware, for once, that this was a pretty delicate situation.
"Come on, it's not far now," he attempted a gentle tone, and she appreciated the effort.
Hazel noticed they had passed into the Hammersmith area and was more and more bemused by Sherlock. Hammersmith was pricey, where as their old, now shredded house was just a slum in the centre nobody had really given a name too.
They headed into another alley, and Sherlock began jumping at each garden gate. It was quite the spectacle. When he'd apparently found the right one, Hazel was sure she heard him let out a little giggle of delight. Sherlock took a running jump and heaved himself onto the garden wall, straddling it with his long legs and then disappeared down the other side. A few seconds later, the gate swung open. Sherlock took a dramatic bow and gestured Hazel to come in.
"Here," Sherlock said, moving to a semi-sunken window on the ground floor.
He fiddled with the edges of the frame for a few moments before suddenly, pop, the frame came right out of the brick work. He slipped himself into the frame and Hazel followed, and then found herself in a pleasantly decorated and larger than expected dining kitchen. Sherlock pointed to a chair across from them, where she could see a blonde head just peaking over the top. He pressed a finger to his lips and then counted down from three on his hands.
"You're late, little brother," called a voice from the chair.
"And?" Sherlock stepped towards him.
"And you're late, I have nothing else to say to you."
"Nope, I'm definitely something else," Sherlock demanded sarcastically. He flicked on the telly and the news headline rolled.
The man in the chair sighed.
"I was right," Sherlock said, depositing the remote control with a thunk in the blonde man's lap.
The chair sighed again and went back to reading his paper. Sherlock turned back to Hazel and pointed in the direction of the hallway, and then noisily got himself a glass of water to cover her footsteps, before following. He pressed lightly into the small of her back to guide her into a room to the right of the hall, which Hazel figured was the furthest from the main room they had just left. Sherlock shut the door behind them and smiled smugly.
The walls of the room were a dark blue tribal pattern and the carpet was a thick, fluffy grey. The bed was large and pressed between both side walls right on the back, with all three wall edges adorned with pillows. The sheets were a silky pale blue, and there was a walk-in closet and bathroom to the right of the door. It faced the front of the house, and under the window was a desk, covered in scraps of paper and random science equipment.
"Have a sleep," Sherlock whispered softly, running a comforting hand down her arm. He was pleased the action worked. "We'll talk later, when he's gone."
Hazel did as he asked and settled herself into the plush bed. The sheets smelled fresh and clean and so soft she could have sworn they were brand new. Sherlock smiled as she tucked herself in, almost entirely buried in the soft duvet. He was pleased with himself, for reaching out to her. She hadn't gone all teen-girl emotional as he'd worried. He was definitely right about her.
Sherlock took a refreshing shower, glad to wash the day's grime away. He was somewhat frustrated his brother, Mycroft, had hung around longer than usual after breakfast. He'd really wanted an empty house when he'd brought Hazel home. The man had obviously been worried about his younger brother. Sherlock shuddered at the thought.
He slipped a silk robe around himself after towelling off, and decided to take the unusual precaution of some matching boxer shorts, considering the young lady in the bedroom. Hazel was soundly asleep when Sherlock came out of the bathroom, although her brows were furrowed, as if stressed. It would be suspicious for him to check if Mycroft had left – even more so, on the pretence of gathering food – so he sat himself in the opposite corner from Hazel, against one of the pillow walls, and attempted to allow himself a nap. Though there was something not exactly fair about being pushed out of his own bed.
He retreated to his mind palace, analysing the events, trying to deduce the bomber.
And somehow awoke with his face pressed against something soft, feeling the comforting weight of the duvet and breathing in a sweet scent. His eyes broke open and he found himself just inches from Hazel, his face almost smothered in her long hair. He had a horrible sense of realisation that Hazel must have covered him with the duvet. How humiliating. He internalised a groan.
"Morning," Hazel chirped upon seeing Sherlock's open eyes.
He moved to sit up and put some platonic distance between their bodies as he stretched.
"How long did I sleep?" he asked, making the effort casual.
"I've been up an hour..." she nodded at the clock on the desk, "and you were asleep against the wall then."
"So you tucked me in, one might say."
She nodded, "It seemed the right thing to do.
He smiled softly, hoping she'd see it as gratitude. There was that thing again. That instinct of care the youngster radiated.
"Help yourself to the bathroom. I have some errands to run. I'll come back with some sustenance, and I'd rather you didn't leave this room," he added the latter gently.
She crawled out of the bed and Sherlock faked busying himself with gathering some clothes from the closet to get a good look at her frame. Taking measurements. He clocked what he needed and slipped himself into a shirt and trousers as soon as she clicked the bathroom door shut. He noted the fact she didn't lock it.
Sherlock took the front door, locking it and having to bite back the urge to check its security. The neighbourhood was quiet, largely populated by post graduate couples just getting their finances together. The housing comprised mostly of four storey terraced houses, some of which split into four flats, some into two, and others just very large houses. It was affordable, but well maintained. And discreet, very discreet. Just what the Holmes brothers ordered.
He headed to the local supermarket, where he gathered a basket of supplies. Simple things like long-life milk, Weetabix, canned soup and packets of crisps. Things that could be easily hidden in his closet so Mycroft wouldn't suspect they had a third house guest. The second part of his venture was more difficult – choosing clothing for Hazel.
That was why he'd needed measurements. He started with trousers: two pairs of size eight jeans, one pair of leggings and some smart grey pants. And for tops, size ten, because she liked it loose, he went with simple and discreet. Pastel colours seemed "in" this spring so it was easy to pick up a week's worth of easy t-shirts and a smart blouse, lilac with a print of tiny birds in white. He also found a cardigan, blue and cream striped, and a more substantial coat in the sale from winter. For pyjamas, he took a shorts set in pale pink with a Disney donkey on the front, and a flannel dressing gown. He picked up a simple seven pack of plain white socks and similar knickers, and then came the real hurdle.
Bras.
He stood at the edge of the aisle, and just gaped. The was no innocent way a grown man could buy a bra. She would just have to go without. Her young chest wasn't exactly bouncy, anyway.
Finally, Sherlock picked up a pair of plain navy baseball shoes and some black ankle boots. It was hardly a typical teenage wardrobe, but it would certainly tide her over. He made a note to send her shopping for "essentials" when he was confident she wouldn't try to run away or go to the police. There were other feminine things the teen would need within the month. He grimaced. He had to share a bed with that.
He stopped suddenly as he walked out of the store.
Good Lord, he had to share a bed.
Hello, lovely people.
I had some uploading issues earlier this week where I had to basically tack this chapter onto the end of the first chapter. Chapter 3 is currently under revision and should be up in a few hours!
Hope everyone has had a lovely Easter weekend.
I know people are reading this and I would love to hear your thoughts, just click that review button :3
Cheers, Logan.