It had started raining after lunch, and the weather still hadn't let up by the time school was over with. My converse were soaked through, and my hair had gone from wild to uncontrollable, thanks to the insane wind. I'd planned to head straight home, but as always, something came up. As Jeanette and I hurried down the sidewalk, I reached out and pulled her to the side, ducking under an awning to avoid the direct downpour.

"I've got to stop by the shop and get some things," I told her over the howl of the storm. Sherlock apparently never made it to the store in the seven hours I'd been gone. "I'll catch you tomorrow-"

"I'll go with you," she offered, and I sighed to myself. I knew she only wanted to hang out with me because she fancied Sherlock; honestly, most girls at school did, either for his brains or his looks. Jeanette said he had dreamy eyes.

We slipped into the nearest shop, and I gathered up the things John had asked for as Jeanette followed me around. I stopped by the muffins. John had told me to pick out some I wanted. Blueberry was Sherlock's favorite; I detested them, but I didn't hesitate in grabbing them. Maybe muffins would deter him from his agonizing morning interrogations.

After paying, Jeanette and I raced the last few blocks to the apartment. I glanced at her as I pushed the door open.

"Do you want to stay and do homework?" I asked her, stepping inside. I knew the answer, but it still frustrated me when she shifted her eyes.

"Not really, I've got to get home, but I'll help you upstairs with the groceries."

"Thanks," I sighed, kicking the door shut behind us. Some days, I didn't know if she wanted to spend time with me, or hang around me in hopes of seeing Sherlock.

I gave Ms. Hudson a warm smile as we passed by, then led the way upstairs. John was seated at the desk typing away as Sherlock paced in front of the window.

"Hello Dr. Watson, hello Sherlock," Jeanette said timidly, putting on an overly sweet voice. She kept her gaze locked on the pacing, brooding man as he ignored her existence.

"Afternoon," John said, glancing up. "How've you been?"

I took the bag from Jeanette and passed into the kitchen, giving him an apologetic glance when she ignored his greeting.

"You had all day to go to the shop," I nagged Sherlock, giving him a look as I sat the groceries down. At this, he stopped his pacing and looked up at me. I saw Jeanette frown; apparently she wasn't happy that her schoolgirl crush had acknowledged me first, not her.

"You were already out," he informed me. "Much more convenient."

"I was gone for seven hours," I said. "It would have taken you ten minutes at most to walk over and get the milk."

"Did you get muffins?" he asked; I rolled my eyes.

"I shouldn't have," I muttered, turning to look at Jeanette. "Sure you don't want to stay?"

"I've got to get going," she informed me. "I'll see you tomorrow. Bye, Sherlock."

He had already gone back to his pacing, and he was once again oblivious to her. She all but stormed out of the flat, giving me a disgruntled glance on her way down the stairs. I turned away from the door, grumbling as I went back to the kitchen to put everything away.

Lightning illuminated the dim flat, and then a crack of thunder shook the walls. I flinched away from the window, grimacing as the sky continued to groan. I'd always been terrified of thunder and lightning; the only two people who knew were currently ten feet away, pretending not to notice my reaction. The first time Sherlock had pointed it out, I made sure they'd both keep their mouths shut about it.

"She does enjoy your company, Laicee," Sherlock mused, wandering into the kitchen. I glanced up at him as I put the milk in the fridge, doing my best to avoid the box of severed feet.

"I know," I shrugged. "It's why I put up with her. It just gets old after a while, that's all."

Another roll of thunder swept through the flat, and I flinched again, then glowered at the carpet as I took off my backpack and began to dig out my homework. It was always embarrassing to react like that in front of someone. Sherlock strolled past me, oblivious; he glanced down as I pulled my binder out.

"Will you tell me why you were upset earlier?" he asked; I looked up at him and kept my gaze vacant.

"Nope," I said curtly. His eyebrows twitched. "Will it bother you if I do my homework up here?"

"Your thought process helps me focus," he said as he went back into the living room. I'd learned to take that as his way of saying it didn't bother him. I settled onto the couch, leaning up against the arm and pulling my legs up, resting my binder on my knees.

Sherlock pulled out his violin; as another crack of thunder made me flinch, he began to play.

-x-

"Are you hungry Laicee?" John asked as he stood up from the desk, stretching and scratching his head. I'd slid down into a more comfortable position an hour ago, and hadn't bothered moving. My math book and worksheet were strewn on top of me, and I was nibbling idly on my pencil.

At his words, I glanced at my phone for the first time in quite a while. It was nearly six, and the sky had blackened. I shoved my work off my lap and pushed myself up, running a hand through my curls.

"Yeah, sorry, I got distracted," I said quickly, getting up and shaking the feeling back into my legs. Sherlock was in his usual chair, his brows drawn together and his fingers pressed to his lips; he was lost in his world of thought.

"I did too," John assured me. "It's Friday, why not go out and get something?"

"That sounds brilliant," I admitted, grinning. "I'm feeling a bit lazy at the moment. What shall it be?"

"Well, with Sherlock off in his thoughts, we should probably bring something back," John mused, pulling on his jacket. As I slipped my shoes on, I looked down at Sherlock.

"What are you in the mood for?" I asked; he was focused intently on a stain beside the couch, murmuring into his fingers. I rolled my eyes; if I got upset every time Sherlock ignored me (like Jeanette), I'd constantly be moping about.

"Right, well, I'm feeling fish and chips," I told John, grabbing my cardigan as I followed him down the stairs. "Is that alright?"

"Sounds good," John said, holding the door for me as I slipped outside. We fell into step, strolling along the damp London streets. I was glad the rain had let up; the night was cool, but not unbearable.

"How was school?" John asked as we walked.

"It was decent," I said with a half smile. "You know, as decent as school could be."

I glanced up at John as we walked, our conversation light. Last summer, I'd overheard Sherlock and John talking late one night. Among other things discussed, I heard John admit to Sherlock that he saw me as the daughter he never had (and probably never would). Sherlock had thought John was a nutter, but I quite enjoyed the thought of that. My own father had been less than loving, and John had always taken care of me in the short time he'd known me.

My mum killed herself when I was seven. The day before she took a gun to her mouth, she told my dad she was getting a divorce from him, and she'd take me with her. That night, she was gone.

My dad took it hard, and though I couldn't blame him for being hurt, I could never forgive him for taking his pain out on me. It had started simple, a smack across the face for talking back, grabbing me roughly and pushing me down when I disobeyed. But then it got worse, and worse. I'd go to school with bruises and cuts; hand prints on my neck, tears in my eyes.

When I was thirteen, that's when he lost it. He'd been waiting for me to come home, sitting in my room with a bottle of vodka in one hand and his pistol in the other. The same one my mom had killed herself with six years before. I tried to run the moment I saw him in the room. He dropped the bottle and grabbed hold of me instead, and I fought. I still have the scars on my arm from where my elbow caught his tooth.

We fell to the ground, and the gun skid from his reach. I scrambled for the door, screaming like a banshee. Holding onto me, he scrabbled for the pistol. I still remember the moment he grabbed the gun and flipped me over, the look in his dark green eyes as he pinned his arm across my throat and pressed the barrel to my temple…

It was the neighbor boy who heard my screams; he'd gotten his parents, and a minute later his father was wrestling my father off of me as his wife called the police. That's when I was taken from him and put into the system. Ms. Hudson, an old friend of my mum's, heard my story and took me in. She wouldn't want Clara's daughter lost to the foster care system when she had a perfectly empty flat and food to spare.

Not long after that, Sherlock and John had moved in, and life had been thrown into chaos. The good kind, though, that made my days interesting and put a smile on my face. I'd never told John that I knew how he saw me, and I'd never tell him I felt the same way. I looked up to him, and he took care of me.

That was all anyone really needed sometimes.