Sherlock is definitely not happy.
No one dares to breathe a word. I try to occupy as little space as possible in the cab. John is staring straight ahead, his brows furrowing heavily, his lips thin. Sherlock watches out of the window as his face shows how grumpy he is.
Finally decide to break the silence, I cleared my throat loudly at the same time when John opens his mouth as well.
"You shouldn't have come."
I gape at him, eyes widen in surprise. I can't believe my brother is upset because of that. Even without speaking it aloud, I know deep down, he loves dangers. And I think I can connect to him on that. But now, here he is, being the love of troubles and adventures, John is rejecting the idea of me going on investigations.
"What? But that was fun!" I gasped at him.
Sherlock shifts next to me and I can feel him glancing at me, "fun?"
I nod, crossing my arms in front of my chest. John grunts and does the same, "I still don't like the sound of it. You're not coming with us next time."
I begin to protest loudly, though I'm not really sure what I blur out when I panicked. Besides me, Sherlock decides to cut in, "John, she likes it. Though I am as amazed as you are. But face it, you like the dangers as much as she does. You two have spent almost your whole life together, so why can't you understand her? Out of all people, you should be the person who truly understands her needs."
Blinking several times, I nod vigorously, absolutely agreeing with him. I can't believe Sherlock actually puts it into words. But as my chest is fluttering away and John is leaning forward in attempt to fight back, Sherlock speaks again, "but Leila, there's something different about you back there."
I swallow quietly, though I'm sure that didn't escape from his almighty eyes.
"What do you think?" asks Sherlock. I avoid his eyes slowly, not sure how I should put it into an answer. I do know something is wrong. But do I trust Sherlock enough to say it aloud? Exhaling, I run a hand through my brownish hair and reply.
"Yes, I do notice that, Sherlock. It's like, every sense in me just light up and I have no idea how I did it. But it's just like…breathing, you know? God, I can't even explain it," my cheeks heat up slightly as I fight to find the right words.
In front of me, John sighs. He looks out of the window for a beat, and I can see his brows smoothing. "Okay." He finally says, "But just to let you know, I don't like it. Back there you look just like the ones that I've seen in the wars."
I wait quietly, feeling relieved that John allows me to follow them to investigations, but nervous at the same time at what John is about to say.
"Like the ones who kill people in a blink. Like a killing machine."
Guilt immediately washes over John's face. I turn my face away quickly, absorbing his words. I can hear John mutter an apology in the background but I'm not listening. Something about his words, it doesn't just startle me. It kind of rings a bell at the back of my head.
Sherlock is silent for the trip back to Baker Street. I drag myself out of the cab once it has stopped. Letting John pay the charge, we ascend the stairs, ignore the questioning Mrs. Hudson, and drop ourselves onto the sofa. "I'm going to bed now," I breathe through my nostrils heavily as I rolled my eyes upward to stare at the standing figure of Sherlock.
In the kitchen, I can hear John cluttering away as he is preparing tea for him and our new flat mate. "Go catch some sleep, Leila. I promise I will wake you up if there's any new cases," he calls. I flush slightly as I realize how well John knows me. I can still hear him mumbling to himself. To play safe, I glance at Sherlock, who is picking stings on his violin now.
"You will wake me, yeah?" I whisper quietly, leaning forward so to make sure John can't hear us. It takes Sherlock a few seconds before acknowledging I'm talking to him.
'Oh," he seems startled for a bit. Then, to my relief, he nods and looks down at his violin. Smiling with content, I leave the living room and climbs up the stairs, not forgetting to bid the boys good night.
My boxes are still lining up by the walls, making my room even smaller when I thought it's not possible. Sighing, I drop myself onto the new bed that lies right in the corner. I'm going to pack my stuff tomorrow. Right now, all I need is rests.
Closing my eyelids, I let my mind drift towards the blurred line between reality and dreams.
John, in his 17 year old self, is reading his book with great concentration on the sofa. Being the 7 years old that I am, I imitate him by holding my adoptive father's newspaper upside down, peeking at him by the wrinkled edges of the papers.
He catches sight of me. His eyebrow lifts and his face lights up with a smile. I beam back, turning and pretending to be reading the tiny words before me. Right next to us, the door to the kitchen is left ajar. From there, I can hear my adoptive parents' hushed talks.
"We should have adopted her brother, too, really." That's mum, Mrs. Watson, who can baked the best cookies in the world.
"Honey, we won't have enough money to raise both of them up along with John. I know. I do feel bad. But at least we are sure Leila doesn't know about it. When we adopted her, she is only one year old."
The smile on my face freezes. John, noticing my sudden change of emotion, listens with caution too.
Mum clears her throat quietly and goes on, "but did you see her brother last time when we returned for some paper work? He does look quite upset…"
"There's something about that kid, alright. I'm not being criticizing or anything. But the way he looks at the other kids. You can just see it from his eyes."
John begins to move over to me, wanting to distract me with something else. But my ears continue to pick up on their heavy words.
"I know. And when he saw us, he looked like he wanted to…" Mum's gone silent. Dad continued her sentence wearily.
"Maybe it's a good thing we didn't adopt it."
Glancing up, I meet John's eyes with blurry vision.
