Well, I suck. I blame track for this being so bloody late. I've had a lot less time on my hands lately, so updates may be less frequent. We'll see :)
Now, on to a more serious topic. Unless you live under a rock, you've probably heard about the bastards that lit two homemade bombs off at the Boston Marathon that hurt around 150 people and killed 3, including a 8-year old boy. I don't know how much this is worth, but I just want Boston to know we've been thinking and praying for them. And I'd also like to thank the first responders for making sure the death toll wasn't higher. You are a fantastic example of humanity. We love you all.
So, I'm pretty sure that's it. Here it is. Sorry it's short.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything
I drop the phone and it hits the ground, battery flying out with a resounding clatter that pierces through the silence of the flat. You're next. Someone's out to kill me. Crap. This is not a good way to start a day.
"Larissa, are you-" John runs in and sees both the phone on the floor and the look on my face. He suddenly switches gears from protective to comforting. "Larissa, they won't get you, don't worry. We'll stop them."
"Okay, Larissa, you're moving in with us now. You are not to leave this flat. John, where's my phone, I need to text Lestrade..." Sherlock yells as he comes up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson in tow. I walk over to the couch and sit down. What are the odds I'm in shock right now?
"Sherlock, can I get my stuff?" I ask after a few minutes. I'm not going to fight him on this one. If Sherlock thinks it's safer for me to stay here, it's safer to stay here.
"Larissa, why do you keep a sketchpad in your sock drawer?" Sherlock asks me a few minutes later as I'm stuffing a duffel bag with all my stuff.
"It's where I keep private things," I say as I slip it into my bag without even a hint of the loving caress I usually give the leather binding of the journal.
"A sock drawer is a predictable place to hide such a thing. You should find someplace else," Sherlock says. I just roll my eyes and finish stuffing clothes in the bag.
"Here, make yourself useful," I mutter as I hand Sherlock a record player, armful of records under my arm.
Sherlock seems to pick up on the fact that I'm not a happy camper right now, so he stays blessedly silent as I pack up the rest of my things and hightail it to 221B Baker Street.
The windows get covered with wooden planks, the door gets a few more locks and iron supports and I settle into the bathroom, which is, apparently the safest place in the house. That doesn't, however, mean that it's comfortable by any stretch of the imagination. Yet it's where I am to remain when no one else is home, which is almost never, these days. Is it any wonder I'm not crazy?
I'm pretty sure I have an armed guard, plus a John and a Sherlock. Right now, I don't think the kidnapper has a snowball's chance in hell of getting at me, which is a relief. I do, however, miss the outside world. But right now this is my only chance of ensured survival, so oh well.
"Sherlock?" I ask one morning through a mouthful of toast.
"Yes?" he doesn't look up from his experiment.
"Why are they coming after me?I didn't really do anything at the crime scene except puke and say a few things about the brushes he or she may of used. You solved it, not me. They should be after you. It's pretty stupid, if you ask me..." I ramble, mostly to myself as I stir a spoonful of sugar into my tea. It's then that Sherlock, stands straight up, goes as stiff as a board and runs out of the room, whispering something that sounds like Moriarty under his breath.
I don't know who the hell this "Moriarty" dude is, but if he's enough to freak Sherlock like that, I don't like the sound of him at all.
You all knew I had to go there :) Reviewers get cupcakes, so review! Love you all, bye
