A/N: Cookie Points to those that know where I got the title for this chapter. :)

Chapter 10

Warm... Too comfy to move...stuffy though. Dark. Still be a few hours before dawn I think. Stop thinking. Go back to sleep. This pillow's really sharp. Shut UP, Sherlock, go back to sleep. Think about fluffy clouds and pillows...can't breathe, stuffy. Ugh, is that drool? Gross. Something's numb. Never mind. I think I can feel...OW CRAMPING.

"OWOWOWOWOWOW."

Sherlock yelped softly with tears in his eyes, as his legs, locked in a tight position for hours, made themselves felt, hot pins and needles running through their length. The blankets that had hid him now felt suffocating, and he struggled with them, wondering for a moment if the lack of air would kill him. His panicked mind created images of mummies and burial shrouds. His family wouldn't find him until he began to smell, thought Sherlock, struggling. Finally, he ripped them off him, shoving them to the opposite side of the shelf with a sharp kick and a sigh of relief.

He looked down at the crack that led out to his room. A touch of pale blue-silver light gave just enough contrast for Sherlock to jump down safely into his room. Tossing down his blankets to muffle the landing, Sherlock wrapped his pack around his shoulders and jumped. His room was as he had left it, the door still slightly open. Dropping to his stomach, Sherlock slithered close to the door. No lights. No sound. Sherlock smiled in triumph, inwardly whooping in glee.

Standing up, he began rummaging in his pack for the strips of cloth he had bought at the tailors. Wrapping them around himself, he then brought out small bundles that he set evenly spaced from each other around his waist. His bundles of metal he placed in his pockets, hoping he would not have to use them. A couple of handkerchiefs in his sleeve with a small vial of chloroform protected him against any sudden meetings. Pulling out his lock picks, he separated them; one went into a small strip sewn clumsily to his sleeve, some in his shoes, and the remaining picks went in his belt. He was ready.

Only one more detail stood between him and his prize.

"Where in blazes would Father hide the necklace?" muttered Sherlock as he looked at his makeshift map.

Sherlock skulked through the quiet house, searching through known hidden compartments around the house. The unfortunate thing, to his mind, was that he was not old enough to have used a disguise to get information on the location of the necklace from the household staff during the days he had to observe from outside. Without even a general location, Sherlock had to go room to room methodically, checking everywhere he could think of. His father's library alone had thirty false books that he knew about, where his father hid important documents. Fortunately, Sherlock was familiar with his father, and could rule out some locations. The necklace could be easily lost in the storage cellar for instance, or the rooms of the staff. In addition, he ruled out his own room for the same reasons that his hiding place was undisturbed.

He was on the first floor, checking under some furniture in the parlor as he worked his way upstairs, when he heard a deep warning noise behind him. Turning, he saw a nightmare in fur. The stranger's mastiff stood growling. When Sherlock turned, its ears lay back and hackles rose.

Sherlock gulped. He could not help but notice that the dog's teeth were level with his chest. He tried to remember what he learned about dogs. He met the mastiff's eyes with his own, holding his gaze. Perhaps if he tried to act dominant, the mastiff would not try to eat him. Then again, dogs supposedly could smell fear...

"Easy doggie," he said, moving his hand slowly to a pocket. The dog followed the movement and growled louder in warning. "You don't want to take a bite out of me, sir, I live here." Sherlock continued, a warning edge tainting his previous soft and friendly voice. Returning his hand to the open, he tossed a dried piece of meat he had been saving for just this occurrence. The dog looked at the meat, looked back at him, and started wagging his stump. Sherlock nearly fell over in astonishment.

"What kind of guard dog wags its tail at an intruder? Are you defective?" Sherlock wondered quietly in disbelief as the dog ate the meat in quick, neat bites. His returned humor vanished instantly as the dog snapped his head up at the last sentence and growled at him again before quieting. Sherlock began to back away, and the dog moved closer, his tail wagging once more. When Sherlock's back met with a wall, the dog moved still closer, thrusting his head under Sherlock's damp hand. Sherlock gave a couple of awkward pats, noticing that the dog's eyes were starting to glaze over. Whining softly, the dog slid to the floor, curled up with a yawn, and went to sleep. Untangling his boots from the dog's paws, he continued his search.

The next several hours were spent in fruitless search. Occasionally, Sherlock would scare himself as he passed mirrors and reflective surfaces, but he did not find the necklace. At one point, he had to retreat up a floor as a sleepy Anne visited the kitchen. She didn't stay long, returning to the master bedroom with a teacup, but it gave Sherlock an idea. Going to the pantry, he pulled some food out of the back of the shelves, packing it into his bag. He also pulled a handful of tea leaves out of its container, wrapping it in yet another strip of cloth. Now he could potentially return to his hiding spot and be able to last the day without returning to the camp for food. If anyone noticed the items were missing, they might blame it on Mycroft, known for his appetite.

Finally, it came time for Sherlock to retreat to his room, having checked half the lower half of the house. The staff was due to rise soon, and it would be embarrassing to fail so close to his goal. He had checked in on the dog an hour ago, placing it on a blanket from his room, and dragging the snoring dog to the front door. It did not wake up once. He left it there to finish sleeping off the effects of the drug, taking the blanket with him.

Back in his room, he softly prepared his hiding place. Placing the contents of the sashes he wore back into the pack, he shoved it under his bed. It would be safer there than in the closet, where the chemical vials could smash together should he ever accidentally knock it off the shelf in his sleep. Climbing back up to the shelf, he curled up for a second time under the blankets.

Wonder where he could have hidden it? Only have one more night to find it. Could it be in his room? Nah, that would be too easy. Where...where could it be? Ought to try...Mycroft's...might be a chall...enge. Might have to...bribe him with...what was I thinking? Or right...bribing. Who? There goes Celia. I should really stay awa...