Maxine

Coming down the steps from my room, I rifled through several sheets of paper, trying to decide on the clothing models I'd drawn out. Despite it being rather unrealistic, anime often had people wearing the same outfits over and over to make them distinctive. I still tried to add some realism to it and keep it to just reoccurring jackets and hats. Sometimes scarves.

As I headed into the kitchen for some tea, I nearly ran smack into Mrs. Hudson.

"Ooh!" my landlady yelped. "So sorry, Maxine, didn't see you there!"

"I'm the one with my nose in papers," I said.

Lowering them, I saw that Mrs. Hudson seemed to be in the middle of tidying. The kitchen was in disarray thanks to Sherlock and his experiments. The less clients he had, the more weird things were scattered around the flat.

"Mrs. Hudson, you know you don't have to clean up after him," I told her, putting my papers on a clean spot on the table. "I'll make him do it tomorrow."

"Oh, it's really no trouble," Mrs. Hudson said, waving me off. Though, as she looked around, she let out a tut of exasperation. "He really is a messy thing, isn't he?"

I grinned a little and shrugged. "Suppose so. I'd assume his mind looks something like this too—all filled with bits and bobs of random facts and knowledge."

"I'd like to think he keeps his thoughts more organized than this," Mrs. Hudson sighed. She spotted my drawings. "Oh! Those are lovely! Your next project?"

"Er, yeah." I looked down at the papers. I had four of them, and on each paper was a rough sketch of all three major characters. Their outfits varied between the papers and all of them had numbers by them. "I've got the facial structure down, as well as the hairstyles, but I can't seem to figure out the attire."

Mrs. Hudson leaned over the papers and rifled through them. "This is set in the 19th century?"

I nodded.

"Is this one a girl?" Mrs. Hudson pointed at Millie on a few of the pages.

"Yes, that's Millie Wood," I told her.

"Nice touch with the hair," Mrs. Hudson noted. "Is she posing as a man, then?"

"Yeah, how'd you figure?" I queried.

"Well, she's in the 19th century," Mrs. Hudson replied. "Can't very well go about in pants. Think of the children!"

We laughed together and Mrs. Hudson continued to compare the papers.

"Mm, I think 3, 8, and 9." My landlady pointed each of the drawings out and carefully put the papers back together before handing them back to me with a smile.

I checked her answers again and frowned with consideration. I found that I was actually quite satisfied with it. These three outfits were different enough from one another while still following similar themes.

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson," I told her, beaming.

Mrs. Hudson chuckled and waved me off. "Anything to see that smile of yours, Maxine. Your whole face lights up! So, is this newest manga about the three of you?" She raised her brows. "I notice some resemblance in the characters!"

"Sort of, but not entirely," I replied. "I have to keep a few key personality attributes to make the arcs make sense with the cases we've done. But I also need to change some others to keep audiences more interested—well, my audience, anyway. Which are mainly Japanese teens."

Mrs. Hudson laughed. "Well, then! Let me know when they get this one translated. I've quite enjoyed MANA so far."

I had turned and placed my papers on the counter in order to get started on the tea, but when she said that, I spun to face her again.

"You... you're reading MANA?" I breathed.

"Of course!" Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully. "Took me some getting used to, reading backwards, but the art is quite fetching and I'm rather fond to Arthus! Or should I say Canine? And his big dog, of course."

I rubbed my brow and laughed nervously. Arthus was the lawful-good character that went by Canine on account of his giant dog companion and his sword that could literally bite people. It made sense why Mrs. Hudson liked him; he was chivalrous and mild-mannered opposed to his rambunctious older brother, Kazros.

A bashful flush began to tinge my cheeks. I didn't expect anyone I knew to read my manga. Even John hadn't read more than the first volume. It didn't bother me that they hadn't; in fact, I was a bit relieved. The events that happened in my stories and the things that the characters did were ludicrously far from how I acted as a person. I didn't want people to think of me differently when reading my manga.

"He does live, doesn't he?" Mrs. Hudson asked, her voice suddenly stern. "He's far too kind of a boy to go getting killed like Ridley!"

I rubbed the back of my neck. "I haven't decided?"

"Why do you say that like a question?" Mrs. Hudson demanded. She shook her head and held up her hands. "Never mind! I don't want to know, it'll just spoil it."

She went over to the fridge, grabbing a cart of milk from the table as she went. When she pulled open the door, she instantly recoiled at the stench coming from inside.

"Er, yeah, dunno what he's got growing in there, but it's been getting rather ripe the past few days," I said with an apologetic grimace.

"Honestly, this is for food!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed.

Pulling open the salad crisper, she reached into the drawer and pulled out a clear plastic bag from it. She held it up and peered at the contents. At first, they looked like strange little sausages, but then it became disturbingly clear exactly what they were.

"Ooh dear!" Mrs. Hudson squeaked. "Thumbs!"

"Thought he was on toes this week," I mused with a frown.

Mrs. Hudson dropped the bag back into the salad crisper and quickly shoved it shut. With a disgusted sigh, she straightened and looked at me.

"How do you do it?" she breathed.

"Do what?" I was grabbing the kettle and filling it with water.

"Put up with him—with this—" she gestured at the messy kitchen and fridge, "—all the time and still enjoy his company so much?"

"I don't always enjoy his company," I told her.

Mrs. Hudson gave me a knowing look. "Come now, Maxine, no one can light you up like he can."

Before I could ask my landlady what she was implying, someone burst into the room from the landing. It was an overweight man with dark hair. Sweat stains soaked the pits of his arms and middle of his chest. His eyes were wide and bewildered as he gasped for breath.

"The door was..." he rasped. "The door was..."

Then he collapsed to the floor.

Mrs. Hudson and I stared in shock for a moment before the former called up the stairs.

"Boys! You've got another one!" she said.

I put the kettle on the burner and turned it on before turning to check on the man. I could still see the rise and fall of his back as he breathed, so there was no immediate threat. He appeared to have ran here from somewhere far off. Mrs. Hudson leaned over the man worriedly.

"Ooh!" she said. "What do you think he was running from?"

"Hopefully something interesting," I said with a small smile.

The man's name turned out to be Phil. Once he regained consciousness, Sherlock, John, and I had him seated in a dining chair facing the fireplace. John sat in the sofa behind him, his elbows on his legs as he leaned on them. Sherlock paced about the living room since I had commandeered his armchair. I sat sideways in it, my knees propped up on the armrest with my drawing pad placed on my thighs.

"Tell us from the start," Sherlock ordered. "Don't be boring."

Phil took a deep breath and nodded. "Well, my car broke down out on a country road. No-one hardly drives it, see, and I'd been stuck there for fifteen minutes trying to get the bloody thing to go. There was a field beside me—stretched down to a river. When I got out of my car, I saw a man down by it. He was wearing this red jacket, and I could tell he was facing away from the road..."

Taking another breath, though this one more shaky, Phil clenched and unclenched his hands. His eyes were wide and seemed traumatized. I kept glancing from him to my paper as I swiftly sketched an manga-style equivalent of him to use later in the new series. Oddly enough, drawing helped me focus more on what was being said around me. It was hard to explain, but it seemed to sharpen my senses.

"I tried to start my car again, and all it did was backfire. Scared me really bad, too. And-and when I looked back to the field..." Phil shook his head. "I saw the man was lying down in the grass. I got out of my car and called out to him to ask if he was all right, but he didn't respond. So I-I went down to check on him, of course, but no matter how much I called out, he just laid there."

Phil closed his eyes for a moment, biting his lip. I tilted my head toward him and saw the look of growing impatience on Sherlock's face.

"Dead?" I guessed.

Phil winced and nodded, looking horrified. John gave me a stern look from behind the man and I raised a hand in exasperation.

"Sorry, not comforting enough?" I said. "What should I have gone with?"

"Maybe: 'It's all right, take your time?'" John suggested.

"No, I like Max's way better," Sherlock said. "So. He was dead. How?"

Phil, looking properly anxious now, rubbed his hands on his pants. "He was on his back and there was-there was a massive amount of blood on the back of his head... I think-I think he'd been shot! I-I phoned the police right away and they seemed baffled. I never heard a gunshot, you see. So-so I came here, because you take these kinds of cases right? You can figure it out!"

Sherlock nodded, but he was grimacing a bit. As strange as the situation sounded, it seemed he found this to be a bit too... well, boring. Man dies from apparent gunshot when there was no gunfire heard. But that was just the thing: it was an apparent gunshot wound.

"Very well, I'll go have a look," Sherlock said, though he looked a bit annoyed about it.

"You don't seem keen on this one," I said.

"It's weird, but it's not baffling," Sherlock replied. "Not leaving the flat for it, though."

I blinked. "What? But you just said that you would go have a look."

"Oh, I'm going to," Sherlock assured. "Just not in person."


John

The taxi pulled up next to the field and I took a moment to simply admire the view. The sky was mostly clear today and the river down below gurgled along pleasantly. Then, as my eyes scanned further up the bank, I saw the crime scene sprawled out with police officers walking about and taking photos.

Sherlock had refused to come to the crime scene in person, and instead pushed a laptop in my hand and sent me off. I pestered Maxine to come with me, but she insisted she wasn't finished drawing Phil, who looked startled and flattered at the concept. So here I was, alone, expected to show everything to Sherlock via video chat.

Lestrade had told me the man in charge of this case was Detective Inspector Carter and most likely be the man who I'd be talking to. So, once I was approached by two of the officers, I informed them of who I intended to speak to.

Carter came along shortly afterward. He was an older man with a thinning hairline wearing a suit with a long jacket over it, much like what Lestrade would wear. He was tall and his facial features were stern, like that of a strict teacher. I got out of the car to introduce myself, the laptop tucked under my left arm.

"Sherlock Holmes," Carter greeted.

"John Watson," I corrected him, extending my hand and shaking the Inspector's. "Are you set up for Wi-Fi?"

After a few moments, I connected the video chat with Sherlock's laptop back home. He'd set it up on kitchen table and was currently making tea. When he came on screen properly, I blinked and nearly dropped the computer.

"What— what are you wearing?" I stammered.

Sherlock glanced down at himself. From what I could see, he was bare-chested and there was only a white sheet wrapped around him like a toga.

"I took a bath," he explained casually.

"You're—" I had to cut off for a moment to take a tight breath. I clenched my jaw and leaned in toward the camera to speak quieter. "You're naked in the flat right now? While my sister's home?!"

"I'm not naked, John. Besides, she doesn't mind," Sherlock said with a shrug. "Neither does Phil."

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock," I groaned, shaking my head.

"It's not like I haven't seen an arse before, John!" I heard Maxine call from off screen.

I started turning red in the face, I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. "Tell me she didn't see your ass," I whispered.

"Heard that!" Maxine said.

Sherlock smirked to the side, most likely at my sister. Looking back at the camera—at me—he said, "No, she hasn't seen my ass. It's not my fault you called before I was done."

I shook my head and began heading down the field. "Let's just get this done, shall we? You realize this is a tiny bit humiliating?"

Sherlock yawned as he turned and picked up his mug of tea. "It's okay, I'm fine," he assured.

I rolled my eyes as Sherlock picked up the laptop and brought it to the living room. He set it down on the coffee table and sat in his usual chair. Maxine came into view and sat on the floor in front of the laptop, allowing herself full view of the screen while Sherlock looked over her head. I did my best not to think about how close my sister was to the detective's knees.

"Now, show me to the stream," Sherlock instructed.

"I didn't really mean for you," I told him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Look, this is a six," he said.

The doorbell rang in the flat. Maxine turned her head, frowning a bit and started to get up, but Sherlock put a hand on her shoulder to stop her.

"More important things," he said, gesturing to the screen. Looking back at the camera, he went on. "There's no point in my leaving the flat for anything less than a seven. We agreed. Now, go back. Show me the grass."

I sighed and pointed the camera on the laptop toward the grass at the stream's edge before squatting down. "When did we agree that?" I asked as I ran the laptop along to the side.

"We agreed it yesterday. Stop!" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed. "Closer."

Ignoring Sherlock's instructions, I turned the laptop back around so I could glare into the camera. "I wasn't even at home yesterday. I was in Dublin."

"Well, it's hardly my fault you weren't listening," Sherlock replied.

The doorbell rang again, and this time Sherlock looked in the direction of the stairs.

"SHUT UP!" he bellowed, making Maxine jump.

"D'you just carry on talking when I'm away?" I asked him, finding his reactions to the doorbell perfectly normal. "What about Maddie? Did the two of you talk about this?"

"I don't recall," Maxine said. "I was probably up in my studio, drawing."

Sherlock gave an annoyed huff of breath. "Obviously, we need to work on some communication skills."

"Well, yes!" Maxine agreed, looking back at him.

"You two need to learn to listen when I speak," Sherlock went on. "I rarely enjoy repeating myself, you see."

Maxine buried her head in her hands briefly before looking back at the camera. "John, just show him the bloody grass."

"Mm, no, not the grass." Sherlock gestured to the screen. "Show me the car that backfired."

Sighing, I got back to my feet and headed over toward the car. Phil's vehicle remained up on the road. Once I reached it, I angled the camera toward it.

"It's there," I said.

"That's the one that made the noise, yes?" Sherlock queried.

I turned the camera back toward myself; it was easier to talk to him face to face—well, as face to face as we could get with this.

"Yeah," I said. "And if you're thinking gunshot, there wasn't one. He wasn't shot; he was killed by a single blow to the back of the head from a blunt instrument which then magically disappeared along with the killer. That's gotta be an eight at least."

Sherlock ran a finger over his upper lip as he thought. Maxine glanced back at him with a perked brow. He met her gaze, and I swore it was like they were having some kind of telepathic conversation. As her expression changed, his would shift in response.

"What bird is that big?" Sherlock suddenly asked her.

"Nothing in this part of the country," Maxine admitted with a sigh. "It was just a thought."

"What-what are you two doing?" I blurted.

They both looked back at the camera.

"Theorizing," Maxine replied simply.

"How... how d'you two do that with just making faces?" I asked, my brows furrowed in bewilderment.

"I dunno, it's kind of like a natural learned sign language?" Maxine shrugged.

I was heading back toward the road still as Carter approached me, following from behind so he could look at the screen.

"You've got two more minutes, then I want to know more about the driver," he said.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, forget him. He's an idiot. Why else would he think himself a suspect?"

Carter leaned closer to the camera. "I think he's a suspect!"

Sherlock leaned forward, his face now tightening in anger. Maxine had to shrink down to allow him to get closer to the camera.

"You're gonna squish me," she complained.

Sherlock ignored her. "Pass me over."

I exhaled sharply through my nose, still telling myself not to think about how Maxine was now even closer to Sherlock's—No. Just, no.

"All right, but there's a Mute button and I will use it," I threatened.

Tilting the camera up toward Carter from my chest level, I heard Sherlock scoff irritably.

"Up a bit! I'm not talking from down here," he said.

I shook my head and offered the laptop fully to Carter. "Okay, just take it, take it."

The Inspector took it in his hands and held it level with his face. He looked both disgruntled and surprised when he got a clear view of Sherlock and my sister, and the former's attire (and lack thereof).

"Having driven to an isolated location and successfully committed a crime without a single witness, why would he then call the police and consult a detective?" Sherlock said in a swift and cutting tone. "Fair play?"

"He's trying to be clever," Carter argued. "It's over-confidence."

Maxine laughed and Carter's expression fell into even more irritation.

"Sorry, sorry," Maxine said. "I thought... I thought you were joking."

"Why would I joke about murder?" Carter snapped.

"To lighten the mood? I heard it's a good coping mechanism," Maxine replied sincerely.

"Don't blame her for thinking it was an attempt at humor," Sherlock said. "Did you see him? Morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own, the right sleeve of an internet porn addict, and the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self-esteem, tiny IQ, and a limited life expectancy—and you think he's an audacious criminal mastermind?!"

I saw Sherlock turn to toward where my usual chair was (which was off camera) and shake his head.

"Don't worry—this is just stupid," he said.

Phil's voice came through the speakers. "What did you say? Heart what?"

Ignoring him, Sherlock turned back to the camera. "Go to the stream."

"What's in the stream?" Carter asked.

"Go and see," Sherlock said.

Carter handed the laptop back to me and began heading across the field again, looking agitated. Facing the camera again, I was about to yell at Sherlock for being so callous about our client when he was in the same room, but Mrs. Hudson's voice spoke before I could.

"Sherlock! You weren't answering your doorbell!" she said, somewhere off camera.

Sherlock and Maxine both looked in the direction of the front door, seeming surprised.

"His room's through the back," a man's voice I didn't recognize said. "Get him some clothes."

"Who the hell are you?" Sherlock asked indignantly.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes. You're coming with us," the man's voice said. "You too, Ms. Watson."

"Uh-what? Why?" Maxine looked uncomfortable.

"What?" I leaned closer to the screen. "What's going on? Maddie? What's happening, Sherlock? Sherlock!"

Sherlock's hand suddenly whipped out and closed the laptop lid. Our video call was cut and the connection dropped. I stared at the black screen, wide-eyed.

"I've lost them," I breathed, poking the keyboard frantically. "I don't know what..."

My heart was beginning to hammer in my ears. Who had just arrived at our flat? Who was taking Sherlock and Maxine? I couldn't help but remember the truth I discovered about my sister's stay in Japan. What if they were connected to the Yakuza? The man sounded British, but...

"Doctor Watson?"

I turned to see one of the police officers trotting toward me. He had a phone pressed to his ear.

"Yeah," I said.

"It's for you," the officer said.

A small jolt of hope struck me. Perhaps it was Sherlock or Maxine—though I wasn't sure why they didn't just phone my mobile.

"Okay, thanks," I said, holding out my hand for the phone as I looked back at the black screen.

"Uh, no, sir." The officer shifted nervously. "The helicopter."

Startled, I looked up just as the beating sound of an approaching helicopter hit my ears. Looking over, I saw one was touching down at the edge of the river, sleek and black. I sighed and closed my laptop's lid. Well, that narrowed it down.

"Mycroft could at least call first," I breathed before heading down the field.


Maxine

Two men in suits had arrived in our flat, both looking far too official for just any ordinary clients. Not to mention, they had just ordered Sherlock and me to go with them. I'd heard the man giving the orders be called Plummer. He stared at Sherlock as his colleague returned with a set of clothes and shoes.

"Please, Mr. Holmes," Plummer said. "Where you're going, you'll want to be dressed."

"Sherlock...?" I said slowly.

We hadn't moved from our positions: Sherlock in his chair and me sitting by his legs on the floor. My own legs were stretched beneath the coffee table. It wasn't exactly a good spot to just leap up from, and my dagger was upstairs.

Glancing back at the detective, I saw Sherlock was roving his eyes over the man. I wanted to know if we were in danger or not—if I needed to try and sneakily get up in order to take down one of the men while Sherlock handled the other. It could be that this was Moriarty's next game. Perhaps this time he'd find a more definite way to kill us without him being caught in the explosion.

After a moment, Sherlock smiled.

"Oh, I know exactly where we're going," he said.

Comforted by his confidence, I relaxed a bit, but I still cast a wary look back toward the men.

"Could clue me in," I murmured.

"And ruin the surprise?" Sherlock chuckled.

I groaned and carefully got to my feet. The men stood between me and the way to both the door out of the flat and the stairs up to my room. I bit my lip, trying to calculate like Sherlock did. Well, if he wasn't concerned, then it wasn't Moriarty. That left only one other culprit with the kind of pull to send men in suits to collect us.

"Why can't your brother just call or text like a normal person?" I asked, glancing back at Sherlock.

"He loves dramatics," Sherlock answered.

"Mr. Holmes, please, your clothes," Plummer pressed.

"Mm, no." Sherlock shook his head.

"Excuse me?" Plummer raised his brows.

"I was in the middle of a case, and you saw fit to come and interrupt it," Sherlock said. "I'm not some tool to be picked off a shelf when needed."

"Y'know, I dunno where we're going, but I'm still in my pajamas?" I said, gesturing down to my fuzzy owl-patterned pants and too-big T-shirt. "If I could just get something more suitable in my room..."

As I began to walk toward the kitchen, Plummer's companion darted in my path and grabbed my arm. I blinked, shocked as his speed and deftness.

"You're fine," Plummer said. Looking back to Sherlock, he gave him an exasperated stare. "Please, Mr. Holmes. Your trousers at least."

I gave an experimental tug at my arm to see how strong the man's grip was. It wasn't tight enough to hurt, but the moment I began to pull away, he gave me a warning look and shook his head slightly. I swallowed and adverted my gaze.

"I can walk without help," I muttered.

"We know your reputation, Ms. Watson," the man holding me said calmly.

I sighed in defeat while Sherlock chuckled.

"Well, if we're going, then let's go," Sherlock said, getting to his feet. "Mrs. Hudson, if you could see Phil gets refreshments before he leaves..."

Mrs. Hudson had been staring in astonishment this entire time, her jaw slack. She nodded hastily at Sherlock's request. She gave me a worried look and I waved her off in a gesture that told her I would be fine.

Sherlock, still in his sheet, headed to the door with a confident swagger. Plummer grabbed the clothes and looked like he was going to scream or punch the detective—or both. Gripping Sherlock's shoulder, he led him out of the flat and to the landing. I was pulled along after them.

"Uh, my slippers, at least?" I said weakly.

The man pulling me opted to pick me up like a child in his arms instead. I scowled at my socked feet as we stepped outside. However, we were only in the sunlight long enough to cross the sidewalk and get inside a fancy black car.

Once placed inside, I scooted across to the other end of the seat and tried to open the door. Not surprisingly, it was locked. Sherlock slid in after me and Plummer closed the door a bit harder than necessary. His companion got in the driver's seat while Plummer took the passenger's side.

As the car pulled away, Sherlock and I glanced at one another. At first, we were both serious-faced and communicating that neither of us enjoyed this situation. However, we then both looked over each other's attire. In all honesty, when Sherlock came out of his room in nothing but a sheet, I had choked on my tea.

John had left to go to the crime scene, and Sherlock announced that he was going to take a quick bath. It left me to attempt to keep Phil entertained, as a good host should, but it had been rather awkward.

"So why are you drawing me?" Phil had asked, looking over at me with a mild sense of hope in his eyes.

"Er..." I remembered glancing warily down at his manga-esc sketch on my drawing pad. "I... well, I draw manga."

"Manga?" Phil frowned at me.

I shrugged. "Eastern-style comics. My newest series is roughly based on the cases that my brother and I work with Sherlock. I like to be accurate. You're name will be changed of course! Nothing... privacy-breaching or anything."

"Oh." Phil smiled a bit at that point. "Sounds... lovely."

I had showed him the drawing and he seemed pleased with it. The nice thing about manga styled drawing was that it tended to make things a lot cuter and more attractive than they were: larger, more youthful eyes, more flattering shapes and no blemishes. At least, that's how my style worked. There were plenty of artists out there that loved putting all the nitty and gritty details into things.

John ended up texting me when he reached the crime scene. Sherlock was still in the tub, so I set up the laptop in the kitchen in order to give him more time. Yet by the time I finished getting everything booted up, he still wasn't out. I went to the bathroom door and knocked on it.

"Mm?" Sherlock's voice had sounded relaxed like he had been sleeping.

"John's ready for us," I told him.

"Oh."

I could hear water splashing through the door and wet feet slapping on the tile. The door abruptly opened and I almost gave a yelp of surprise, half-expecting the detective to be nude from how fast he'd gotten out. When I took a step back and regained my senses, I saw Sherlock had a towel around his waste and he walked, still dripping, across the kitchen and into his bedroom without another word.

Sighing, I had gone into the steam-filled bathroom and let out the water in the tub, which Sherlock had neglected to do in his haste. I went back to the kitchen and grabbed the tea I'd just made and poured three mugs. Leaving Sherlock's near the laptop, I walked back out into the living room and gave Phil one.

"Cheers," he said with a nervous nod.

I went back to John's chair and plopped down. Grabbing my drawing pad in one hand and my mug in the other, I sipped my tea while eyeing the sketch.

Sherlock's door opened again and he came out, dryer now but still not dressed.

I sputtered and hastily set down my mug as I went into a coughing fit.

"What?" Sherlock said, looking my way as he leaned over the laptop, one hand clutching the sheet together.

"What're you wearing?" I managed to rasp, thumping my chest with my fist to try and ease the pain.

"There's hardly time to get dressed," Sherlock said. "And the towel was wet. I'd freeze if I stayed in that."

Despite it being so bizarre at first, after he said that I realized how perfectly normal this kind of thing was for Sherlock. His priorities were set in the case—in anything that could get him mind to work and not be bored. Keeping up with social norms or even what most would consider common curtesy was something that he found as a waste of time.

However, it had led to him being the back of a mysterious black car in nothing but a sheet with me next to him in my pajamas. I put a hand on my mouth as a fit of giggles began to threaten me. Sherlock bit his lip and looked out the window, clearly trying not to smile.

"D'you think whoever our new client is will like owls?" I asked in a murmur, gesturing to my pajama pants.

Sherlock gave a tiny laugh that he was trying to suppress. "I think she prefers corgis."

I blinked and looked at him in the eye. "No."

"Oh, yes," Sherlock replied.

We looked over each other one more time, then burst out laughing.