Maxine
The air around was bitingly cold, which I found strange, considering we were indoors. Sherlock sat to my left, wearing a coat with a fur collar attached. He looked immensely bored as he eyed the man that sat across the table from us. Barry "Bezza" Berwick was in an orange jumpsuit, reminding me how the detective actually asked me to come along to speak to a prison inmate.
"Just tell me what happened, from the beginning," Sherlock prompted.
I was leaning on my elbows with my head propped in my gloved hands. My yellow scarf was around my neck—as it should be—and I'd tucked a woolen cap over my ginger curls. Berwick was rather young and sported short brown hair. His dark eyes darted between Sherlock and me.
"I'm sorry, I'm just confused about 'oo she is." The prisoner nodded in my direction.
"My colleague," Sherlock replied flatly.
"Friend," I corrected with a small shrug.
Sherlock shot me an irate glance. He'd gone weeks without a real case and it had been effecting his mood. It reminded me of someone trying to quit smoking—how their patience wore thin and everything made them angry.
"So you-you just bring your friends to—" Berwick began.
"She's my partner—she helps with my cases. Can you please just tell me what happened?" Sherlock snapped.
Berwick nodded warily and began. "We'd been to a bar—a nice place—and, er, I got chattin' with one of the waitresses, and Karen weren't 'appy with that, so... when we get back to the 'otel, we end up havin' a bit of a ding-dong, don't we?"
A sigh that I was certain had to be deliberately noisy left Sherlock. I could almost feel the rope that was his patience slowly splintering.
"She was always gettin' at me, sayin' I weren't a real man," Berwick said.
"Wasn't a real man," Sherlock corrected.
"What?" Berwick blinked in confusion.
"It's not 'weren't,;' it's 'wasn't,'" the detective explained tightly.
"Oh," Berwick said.
"Go on." Sherlock shifted slightly in his seat and glanced at me as if to say: Can you believe this?
"Well, then I dunno how it happened, but suddenly there's a knife in my hands," Berwick insisted. "And, you know, me old man was a butcher, so I know how to handle knives."
As Sherlock looked down at Berwick's hands, I sat up straight and furrowed my brow. Did this man really, really think that he could use Sherlock to get out of killing his wife? Did he think Sherlock Holmes was stupid enough to fall for this?
"He learned us how to cut up a breast," Berwick went on when neither of us spoke.
"Taught," Sherlock said.
Berwick's face pinched with rising anger. "What?"
"Taught you how to cut up a breast." Sherlock's eyes lifted from Berwick's hands and locked onto the prisoner's eyes.
"Yeah, well, then-then I done it," Berwick said.
"Did it," Sherlock replied without a single hesitation.
Color was rising in Berwick's face. "Did it! Stabbed 'er..." He started slamming his hand down on the table. "...over and over and over, and I looked down and she weren't..."
Sherlock let out yet another loud sigh through his nose and turned his head away. I was starting to have a hard time keeping a smile from my lips. I understood that the detective was in a lot of discomfort since that ever-moving, ever-thinking brain of his had nothing to do for such a long stretch of time. However, seeing him get peeved over mere grammar errors on this level was almost too amusing.
Berwick was looking just as frustrated as Sherlock, but he still managed to get control of his temper and immediately corrected himself.
"...wasn't movin' no more," he said.
Sherlock had managed to look at him again but at the sound of yet another grammar slip, the detective turned away again with annoyance coating his expression.
Berwick fixed it once again. "...any more." The prisoner let out a shaky breath and lowered his head. When he spoke again, his voice was much softer than before. "You've gotta help me. I dunno how it happened, but it was an accident. I swear."
Sherlock got to his feet. "Max," he said, gesturing for me to do the same.
"You've gotta help me, Mr. Holmes!" Berwick begged frantically as I stood up and pushed in my chair.
Sherlock, who had started to walk away, now paused.
"Everyone says you're the best. Without you, I'll get hung for this," Berwick pressed.
I went to the detective's side as he glanced over his shoulder at the prisoner.
"No, no, no, Mr. Berwick, not at all," Sherlock said. He paused for a moment, glancing away thoughtfully, then added, "Hanged, yes."
With that, Sherlock quirked a smile at Berwick before turning and walking away.
I only looked back for a moment to see the prisoner's expression flood with a mixture of anger and anguish. I narrowed my eyes at him and let out a long, disappointed breath through my nose.
"Miss, please!" Berwick directed his words to me now. "You've gotta convince 'im! You don't want to see and innocent man die?"
"Of course not," I said. "And that's why I'm not going to try and convince Sherlock of anything when it comes to you."
I then followed after Sherlock, giving the prison guard that had watched over the exchange a small, appreciative nod as I went.
The next day, I was doing some finishing touches on the story boards I was going to send off to my publishers. Without a load of cases to distract me from my work, I hadn't ran behind in some time now and was actually ahead in what was expected of me.
I delicately ran the tip of my pencil over the lines detailing one of my major character's hair. It was odd how well I was able to put together stories involving people and them interacting with one another, yet when it came to reality I was absolute rubbish at socializing. Perhaps it was because in a story, there was a formula to follow. I knew everything about these characters, so I knew what to expect with them.
The character I was drawing then was Kazros—a shorter-than-average young man with snow-white hair and in a wild, slightly spiky style that was typical of manga art. He was loud and shameless as a character, always joking and doing just about anything for a laugh or to make others smile. Often, I wished I could take some of Kaz's best traits. Almost everyone liked him and he knew exactly how to speak his mind.
I supposed that Kaz and I did have a common theme, though. Both of us carried a secret that was incredibly destructive.
I still had yet to talk to John about my time in Japan with Miyako. I told myself I was waiting for the right moment, but I knew that wasn't the case. I didn't want to tell him; I didn't want my brother to worry or be upset and disappointed in me.
Just as I put my pencil back down to define Kaz's jawline, two deafening gunshots rang out from downstairs. The sound startled me so much, that my hand jolted to the side and streaked a long dark mark straight across Kaz's face. My immediate reaction was sheer irritation about the fact that I'd have to redo this panel. Then, I fully realized that a gun had just fired in the flat.
Sprinting out of my room and down the stairs, I nearly tripped into the kitchen in my haste. I caught myself on the counter and looked around before spotting Sherlock lying slumped in his armchair with his eyes closed and his head resting on the low back of it. His legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, and he was wearing his pajamas with a blue silk dressing gown.
"Sherlock?" I said. I didn't see blood anywhere on him so I assumed he was being this calm because he knew the cause of the gunfire.
The detective opened his eyes but he didn't look at me. Instead, he stared blankly and lifted the arm that had been out of my sight before. In his hand was a pistol.
"Sher—!" I began to exclaim, but too late.
Sherlock aimed toward the sofa across the living room and fired the gun again. The sound was so loud, it forced me to clap my hands over my ears. I stepped slowly into the living room, eyeing the detective in concern as I lowered my arms. I glanced toward the wall he was shooting at and saw that he had spray-painted a smiley face in the same yellow paint from the Black Lotus case. There were bullet holes in both eyes and on the edge of its mouth. As I stared at it, a third gunshot fired (which made me jump and nearly fall over) and a new hole appeared in the center of the face, making a nose.
Before I could address Sherlock, pounding footsteps announced my brother's arrival as he came running up the stairs and into the flat. I assumed he's just gotten back from work.
"What the hell are you doing?!" John yelled with his fingers in his ears.
Sherlock stared sulkily at the smiley face. "Bored," he said.
John squinted at our flatmate in disbelief. "What?"
"Bored!" Sherlock shouted, springing out of his chair.
John and I both instantly covered our ears with our hands when Sherlock moved the pistol to his right hand and turned toward the smiley face.
"No..." John protested weakly, as if he knew the detective wouldn't listen.
The gun fired and Sherlock swung his arm around his back and twisted slightly to his right. He shot at the face yet again from the awkward angle and it still hit its target.
"Bored! Bored!" Sherlock's face was tight with anger as he bellowed the word over and over.
John hurried into the room and snatched the gun away. I knew Sherlock allowed my brother to take it since I had seen first-hand how quick the detective's reflexes were. John slid the clip out of the gun as Sherlock walked toward the sofa.
"Don't know what's got into the criminal classes," he complained. "Good job I'm not one of them."
My brother locked the pistol into a small safe on the dining table before straightening up and glaring at Sherlock. "So you take it out on the wall."
Sherlock ran a finger over the painted smile. "Ah, the wall had it coming."
I exhaled and shook my head as irritation began to prickle my spine. "Because of you, I have to redo a whole panel, you know," I told him.
The detective cast me a small glance. "At least you have something to do," he replied.
"What about that Russian case?" John prompted as he took off his coat.
Sherlock flopped dramatically onto the sofa on his back. His head rested on a cushion while his bare feet dug into the armrest on the opposite end. He used his feet to push himself further along the sofa and slightly more into an upright position. Then, like a cat, he began kneading his toes into the armrest.
It was clear by all of his motions and expression that the detective was on the precipice of exploding. I wasn't entirely sure what that would mean for someone like Sherlock Holmes, and I didn't care to find out.
"Belarus," our flatmate said. "Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time."
"Ah, shame!" John replied sarcastically.
"Guy was a prick, anyway," I said with a small shrug.
John looked at me. "You went with him? To a prison? To question an inmate?"
I met my brother's gaze unflinchingly. "Yeah, and he was a prick," I repeated.
John turned to Sherlock. "Why would you take Maddie to something like that?"
"She's good at figuring things out," Sherlock said simply. "I wanted the company. You were out, so it fell to Max to accompany me."
John shook his head and turned to head into the kitchen. He threw up his arms in despair at the mess that greeted him. Sherlock had the flat in even more dire straits than when we first saw it back in October.
"Anything in?" John asked. "I'm starving."
Alarm sang through my body and I turned and reached out toward my brother. "John—wait—"
Too late. John had opened the fridge and his shoulders seized up. "Oh f..." He immediately slammed it shut again and slumped against the door for a moment.
"Yeah, um..." I said awkwardly. "Gave me a fright this afternoon too."
John straightened up and opened the door again. On the shelf inside was a man's head, cut off at the neck, looking towards the door. My brother stared at it for a couple of seconds, then quietly closed the door again.
"It's a head," he murmured, as if saying the words aloud would help him cope with the fact that Sherlock seriously had that in our fridge. John turned and yelled, "A severed head!"
"Just tea for me, thanks," Sherlock replied calmly.
John stormed back into the living room. "No, there's a head in the fridge," he pressed.
"Yes," Sherlock said.
"A bloody head!" John exclaimed.
"Y'know, Max took it much better." Sherlock examined his feet as he continued to knead the sofa with his toes.
"Are you—well, that's brilliant, that my sister's been desensitized so much by you that this sort of thing is just-just common happenstance around here!" John shouted.
"Well, where else was I supposed to put it?" Sherlock said, looking around at John. "You don't mind, do you?"
John held out his hands despairingly again and looked back toward the fridge.
"I got it from Bart's," Sherlock added, as if that would make my brother feel better.
John buried his head in one hand, clearly not soothed by the information.
"I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death," Sherlock explained, waving vaguely toward his nearby laptop. After a moment, the detective changed the subject. "I see you've written up the taxi driver case."
"Uh, yes," John muttered after giving one last glance toward the fridge. He then went over and plopped down in Sherlock's usual chair.
"A Study in Pink. Nice," Sherlock said.
"Well, you know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone—there was a lot of pink. Did you like it?" John asked.
Even as John had been speaking, Sherlock had picked up a magazine from the coffee table and was now flipping it open. "Erm, no," he said to the pages.
"Why not?" John said. "I thought you'd be flattered."
I snorted. John looked over at me with one brow quirked.
"Come on, John, you're underestimating Sherlock's ego," I told him.
"'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.'" The detective had raised his index fingers to narrate a passage from John's blog.
"Now hang on a minute," John defended. "I didn't mean that in a—"
"Oh, you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a nice way!" Sherlock scoffed. "Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister..."
"I know," John said quietly.
"...or who's sleeping with who," Sherlock went on.
"Whom," I corrected.
The detective shot me a venomous look and I merely smiled widely at him.
"Whether the Earth goes round the Sun," John added softly.
I looked between John and Sherlock with widening eyes. "You... no. No! You really just don't know that?" I asked our flatmate in bewilderment.
"Not that again," Sherlock groaned. "It's not important."
"Not impor..." John shifted his position in his chair to face Sherlock. "It's primary school stuff. How can you not know that?"
The detective pressed the heels of his hands to his palms. "Well, if I ever did, I've deleted it."
"Deleted it?" I echoed.
Sherlock swung his legs around to the floor and sat up to fully face us. "Listen," he said, pointing to his head with one finger. "This is my hard drive and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful... really useful." He grimaced. "Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?" His eyes darted between the two of us.
John and I stared at him for a heartbeat or two. Both of us held our tongues for a few seconds, but then we can't contain ourselves.
"But it's the solar system!" John exclaimed at the same time as I said, "There had to have been a time when that was useful information."
"Oh, hell!" Sherlock flared. "What does that matter?! So we go round the Sun! If we went round the Moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear—" he flailed his hands around beside his head while he narrated the line from a children's poem, "—it wouldn't make any difference. All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots."
The detective ruffled his hair with both hands before glaring at John.
"Put that in your blog," he snapped. "Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world." Then he directed his attention to me. "And you. Go and deal with your panels and your doodling."
With that, Sherlock petulantly shoved the magazine across the coffee table before lying down on the sofa again. He turned over to put his back to us and curled into a tight ball.
I shared a glance with John. My brother didn't look pleased in the least and I didn't blame him. Sherlock had never been quite so openly rude toward us before. John pursed his lips and got to his feet. As he walked across the living room, Sherlock looked over his shoulder.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"Out," John replied tightly. "I need some air." He slipped on his jacket.
"And I have a panel to fix," I said, moving toward the stairs that led to my room.
Sherlock didn't protest or say anything else as John went out the door. Before I could reach the stairs, however, Mrs. Hudson's cheery voice came.
"Ooh-ooh!" she greeted as she came into the living room.
I turned back and politely replied, "Afternoon, Mrs. Hudson."
Our landlady smiled at me before looking toward Sherlock, who was still curled tightly on the sofa. He started to stretch out his legs and turned his head enough to acknowledge Mrs. Hudson's existence, but then looked away again. Our landlady carried a couple of shopping bags into the kitchen.
"Mm, fair word of warning, Mrs. Hudson," I said. "Don't open the fridge."
Mrs. Hudson glanced warily at the fridge then nodded at me. "Thank you, dear. You would think I'd get used to Sherlock's experiments after all this time, but they still can be..."
"I'd offer you a description, but I don't think there are enough words," I said.
Mrs. Hudson laughed. Looking to Sherlock, she asked, "Have you two had a little domestic?"
I guessed that she meant John. Sherlock flailed his arms to get himself upright then stood up off the sofa before going to the window looking out over Baker Street. He took the shortest route to his destination: up and over the coffee table. Down below, I heard the front door open and close.
"Ooh, it's a bit nippy out there," Mrs. Hudson said. "He should have wrapped himself up a bit more."
"Right, well, I'm going back upstairs," I said tightly.
"Maxine, you sound upset," Mrs. Hudson noted, turning toward me and blinking rapidly. "I don't think I've ever heard you upset." She looked from me to Sherlock and back again. "Did the three of you have a domestic?"
"Look at that, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock suddenly said, still at the window. "Quiet, calm, peaceful." He dragged in a long breath. "Isn't it hateful?"
Mrs. Hudson began to unload her bags and set the receipt on the table for Sherlock to reimburse her later. Ever since John's row with the Pin and Chip machine, Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to shop for us.
"Oh, I'm sure something'll turn up, Sherlock," she comforted. "A nice murder—that'll cheer you up. Probably the both of you." She cast me a small glance as she chuckled.
"What d'you mean by that?" I asked.
"Oh, I see how excited you get when a new case comes along, Maxine," Mrs. Hudson said. "Your brother enjoys them too, to an extent. But you! You're just as giddy as Sherlock when deceit and crime is out and about."
I rubbed the back of my neck, surprised by the wave of embarrassment that rose in me. "I... I suppose it's all good story reference."
"Besides, with the two of you on a case together again, any row you might have had will be gone in a flash." Mrs. Hudson nodded assuredly while ignoring my weak excuse. She headed into the living room with her bags.
"Can't come too soon," Sherlock murmured wistfully at the window.
Mrs. Hudson came to an abrupt halt when she spotted the wall Sherlock decorated. "Hey. What've you done to my bloody wall?!"
Sherlock turned to admired his work, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
"I'm putting this on your rent, young man!" Mrs. Hudson told him. She turned to storm off, but paused and glanced at me one last time on her way out. "Remember, don't take it personal." Then she was out the door and down the stairs.
I let out a long breath as the door closed behind our landlady. Looking toward Sherlock, I found he was staring at me, but the moment our eyes met he adverted his gaze.
"Don't you have a panel to fix?" he said, keeping his pale green eyes on the smiley face.
I folded my arms and glared at my feet for a moment. Ordinarily, I would walk away from any verbal conflict. I hated the dance of emotion and social connection. None of it made any sense to me, no matter how many times John tried to teach me. Clearly, he was so frustrated that he had to take a leaf from my book and just leave. So why was this the one time that I felt the need to stand my ground?
"You frustrated me," I said abruptly.
Sherlock blinked and met my eyes again. His brow furrowed with confusion and bewilderment. "Sorry?" he said, walking until he stood in the middle of the living room.
I walked forward as well, stopping when I was less than a meter away. I glared up into Sherlock's eyes and tried my best not to let my nerves show—my pounding heart and how my knees felt like they might buckle. Perhaps this was how people normally reacted to life-threatening situations; perhaps this was what true fear felt like.
However, right when I opened my mouth to speak, a massive explosion suddenly erupted behind Sherlock. It must have happened out in the street, for all that happened in the flat was the windows being blown in and the blast throwing Sherlock and me to the ground. The detective landed over me and shielded me with his body as glass rained down over us. My ears were ringing and my head throbbed.
Sherlock groaned as he lifted his weight off of me and peered down at my face.
"Are you all right?" he asked. His voice sounded like he was underwater.
"I think so," I said. "You?"
"Yeah," Sherlock carefully got off of me; shattered glass pattered on the floor as it slid off of his back. "Careful, watch your feet."
"The bloody hell was that?" I asked as Sherlock helped me stand.
The detective quirked a smile. "Our next case, I'm guessing."
John
A long groan escaped my lips when consciousness found me on Sarah's sofa. I sat up stiffly, my unbuttoned shirt falling away from my stomach as I did so. My neck felt like someone had stashed a knife in it. I tried to turn it this way and that in an effort to soothe the tight muscle.
"Morning!"
Sarah came walking in wearing a dressing gown. Her expression was cheery and her face was beautiful as ever, despite there being no makeup on it and her hair still mussed from bed.
"Oh, mor..." I cut off when I turned to look at her, for my neck sent a jolt of pain through me. I grimaced and gripped it before finishing my greeting, "Morning."
"See? Told you you should've gone with the lilo," Sarah teased.
I rubbed my neck. "No, no, no, it's fine," I insisted. "I-I slept fine. It's very kind of you."
Sarah scanned the sofa for a moment before she spotted what she was looking for: the remote control for the TV. She reached behind me and picked it up to turn on the telly.
"Well, maybe next time I'll let you kip at the end of my bed, you know," she said, giving me a suggestive glance.
I kept my eyes on the screen for a moment. Be still, my beating heart, I thought. A silly quote that Maxine would probably smack me for.
"What about the time after that?" I queried, turning my head toward her but not meeting her gaze.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her smile and my heart gave a resounding thud in my chest.
In the background, I caught some of what the newsreader was saying. "Experts are hailing it as the artistic find of the century."
A glance at the TV told me it was featuring the Hickman Art Gallery with a headline at the bottom of the screen reading: "The Lost Vermeer."
Sarah set down the remote, bringing my attention back to her.
"So you and Sherlock had a row, yeah?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said.
"And your sister—she got mad at him too?"
I nodded.
"Is she okay staying over there? Or is she like you and need air?" Sarah grinned at me slyly.
I shrugged. "Maddie can hold her own, and though Sherlock is an ass at times, he will be civil to her if she told him to."
"How d'you know that?" Sarah tilted her head. "Isn't this their first argument?"
"First one where I saw her get so peeved, yeah," I said. "But Maddie has a... er, let's just say that she doesn't typically get mad, right? So when she does..."
"It's scary?" Sarah offered when I trailed off.
"Bloody terrifying, really," I said.
We both laughed for a moment. I figured that Sarah was trying to see if I had used the row with Sherlock as an excuse to come stay the night with her. After all, Maxine had stayed behind to put up with our... eccentric flatmate.
In all honesty, I think that it was a bit of both—I wanted to get away from Sherlock and it was a delightful reason to come stay with a beautiful woman.
"So, d'you want some breakfast?" Sarah asked.
"Love some," I replied.
"Yeah, well you'd better make it yourself, 'cause I'm gonna have a shower!" Sarah declared, giving him a sassy smile before leaving the room.
I chuckled and began buttoning up my shirt. I truly did enjoy her; if only I could get Sherlock and Maxine to cooperate with my dating life.
"... it fetched over twenty million pounds," the newsreader went on. "This one is anticipated to do even better. Back now to our main story. There's been a massive explosion in central London."
My head snapped up, sending another bite of pain through my neck. I stared at the screen with growing shock and horror as the picture swapped over to show live footage of a road that was all too familiar. Brickwork was scattered all over the pavement and police cordons had been set up to keep people out. The headline at the bottom of the screen declared: "House destroyed on Baker St."
"As yet, there are no reports of any casualties," the newsreader said, "and the police are unable to say if there is any suspicion of terrorist involvement."
I scrambled to my feet despite how my legs had next to no feeling in them. Sprinting around the sofa, I snatched my jacket before turning toward the door and calling out toward the bathroom.
"Sarah!" I cried.
"Police have issued an emergency number for friends and relatives..." the newsreader went on.
"Sarah!" I tried again. All that responded was the sound of the water in her shower stall. I didn't have time- she'd understand, I'd text her while in the cab. "Sorry—I've got to run!" I shouted before running out the door.
Maxine
I trotted down the stairs with a slightly cheerful skip in my step. I'd finally fixed the panel that Sherlock caused me to mess up yesterday and now I was finally going to get him to hold up his end of the bargain he'd made with me regarding emailing Miyako.
My sketchbook was under one arm and a handful of pencils in the other. A pocket sharpener was in my back pocket with an eraser snuggled up next to it. Down in the living room, Sherlock sat in his usual chair with a rather sulky expression. I paused at the bottom of the steps.
"Oh don't look so upset," I said. "This was our agreement."
"Surely you realize that I'm not a man that likes to sit still doing nothing for long periods of time," Sherlock muttered. He wore a purple undershirt with a dark gray suit jacket over it; a much nicer look on him than his dressing gown.
I walked across the room and plopped down in the chair opposite him—the chair John usually sat in. "Of course I know that," I said. "We can talk while I work, just don't move your lips too much."
"I feel ridiculous," Sherlock complained.
"So sorry for your loss," I replied sarcastically. "However, this is an ideal time, since John isn't here. You won't have to feel even more embarrassed."
"I'm not embarrassed," Sherlock retorted indignantly. "This is just..."
"For someone so egotistical, you'd think that you'd love the idea of someone drawing your portrait," I said.
"Why can't you just use a photograph?" Sherlock demanded.
"It's not the same," I said. "I can't ask the photo version of you to tilt your head slightly so the light catches you eyes better or mess with its hair."
Sherlock let out a groan.
"This is the least you can do after how rude you were yesterday," I pointed out. "Or, we could just wait until John comes back and we can both stare at you awkwardly the whole time."
"Just get on with it, will you?" Sherlock grumbled. "Er... what pose d'you want?"
I couldn't help but think of how considerate it was for the detective to even ask. I tilted my head as I observed him. Which expression did I like on Sherlock the most? I did appreciate his rare smiles; the genuine ones, not the snarky smirks he'd quirk after a snide remark. However, I also adored the intensity his eyes gained when he was analyzing something and putting the pieces of a case together, but that wouldn't be reasonable to ask of him. That didn't seem like an expression he could just bring about on command.
"Just neutral, is fine," I said. "Whatever is comfortable. But stare over at the window for me? And lean back in the chair."
Sherlock looked irritated for a moment longer, then obeyed, leaning back in his seat and fixated his pale green stare on the far window.
"Like this?" he asked.
"Perfect," I said, beginning to sketch outlines of a slender, male human head. "What shall we talk about? Oh, but don't move your mouth too much."
Sherlock let out a long breath through his nose, still clearly annoyed, but then I saw his expression grow pensive.
"What is your story about?" he asked after a moment.
"My story?" I said. "My manga?"
"Yes," Sherlock replied. "I know it's called 'MANA' and seems to be quite popular."
"Oh, well..." I deftly moved my pencil along while flicking my eyes back and forth between Sherlock and the paper. "I guess the genre is known as Magic-Punk."
Sherlock's brows twitched in confusion; luckily I wasn't drawing them yet. "Magic-Punk?"
I nodded. "It's a world of fantasy in which there is technology, but it is fueled by magic instead of electricity or steam or the like. My world has trains and vehicles, even guns and watches. However, everything requires magic to work, if it's tech-related anyway. The guns just channel a Mage's magic into bullets. The weaker Mages are typically the ones who use those kind of weapons though."
"...Interesting..." Sherlock said slowly. "I've not heard of a fiction like that."
"I should hope not," I said as I began to sketch in the definition of Sherlock's cheekbones.
"So that's your setting, your world... what's the plot?" Sherlock prompted.
"Mm, four Mages trying to stop an ancient old Mage from killing all the lesser Mages in an attempt to bring back the world of Raw Magic—the world before tech was introduced to them," I said with a small shrug. "It gets more complicated than that, but I think that explains the bones of it."
"Magic has never been something of my interest," Sherlock said. "There's no solid rules to it. In each book—in every piece of fiction, really—the magic can differ from one to the next. If it did exist, trying to do my work would be a nightmare."
"Well, that's the nice thing about drawing and writing this," I said. "It's my world. I get to make the rules." I paused in my sketching, biting my lip. "Although, I am thinking of starting a new project."
"A new project?" Sherlock prompted.
"Yes." I carefully began forming the outline of Sherlock's eyes. "Set in 19th century London and involving a certain quirky detective and his two companions."
Sherlock blinked. "You think our adventures would be popular in Japan?"
"I can put a spin on a few things to better suit the style that's appreciated out East," I said as I delicately flicked my pencil to add the detective's eyelashes. "Maybe a dash of magic."
"Isn't John and his blog enough?" Sherlock asked in a huff.
"Are you worried I might make you out to be a 'spectacularly ignorant' person?" I queried with a small grin.
His eyes flicked toward me for a moment before focusing across the room again. "You're different when you draw. More cheeky."
"Problem?" I raised a brow at him.
Sherlock looked at me again. I had paused in my sketching, so this time he didn't get back into posture. "Maybe it's not just the drawing. You've overall been... I can't place it."
"More open?" I supplied. "It happened with Miyako as well." I put my pencil back to the paper and Sherlock took it as his cue to get back into position. "After a few months of being around her... I got more comfortable."
"Does this mean you're always this way with John? I haven't seen that," Sherlock noted.
"Er, no... not exactly," I said. "John's my brother. Our relationship is different than what I'd have with someone who... didn't see me grow up. I dunno. I guess there's some part of me that thinks if John knew who I truly was, he wouldn't care for me."
I slowly stopped sketching as the weight of my own words fell in on me. I honestly hadn't been aware that I felt that way until I said it out loud. I stared blankly at the outlines of Sherlock's sketched face on my paper, suddenly under the impression I was in a collapsing elevator.
"Max?"
Sherlock began to get out of his chair and the motion jarred me back into reality. I held out my hand to him without meeting his eyes, indicating that he should stop. I put my pencil down again as the detective hesitantly got back in his pose.
"Family expects things," I murmured as I started to make faint looping lines for Sherlock's hair. "Strangers don't. Not really—not the same things. And you and Miyako... you both understood—understand me. That I can't feel unless there's something... insane going on. John likes danger too; he wouldn't be here if he didn't. But... he doesn't need it. Not like I do."
To his credit, Sherlock remained perfectly still, but when I glanced up at him, I could see his eyes flickering slightly as if he were searching for the words to say.
"High-functioning sociopath," he finally murmured.
The pencil fell from my hand. I raised my eyes up to stare at Sherlock from over my drawing pad.
"Doesn't that imply that I can't feel empathy?" I murmured.
Sherlock smiled humorlessly. I immediately remembered how I acted when Sarah was crying after the incident with the Black Lotus. I swallowed and nodded.
"Suppose it makes sense," I said.
"It doesn't imply that you don't have a conscious," Sherlock assured. "After all, you stood up for me with Sebastian."
"I dunno if stood up for is the right term," I said.
Sherlock's grin came back, but this time it was almost gleeful. "You put up with our dating charade so that we could drive him mad."
"Mainly because he's a prick," I replied. "But if that's you argument, couldn't you say that I was feeling empathy toward you?"
"Probably only because you can relate to being alienated," Sherlock said softly. "Max, being like this doesn't mean that there's anything wrong with you. In fact, I'd say your far better than the vast majority of the population."
I leaned down to collect my pen. "Thanks, I suppose..." His compliment actually made something warm blossom in my chest—something I couldn't quite place. "I guess putting a name to it just makes it seem more solidified."
"It's not like putting a name to it changes who you are," Sherlock said. "If someone grew up without the knowledge that they had blond hair because they didn't have access to a mirror—and I suppose kept it ludicrously short and never looked when they cut it—the day they figured out they were blond wouldn't make them any different from how they were before."
"Are you using similes?" I asked with my brows raised.
"Not very good ones, by your expression." Sherlock chuckled.
I smiled and opened my mouth to reply, but then there was a knock on the door downstairs. I frowned and turned in my seat.
"Did John forget his key?" I mused.
"It was in the jacket he took," Sherlock said as he got to his feet.
I rose as well and looked toward the windows. I'd peek out to see who was calling, but they were boarded up from the explosion that went off yesterday. Sherlock headed out of the living room and down the steps. I glanced at my sketch of him and let out a long breath through my nostrils. It was no wonder how Sherlock and I got on so well; we were two of a kind.
"Lovely sight outside." A familiar voice drifted up from downstairs when Sherlock opened the front door. "Gas leak, they're saying."
Sherlock merely groaned in response and came trudging back up the steps. I turned to see him reenter the room with a sour expression. Shortly behind him was Mycroft Holmes, looking just the same as the last time I met him at the crime scene of Jeff Hope's death. He wore the immaculately tailored suit, his hair was carefully styled and sleek, his smile faint and formal.
"Ah, Maxine," he greeted when he spotted me. "So good to see you again. Congratulations on the recent sales spike. The English versions are due to release this month, yes?"
Sherlock blinked and looked between me and Mycroft and back again. "What?"
"My manga," I said to him before turning my attention to Mycroft. "Thank you, Mycroft. I trust this isn't a social visit?"
"Well, with the explosion outside, I was terribly worried," Mycroft said, his expression falling to one of concern that seemed too genuine to me. "It's my brother, after all; and his companions."
Sherlock went back to his chair and practically collapsed into it. From around the other side of it, he picked up his violin and propped it on his chin. Without taking out the bow, he merely began to pluck away at the strings seemingly at random. "What do you want, Mycroft?"
Mycroft let out a small exasperated breath before walking further into the room. However, he paused when he reached my shoulder, peering at my drawing pad.
"Oh, incredible likeness so far," he said. "Well done, Maxine. So you do realism as well?"
"On-on occasion," I stammered as I folded the drawing pad into my arms, pressing the sketch to my chest. I could see Sherlock stiffening out of the corner of my eye. "Sherlock let me borrow a photograph."
"Did he?" Mycroft smiled widely. "How considerate. Do you often draw people?"
"Only those with features I like," I replied before really thinking about it. "Er, Sherlock's hair and eyes are quite intricate. It makes it a challenge."
"We Holmes enjoy our challenges as well," Mycroft said as he went to John's usual chair and sat down. "Which brings me to a proposal for you, little brother."
Sherlock glanced toward him, indicating he was listening.
"A civil servant was found dead this morning; head bashed in," Mycroft said. "He had with him some very sensitive information on a memory stick, which is now missing."
"That's the bare bones, isn't it?" I said as I placed my drawing pad and pencil on the dining table. "You wouldn't come to Sherlock is it was a simple robbery; sensitive information or not."
"Correct, Maxine; sharp as ever I see." Mycroft cast me a smile before returning his attention to his brother. "Of course there are complexities that the Scotland Yard or even my people wouldn't be able to figure out; at least not quickly enough." He tossed a folder onto the coffee table. "The details are inside."
Before Sherlock could move or answer, the front door burst open and John's voice yelled up the stairs.
"Maxine! Sherlock!"
John burst into the living room and his eyes were first drawn to the boarded up windows then they darted over to us.
"John," Sherlock greeted mildly as he continued his random pizzicato.
"I saw it on the telly." John came to my side and gripped my shoulder, looking me over before turning his eyes on Sherlock. "Are either of you hurt?"
"Hmm? What?" Sherlock glanced around at the mess of broken glass and scattered paperwork as if he'd forgotten it. "Oh, yeah. Fine. Gas leak, apparently."
I still didn't quite believe the 'gas leak' bit. Sherlock had seemed to excited by the explosion when it first went off; even claimed it was our next case. So why was he acting so calmly about it now? Was it for Mycroft's benefit? Perhaps John's? Or had he totally changed hi mind about it?
Sherlock began plucking the violin strings again as he turned toward his brother. "I can't," he said.
"'Can't?'" Mycroft echoed.
"The stuff I've got on is just too big," Sherlock replied. "I can't spare the time."
John gaped at the detective while I furrowed my brow.
"Never mind your usual trivia," Mycroft pressed. "This is of national importance."
Sherlock continued to flick his fingers across the strings. "How's the diet?" he queried.
Mycroft's face tightened with irritation. "Fine. Perhaps you could get through to him, John. Or you, Maxine."
"What?" John asked and the two of us went closer to where the brothers sat.
"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent," Mycroft said.
"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?" Sherlock demanded.
"No-no-no-no-no," Mycroft replied with a wave of his hand. "I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time... not with the Korean elections so..." He trailed off when the three of us all stared at him. He cleared his throat and went on. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you?" Mycroft smiled humorlessly, clearing telling us to forget what he just said. "Besides, a case like this—it requires..."—he grimaced in distaste, "...legwork."
Sherlock plucked on of the violin strings a bit harsher than the others, appearing irritated. Rather than respond to his brother, he turned to John, who was absently rubbing the back of his neck.
"How's Sarah, John?" the detective asked. "How was the lilo?"
"Sofa, Sherlock," Mycroft corrected while consulting his pocket watch. "It was the sofa."
"How...? Oh, never mind," John sighed. He sat down on the coffee table while I went over to Sherlock and perched on the arm of his chair.
"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you three became... pals," Mycroft noted with a smile.
Sherlock shot his brother a dark look. At that moment, he seemed to notice I'd come over and was sitting mere millimeters away. He turned round to meet my eyes with a perked brow.
"What?" I said with a shrug. "There's nowhere else to sit close by. The sofa's covered in glass."
"What's he like to live with?" Mycroft went on. "Hellish, I imagine."
"I never get bored," John replied.
Mycroft's smile became condescending. "Good! That's good, isn't it? I see he helps Maxine with her artistic skills." He glanced toward the dining table where my drawing pad was.
John frowned and peered over at it, standing up for a moment to get a better look. "Is that— Sherlock, is that you?"
"Max won a bet," Sherlock muttered, plucking sulkily at the E string on his violin.
"Against you?" Mycroft scoffed. "Perish the thought that the great Sherlock Holmes could be bested. You will have to tell me the details on that later."
Sherlock picked up his bow and whipped it through the air before him in an airy fashion. He nearly struck me with the tip of it, which I had a feeling was on purpose.
Mycroft sighed and picked up the folder from the table and got to his feet. He strode over and offered it to his brother, but Sherlock merely looked back at him with a staggering force of stubbornness. Mycroft grimaced and poked his tongue into the corner of his mouth before turning it and handing it to John instead.
"Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends," Mycroft said as John took the folder, albeit with a startled expression. "A civil servant, found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in."
"Jumped in front of a train?" John suggested.
"Seems the logical assumption," Mycroft replied.
John gave a brief smile. "But...?"
"'But?'" Mycroft repeated.
"Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident," John said.
Sherlock smirked as he began to apply rosin to his bow with a small cloth.
"Your sister had the same notion; seems both Watsons are cleverer than they appear," Mycroft said. "The M.O.D. is working on a new missile defense system—the Bruce-Partington Program, it's called." He looked back toward Sherlock. "The plans for it were on a memory stick."
John sniggered quietly. "That wasn't very clever."
Sherlock and I smiled in agreement.
"It's not the only copy," Mycroft told John.
"Oh." John still didn't look remorseful about his comment.
"But it is secret. And missing," Mycroft said.
"Top secret?" John asked.
"Very." Mycroft's expression grew troubled. "We thing West must have taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands." He turned back toward Sherlock and me. "You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you."
My brows shot up as Sherlock took a sharp breath in through his nose. The detective raised the violin to his shoulder, before locking his green gaze on his brother.
"I'd like to see you try," he replied calmly.
I suddenly felt like I was in the crossfire of a gunfight. I glanced from Sherlock to Mycroft as the latter leaned in closer toward his little brother.
"Think it over," he said in a threatening tone.
Sherlock merely stared back at him, clearly unimpressed. His calmness gave me a bit of reassurance. While I didn't think that Mycroft could be a physical threat to myself or my flatmates, I still couldn't help but remember how easily he abducted John and me the first time we met with Sherlock. He might not hurt his brother, but I was certain Mycroft had other means to torture people. However, with Sherlock so nonchalant, it gave the indication that Mycroft couldn't do anything too horrendous to us.
"Goodbye, Maxine." Mycroft put his hand out toward me.
I glanced toward Sherlock, but he was focused on his violin now, gently tuning it despite not even running the bow across the strings to check the sound. After a brief moment of hesitation, I gripped Mycroft's hand. His skin was smooth and his grip was firm; the hand of a man who most likely had never done any sort of physical labor in his life. Rather than shaking my hand, he brought it to his lips and gently kissed my knuckles.
Sherlock's head snapped around and Mycroft smiled widely at me, completely ignoring his brother.
"And you, John." Mycroft turned around and offered his hand to John, who had a conflicted gleam in his eyes as he took it. They shook and Mycroft gave my brother a smile as well, though this one was a touch creepier. "See you very soon," he said.
John was clearly trying not to look nervous as Mycroft headed back toward the chair to collect his coat. Sherlock began to play a short and irritating sequence of notes and he didn't stop until Mycroft was out of the room and down the stairs. The front door closed and the detective lowered his violin while grimacing in the direction of his brother's back. His face was twisted with annoyance and irritation.
"Why'd you lie?" John asked as he sat back down on the coffee table.
"Shouldn't that be obvious?" I said. I stood and went over to John's usual chair, since he hadn't claimed it.
"You've got nothing on—not a single case," John said to Sherlock as I plopped down. "That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"
"Why shouldn't I?" Sherlock replied with a shrug.
John looked between Sherlock and me. I raised my brows at him in a look that said, Come on! I said it was obvious, didn't I?
"Oh." John nodded. "Oh, I see. Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere."
Sherlock opened his mouth, but before he can speak, his phone began to ring. He irritable whipped his bow down again and put it on the seat beside him before fishing out his mobile.
"Sherlock Holmes," he answered.
John and I watched as the detective's expression suddenly intensified.
"Of course," he said. "How could I refuse?"
Sherlock got to his feet as he switched his phone off and put his violin on the seat. He began to stride toward the door.
"Lestrade," he explained. "I've been summoned. Coming?"
"If you want us to," John said.
"Of course," Sherlock said as he snatched his coat. He glanced back toward us. "I'd be lost without my blogger and artist."