Maxine
I wasn't certain why Miyako came to my mind in what was chopping up to be my last moments in life, but I thought about how things might have been if I'd stayed in Japan instead of coming back to London. Would I be in this much peril? Would I even be alive there? Or could it be possible that staying in Tokyo with my old teacher would have turned out safer than getting involved with Sherlock Holmes?
What would she say, I wondered, about this predicament I was in? About me being at an indoor pool with my brother and detective flatmate, who was aiming a gun at a bomb that would most certainly kill all of us in the room, including James Moriarty. I had a feeling Miyako wouldn't be able to believe I'd gotten myself mixed up in such things. She'd probably be furious that I was in this situation to begin with, considering she practically forced me to leave Japan for my own safety.
Nothing had happened for what seemed like ages, so I opened my eyes again and saw that no one had moved. John was still back near the wall with lasers dancing on his chest, Moriarty was eyeing Sherlock with a light smile while Sherlock stared right back as he pointed the gun at the bomb. I wanted to shout for someone to do something but I was terrified that any sudden noise would cause Sherlock to pull the trigger.
Then, the introduction to the Bee Gees' song Staying Alive began to play from Moriarty's pocket. All of us looked to him in confusion as he closed his eyes, appearing exasperated.
"D'you mind if I get that?" he asked Sherlock, oddly polite in his tone.
"No, no, please," Sherlock said casually. "You've got the rest of your life."
Moriarty took the phone from his pocket and answered it. "Hello? ... Yes, of course it is. What do you want?"
There was a pause and Moriarty mouthed the word "Sorry" to Sherlock, who sarcastically mouthed, "Oh, it's fine," back. I felt a laugh coming on from the sheer insanity of it. Here we were, in a situation of life and death, and Moriarty was concerned with a phone call.
Moriarty rolled his eyes as he listened to the phone and turned away from us for a moment. Then he whirled back around, his face suddenly full of fury.
"SAY THAT AGAIN!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls and the surface of the pool's water.
Sherlock and I exchanged a startled look, both of us frowning. There was that other personality of Moriarty's again; the one that was nothing but feral rage. The man's face contorted as he snarled venomously into the phone.
"Say that again," he said, "and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will sssssskin you."
Sherlock glanced at my brother now and I followed his gaze to see John was bewildered as us.
"Wait," Moriarty ordered and lowered his phone.
He began to walk forward and Sherlock fretfully adjusted his aim at the bomb. I could tell that the detective didn't want to blow us all to bits, but he wasn't about to just let Moriarty get away with killing all of us. If we went down, so did this madman. Moriarty stared down at the floor for a moment, frowning in thought. Finally, he lifted his eyes to Sherlock's.
"Sorry," he said calmly. "Wrong day to die."
"Oh." Sherlock's expression and posture remained surprisingly casual. "Did you get a better offer?"
Moriarty looked down at his phone briefly before turning and walking away. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock," he promised over his shoulder before bringing the phone back to his ear. Into it, he said, "So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don't, I'll make you into shoes."
When he reached the door, he raised his free hand and snapped his fingers. Instantly, all the lasers focused on us vanished. As Moriarty disappeared through the door, I scanned the gallery but couldn't see any sign of the snipers. Looking round, I saw Sherlock was also staring up at the shadowed area over us, but he didn't seem to have any luck either.
John let out a sigh of relief. "What happened there?" he breathed.
"Someone changed his mind," Sherlock murmured. "The question is: who?"
With a delicate hand, I ran my pencil across the paper. Since the latest arc of my manga had been published and now the English translations were being printed, my publishers were willing to let me submit a new project to them. I'd been messing with the various character models in my head: trying various hairstyles, preferred attire, the shapes of their eyes. Over and over when I came back to the main character, he had dark ringlets of hair and angular pale green eyes.
I frowned at the sketch before me, glancing warily at the now finished drawing of Sherlock I kept on my desk. I had lied to both Sherlock and John that I still needed to add some finishing touches and that was why it was still on my desk and not tucked away in my portfolio. Truth was: I didn't know why I kept it there. I simply couldn't bring myself to put it away, and hanging it on my wall seemed... well... obvious.
Curly hair wasn't often used in manga. Eastern art styles favored wild and spiky hair, or long and straight. Or long and spiky. Regardless, curly just wasn't something that happened often. I wasn't certain my publishers would like it, but I just couldn't draw him any other way, it didn't feel right.
Besides, this particular manga was going to be based on all the adventures I had with Sherlock and my brother. Which is why one of the two major side characters was rather short and had light brown hair. His I made a touch spiky since I could get away with it. I hadn't drawn my character yet. I wasn't exactly eager about self-inserts... it made me feel egotistical and vain. I thought about altering her character a bit so that she wasn't exactly me.
After adding more detail the the current character on my paper, I tried to think of various names for him. I couldn't call him Sherlock. I was fairly certain that Sherlock would be quite cross with me if I did. However, I was having the story take place during the 1870s in London, so my options were a bit thin. John's name fit well, as it was one of the most popular names at the time.
"Maybe Arthur," I murmured to myself, tapping the eraser end on the paper near the character's head. "Or Conan. Mm, isn't that Irish?" I pursed my lips.
"Talking to yourself in there?"
I jumped so badly that my pencil fell from my hand and rolled across the desk.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock," I breathed.
"What?" the detective called through the door.
"I said bloody hell," I snapped over my shoulder and shook my head.
"You decent?"
"I'm working," I replied.
"So yes, then."
The door opened and Sherlock stood there in a red dressing gown over his shirt and trousers and a mug in one hand, presumably full of tea. I could see the steam rising from it in curling tendrils.
"We have clients coming today," Sherlock said. "Per John, anyway."
"He's like a proper secretary," I said, turning back to my paper and grabbing my pencil.
"I was hoping you'd join us," Sherlock said.
I frowned and looked back over my shoulder at him. Usually, him and John dealt with the intake of clients. I would sit in on occasion, but it was typically on accident—when I was down for some tea or eating a meal or the like. Sherlock, while involving me in his cases, had never gone out of his way to ask me to sit in on intakes before.
"That's new," I said.
"Not really, you've sat in before," Sherlock reminded me.
"You've never asked me," I pointed out.
"Yes, well, you've been up here a lot since the bomber case," Sherlock said, adverting his gaze. "John's getting worried."
"Starting a new story line takes a lot of time," I replied before narrowing my eyes slightly. "John hasn't complained to me."
"He doesn't want you to get cross with him," Sherlock said with a small shrug, still not looking at me. He instead took a few steps into my room and examined my art wall: the one that bore story boards and panels from MANA.
"And he told you this, did he?" I raised my brows at the detective.
"He didn't have to, it's clear by his actions and expressions," Sherlock answered swiftly.
"Mm." I spun my chair around to face him, leaning back in it with one leg crossing over the other. "You could just admit you want my company."
"I'm not opposed to your company," Sherlock muttered, looking at me for a brief moment before going back to my drawings. "But I assure you, I'm just looking out for your brother."
I rolled my eyes and swiveled my chair back around to the desk. "Well, I have to think of a name."
"A name?" Sherlock echoed.
"Yes, possibly the most annoying part of story writing," I murmured. "Benedict might work too, but that name wasn't around then... well, not as much. Ugh."
Sherlock peered over my shoulder and blinked in surprise. "Is that me?"
"No!" I said instantly, covering the character with my hands then sighing and moving them away again. "Yes. Kind of. For my new manga; remember, I talked to you about it."
"So you're trying to name me?" Sherlock laughed a little.
"Well, I can't use Sherlock," I told him.
"Why not?"
I turned my chair to face him again. "Do you know how hard that would be for Japanese people to pronounce? They often swap their R's and L's and you've got both of those side-by-side in your name. John's is easy, at least. I might be able to keep his."
"No, no, no, if you need to change mine, you should change all of them," Sherlock said.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because... well, it seems weird doesn't it?" Sherlock said.
It was like giving Sherlock's character anything but curly hair; it was just off. I was actually glad that Sherlock could sense that kind of thing too.
"All right, fine, all new names," I said.
"Have you drawn you yet?" Sherlock asked.
"It's not me," I argued softly. "Just like this—" I gestured to the sketch of the character on my paper, "—isn't you. They're... echoes. Shadows. They'll have differences from us. It's dangerous to write characters completely based of people you know."
"Why is that?" Sherlock queried, going and perching on the end of my bed.
"When people you know read your work and realize that the character is them, they tend to get mad," I replied. "Or at least uncomfortable. Seeing yourself through another person's eyes isn't always flattering."
"I dunno..." Sherlock looked down into his tea and shrugged again. "Suppose it depends on the person your seeing through. So... so, when you write—or draw—this thing, this manga, the characters won't be us?"
"Not entirely, no," I said.
"Hm." Sherlock grimaced and sipped his tea.
"What?" I tilted my head at him. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, nothing," Sherlock said, waving me off. "I just... I suppose I was just curious. I read John's blog and I get to see how he sees me."
"And the first time you did, you got insulted," I reminded him with a small chuckle. "I don't want to go down that road."
"I'd gone weeks without a case, I was... moody."
"You shot holes in the wall."
Sherlock gave a small gesture with his head that seemed to say: "Well, of course I did, didn't you hear how long I'd gone without a case?"
"I'll sit in," I said. "But I'm bringing my drawing pad. How many do you have today?"
"Er..." Sherlock screwed up his face as he tried to recall. "Three, plus one request from Lestrade to go down to the morgue later."
"Ah." I pursed my lips.
Talking with Molly ever since we figured out her previous boyfriend was actually Moriarty—AKA the bomber than we'd chased for nearly a week while he kidnapped and blew people up—was still a bit awkward. She was still clearly smitten with Sherlock, and I was finding that fact was starting to make me uncomfortable. Perhaps because of how Sherlock took advantage of her feelings, or... or what?
"So come on," Sherlock said, getting up from my bed and heading for the door. "I put tea on, there's plenty left."
I sighed and glanced back at my drawing. I still had to come up with a name and I supposed hearing a load of strangers' names might inspire me. I grabbed my drawing pad from one of my drawers and followed Sherlock down the stairs.
In the living room, John was sitting at the dining table with his laptop. Sherlock strode over and plopped down in his armchair before picking up a newspaper.
"Ah, she lives," John said, nodding toward me.
"Cute," I replied as I stepped into the kitchen to poor myself a cup of tea. "I hear we have some potentials today."
"Mm," John replied with a nod.
"What are you typing?" Sherlock asked him.
"Blog," John said.
"About?" Sherlock perked a brow.
"Us," John answered.
"You mean me," Sherlock corrected.
John looked up at him, frowning. "Why?"
"Well, you're typing a lot," Sherlock said.
I grinned as I poured my tea. Sherlock certainly required a lot of words to describe him and all the things he did.
The doorbell rang and Sherlock got to his feet. "Right then," he said, walking toward the door. "So, what have we got?"
Over the next several weeks, a number of potential clients came to 221B Baker Street to consult with Sherlock. We had one of the dining chairs face the fireplace where Sherlock and John's usual chairs were. I still hadn't gotten my own seat yet, but I changed position so much, I was starting to think I didn't need one. I would usually perch on the arm of either Sherlock or John's chair while customers spoke to the detective.
"My wife seems to be spending a very long time at the office," one man said, his expression distraught and desperate.
"Boring," Sherlock had replied, waving him off.
Later, one woman sat down and merely said, "I think my husband might be having an affair."
Sherlock looked her in the eye and replied, "Yes."
One of the stranger ones was a rather creepy-looking middle-aged man with an urn. He sat down and looked at each of us in turn, his eyes wide and resolute.
"She's not my real aunt," he'd insisted, gesturing to the urn. "She's been replaced—I know she has. I know human ash."
"Leave," Sherlock said, pointing to the door.
A businessman came with two aides, all dressed in expensive suits and carrying desperate expressions.
"We are prepared to offer any sum of money you care to mention for the recovery of these files," the businessman pleaded.
Once again, Sherlock used the word, "Boring."
One day, a young man with thick-rimmed glasses came with two companions. They sat at the dining table and the first man leaned forward toward us with an intense expression.
"We have this website," he said. "It explains the true meaning of comic books, 'cause people miss a lot of the themes."
Sherlock began to look away, bored once again.
"But then all the comic books started coming true," the young man said.
Sherlock looked back instantly. "Oh. Interesting."
A few days later, Sherlock strode into the living room. John sat in his usual chair, typing away on his laptop, as I sketched a manga version of my brother while sitting in Sherlock's seat. The detective peered curiously over John's shoulder and frowned.
"'Geek Interpreter.' What's that?" he asked.
"It's the title," John replied.
"What does it need a title for?" Sherlock said.
John smiled tightly at him as if he couldn't believe what he just heard as the detective straightened and walked away.
I looked across at John and gestured to his laptop. "Email me a copy, will you?"
He raised his brows at me. "For?"
"It's easier to storyboard when I have a reference," I replied.
My new manga was starting to take form, but I still didn't have names or a series title for it yet. Luckily, John's blog titles helped me name each arc. I just had to put a supernatural twist on each case in order to keep it within my genre.
Later that day, we were in the morgue at St Bartholomew's Hospital. Sherlock peered at a woman's body with his magnifier while John and I waited nearby. It wasn't a particularly complicated case; there hadn't been one of those for some time now. So I had a small notebook with me on which I'd written and scratched out several different names.
"Do people actually read your blog?" Sherlock abruptly asked.
John frowned at him. "Where d'you think our clients come from?"
"I have a website," Sherlock replied.
I snorted.
Sherlock shot a glare up at me. "Care to comment, Max?"
I shrugged. "Well, your website isn't... It's not really marketing, is it?"
"Marketing?" Sherlock echoed.
I nodded. "You have a brand—your name—and in order to get customers, you need to advertise. Your website... well..."
"You enumerate two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash," John said. "Nobody's reading your website."
Sherlock straightened up and pouted at him before looking back at the body.
"Right then: dyed blonde hair; no obvious cause of death except for these speckles, whatever they are." John gestured to the tiny red marks on the woman's body, but Sherlock merely turned and flounced out of the room. My brother glanced at me.
"Think I vexed him?" he asked.
"His pride, at least," I said, following after the detective.
Later that week, Sherlock peeked at John's laptop screen again as he typed away in the kitchen.
"Oh, for God's sake!" Sherlock exclaimed, his mouth full of toast.
"What?" John said.
"'The Speckled Blonde?'" Sherlock scoffed.
John pursed his lips as Sherlock stalked away.
On another occasion, two little girls came calling and sat together on one of the dining chairs while Sherlock paced in front of the fireplace.
"They wouldn't let us see Granddad when he was dead," one said. "Is that 'cause he'd gone to heaven?"
I couldn't help but wonder how the girls got here, who was letting them read John's blog, and where in the world their parents were.
"People don't really go to heaven when they die," Sherlock replied bluntly. "They're taken to a special room and burned."
The girls looked at each other in distress, eyes growing wide.
"Sherlock..." John breathed reprovingly.
The next day, we followed Lestrade across an open field.
"There was a plane crash in Dusseldorf yesterday. Everyone dead," the Inspector told us.
"Suspected terrorist bomb," Sherlock said dully. "We do watch the news."
"You said, 'boring' and turned over," John accused.
We came to a halt by an abandoned car that had its boot opened. Inside was a body of a man. Not entirely shocking, I had to admit. So far, I'd seen about ten bodies in the trunks of cars since living with Sherlock.
Lestrade peered at a bag of evidence in his hand. "Well, according to the flight details, this man was checked in on board. Inside his coat, he's got a stub from his boarding pass, napkins from the flight, even one of those special biscuits."
I was once again absorbed in my notebook. I'd gotten the character models down, and even had approval from my publishers on the protagonist's curly hair. But I still couldn't decide on names. I was considering 'Millie' for the female character that was technically me, though I refused to think of her as such. John's character had three options: Jacob, Joshua, and Jasper. Meanwhile, I couldn't decide on any candidates for Sherlock.
"Here's his passport stamped in Berlin Airport," Lestrade went on. "So this man should have died in a plane crash in Germany yesterday but instead he's in a car boot in Southwark."
"Lucky escape," John commented sarcastically.
"Any ideas?" Lestrade prompted Sherlock.
Sherlock had taken up the dead man's hand and was examining it with his magnifier. "Eight so far," he said, straightening up. He paused and looked back at the body with a small frown. "Okay, four ideas."
I laughed a small bit and shook my head. Looking at my paper, I wrote the letter S. I decided each of our names might as well start with the same letter. Glancing up, I saw Sherlock now looking at the bag of evidence. The detective furrowed his brow then looked up into the sky.
"Maybe two ideas," he said as a passenger jet flew overhead.
Back at the flat, I came trotting down from my room, my mind rattling. I'd decided to keep the name Millie for the girl character, while John's was now Jasper. Yet still I had nothing for Sherlock. Without the protagonist's name, I couldn't even submit the first volume to my publishers. All the cases we were working were small and not particularly complicated—at least not for Sherlock—but all the same, being constantly out and about with the detective and my brother was putting a damper on my work.
"Scott... no, too modern..." I murmured to myself. "Sebastian? Er, no..."
John was at the living room table, typing away again. He's been working more and more on the blog, documenting even the smallest of cases. I was glad he found something to keep him busy.
As he typed, Sherlock came out of the kitchen. He wore heavy protective gloves and safety glasses. In one hand, he carried a blowtorch, and in the other was a glass container of green liquid. I simultaneously was very curious about what he was doing and not wanting to to know anything about it.
The detective peered at John's screen and grimaced.
"No, no, no, don't mention the unsolved ones," he said indignantly.
"People want to know you're human," John argued.
"Why?" Sherlock said.
"'Cause they're interested," John replied.
"No they're not," Sherlock said. "Why are they?"
John smiled at his laptop. "Look at that," he said, gesturing to the screen. "One thousand, eight hundred and ninety-five."
"Sorry, what?" Sherlock frowned.
"That the counter?" I asked, raising my brows.
The boys seemed to notice me for the first time. John beamed proudly.
"I reset it last night," he explained. "This blog has had nearly two thousand hits in the last eight hours. This is your living, Sherlock—" he turned to look at our flatmate, "—not two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash."
"Two hundred and forty-three," Sherlock corrected sulkily. He fired up the blow torch and put his safety glasses back down before heading back toward the kitchen.
Sherlock seemed to have some mixed feelings about John's blog. On the one hand, we had more cases than ever, even if they were small. The detective wasn't given a moment to get bored for if there wasn't a case going on, there were people ringing the doorbell to beg him to take on theirs. He was quickly becoming an internet sensation.
However, on the other hand, Sherlock was receiving far more attention than he was used to.
At the end of a case, we walked across the stage of a theatre while police officers milled around nearby.
"So, what's this one?" Sherlock prompted my brother. "'Belly Button Murders?'"
"The Navel Treatment?" John suggested.
"Eurgh!" Sherlock exclaimed, looking disgusted.
I chuckled and shook my head. Sherlock shot a glare my way.
"What?" he demanded.
"Nothing at all!" I assured with a cheeky grin.
"What, you're-you're tickled that I'm annoyed, is that it?" Sherlock demanded, pouting slightly.
"It's a part of writing," I said. "Er, comedic writing, specifically."
"Sorry, what?" John frowned at me.
I shrugged and gestured to Sherlock. "You take a character that is adverse to certain things—typically harmless things—and put him face-to-face with them. Er, the shy boy being put in front of a mass of people to deliver a speech. A girl who isn't comfortable with mice but is then put in a situation where she had to hold one."
"Yeah, I'm still lost, Maddie," John replied.
I sighed in slight frustration. "Sherlock doesn't like people, but your blog is getting him a lot of attention."
"Speaking of attention," Lestrade said as he approached us, "there's a lot of press outside."
"Well, they won't be interested in us," Sherlock said.
"Yeah, that was before you were an internet phenomenon," Lestrade said. "A couple of them specifically wanted photographs of you three."
"For God's sake!" Sherlock exclaimed, glaring round at John.
I gripped the yellow scarf around my neck. "Wait, what d'you mean, 'you three?'"
Lestrade clapped a hand on my shoulder. "I mean Sherlock, John, and you, Maxine."
"Why us?" I asked, gesturing between John and myself.
"Well, I do write the blog," John said.
"Okay, well why me?" I folded my arms.
Sherlock chuckled. I shot him a hard look and he shrugged.
"Part of writing, remember?" he said. "You take the socially awkward girl and put her in front of the press."
"You don't want to deal with it anymore than I do!" I retorted. "Can't you just think of a way to get us out of this?"
"Not particularly, no." Sherlock turned and began to head further backstage.
John quirked a small smile at me as we followed after him. I smacked his arm with the back of my hand.
"What was that for?" he asked.
"Making us go viral," I replied tightly. "You know I hate strangers."
"They just want some photos, what harm could that be?" John said.
Ahead of us, Sherlock paused by a costume rack just inside a dressing room. He reached inside and snagged a few hats. He tossed a cap at John and me, his expression determined. He was acting like we were trying to avoid being killed, not avoid getting our picture taken.
"John, Max, cover your faces and walk fast," he ordered.
"Still, it's good for the public image, a big case like this," Lestrade commented.
"I'm a private detective," Sherlock replied irritably. "The last thing I need is a public image."
He pushed the third hat over his curly hair. It was a deerstalker and the look oddly worked for him. I looked at the stocking cap he'd given me and let out a long breath through my nose. Sherlock was right; it wasn't a good idea for other people to know our true identities, mainly for future cases. I bent down to tip my hair into the hat in order to hide all of it. My ginger locks weren't exactly inconspicuous. When I straightened up, I covered the lower half of my face with my scarf.
Sherlock nodded at me approvingly as John shoved the baseball cap on his head down a small bit. The three of us headed out the exit door at a swift pace. Lestrade had been right: the press was indeed waiting for us. They instantly began snapping photos and asking questions. So many of them were speaking at once, it was almost impossible to understand what each of them were saying.
The detective ignored all of them. John and I followed his example, though John made sure to smile apologetically at the people we were hurrying by. My heart was pounding, but it wasn't in the exhilarating way that I craved from danger—it was jittery and uncomfortable; anxious. I wanted to yell at the people who were trying to get too close and all the flashing lights of the cameras.
We managed to get by the throng of reporters and into a waiting cab. I practically shoved Sherlock aside as I scooted in after him. John slammed the door behind him as he took his spot on my other side and let out a bewildered breath.
"Wow," he said. "Quite a lot of them."
Sherlock and I shot him scathing looks.
John shrugged and set his eyes on me. "Why're you cross with me?" he said indignantly. "You were teasing Sherlock earlier."
"I was," I admitted. "But that was before I realized this was going to annoy me as well."
Sherlock scoffed irritably before leaning toward the cabbie. "221 Baker Street, please," he said. He then turned toward me. "So it's all right for you to make fun when it doesn't affect you, is that it? Did I get it right?"
I shrugged. "Isn't that how all making fun works?"
Sherlock gave an amending shrug.
"I suppose we'll be getting more business, though," I said.
"You're welcome," John said.
I swatted his arm with the back of my hand, earning me a cry of protest from him.
Later that week, the newspapers carried articles featuring some hastily snapped photos of the three of us. The headlines varied quite a bit. A few that I noticed were: Sherlock Net 'Tec,', Sherlock, John, and Maxine: blogger detectives, Sherlock Holmes: net phenomenon, Trio of Truth-seekers: the self-declared detectives of London.
Glancing through the articles showed me that all the information any of the reporters had on us was from John's blog. They sited it often and enjoyed using direct quotes from it. I peered at one article when it mentioned me—something that didn't happen too often.
"'My sister has always been quiet and clever, and living with Sherlock has allowed her to finally start being more open—not only with Sherlock and me, but to just about anyone she meets. She's like a different person when we're on a case: someone who is fierce and ready for anything,' says John Watson in his blog 'The Blind Banker.'
When reading other parts of his blog, we find that John often notes how much Maxine Watson (his sister) has come out of her shell, so to speak, thanks to Sherlock Holmes. 'The Blind Baker' actually notates how she and Holmes pretended to date in order to further their investigation in a case. This writer is quite curious if perhaps there are any true feelings between the two and what it could mean for the trio of crime-fighters."
I blinked rapidly at the paper and pursed my lips as heat rose in my face. I had read John's take on our second extensive case—The Blind Banker—and he did indeed mention how Sherlock and I acted as a couple but he didn't mention it was to ire Sebastian. Perhaps because Sebastian might read the blog one day and never offer us a case again. (He had paid quite a lot.)
I shouldn't be at all surprised that people would gossip; romance was something the public was always interested in when it came to celebrities. Since John and I obviously couldn't "hook up," it left the ideal pairing to be between Sherlock and me—unless people saw John and Sherlock as a couple (and a surprising amount of people did).
"What?"
Sherlock's voice startled me. I looked up to see he had come in from the kitchen. It was early and he was in a silk robe over his dressing gown. A steaming mug of tea was in each of his hands and he set one on the coffee table in front of me while still staring at my face.
"You look like you might be ill," he said.
"No! No, no, no, not at all," I said quickly, folding the paper in half and already formulating a plan to destroy it at my earliest convenience. "Cheers." I nodded to the tea.
Sherlock shrugged. "John would get one too if he wasn't off in Dublin."
I leaned back in my seat and grinned a little at my flatmate. "Miss him, do you?"
"What would give you that idea?" Sherlock replied before abruptly changing the subject. "What does the latest article say about our lives?" He reached for the paper in my hand.
"Nothing!" I squeaked, jerking it out of his reach.
Sherlock raised his brows at me.
I shoved the paper under my leg on the side that Sherlock wasn't sitting by. "It-it would just annoy you," I stammered, reaching out and taking up my mug of tea. "Y-you know, I really should make some royal milk tea for us one morning. Mm. It's very, er, very soothing."
Sherlock continued to stare at me suspiciously. His pale green eyes were surprisingly piercing; I felt inexplicably vulnerable.
"Any appointments today?" I queried, hoping to distract him as I set my tea back down on the table.
"Not scheduled, but I'm sure some strays will come in from the rain," Sherlock murmured. His eyes flicked between mine and my leg. He seemed to be weighing something in his head. Slowly, he too put his tea on the coffee table.
"Sherlock," I said warningly.
"What?" he replied innocently.
"I will flip you," I told him. "Like an omelet."
Sherlock scoffed, looking a bit insulted. "You would? You could?"
"Of course I could," I said, narrowing my eyes at him.
We stared at one another for a few more seconds, then Sherlock moved. He lunged across me while keeping one arm up protectively while his other reached for the paper. I quickly grabbed his shielding arm and twisted my body around toward him. Since his torso had practically been in my lap, he lost his balance and slid off the sofa while I got to my feet.
Being careful not to do any actual damage to the detective, I pulled his arm down and to the side so that he flipped over and landed on his back. I kept his arm in my grasp and planted a foot on his shoulder to keep him in place, my hands tight around his wrist to cause pain if necessary.
Sherlock let out a huff, his eyes wide in surprise. He looked up at me with his mouth slightly open before the calmness returned to his face and he relaxed against my hold.
"Must be quite the interesting read for you to go through this much trouble," he said.
"Right now it's just about making a point," I replied with a shrug.
"Well, I've never been on the receiving end of your... Aikido. So I suppose now I know how much of an asset you are on cases," Sherlock grunted.
I grinned and he grinned back, but his smile was much more wicked.
Just as my face fell, he burst upward with surprising speed and strength. I yelped as I was sent falling back onto the sofa, unprepared for his retaliation. He twisted his hand free of my grasp and was back on his feet. I tried to get off the sofa, but before I could move, he sat on me. He actually sat on my lower stomach and thighs to keep me in place.
"Are you joking?" I groaned, trying to push him off.
"Mm, you're almost as comfortable as the sofa," Sherlock noted casually, grabbing my wrists. "Is this paper really worth that much to you?"
Yes, I thought wearily. I didn't know what Sherlock's reaction would be to that article—what he would say about a proposed romance between us. If he reacted positively, I was certain I'd be too terrified to even be in the same room as him. But if he reacted negatively... if he said there was no way in hell that something of the sort could ever happen...
No matter what, his reaction was not something I wanted to see.
"It-it's embarrassing," I finally admitted. "They... they mentioned me in it. It just... I dunno, it's just really..."
Sherlock's expression changed. He went from being smug to concerned and confused. He tilted his head at me.
"What did they say?" he said, almost in a demanding tone. "Were they insulting?"
"N-no," I stammered. "I... it's just things that..."
Sherlock frowned, his grip on my wrists loosening. "Anything negative would be slander," he said. "You have to know that. You do know that, right?" He was speaking softly now.
My heart hammered in my chest. I felt like I was... floating. Floating despite Sherlock sitting on me. I blinked rapidly and nodded.
"Of course," I whispered. "I mean, no, I don't, but... they just mention that I've, uh, come out of my shell a bit. You know, since... since doing cases with you. I suppose I just never noticed how reclusive I was before."
Sherlock sighed and shook his head. "There's nothing wrong with enjoying your own company. I think it speaks of strength."
"You... you helped, you know," I murmured to him. "This... me being more comfortable. Not just with other people but with myself."
Sherlock peered at me, his brows raised. "Really? How?"
I laughed and shook my head. "I honestly don't really know. I just... meeting someone so much like myself, I suppose?"
Sherlock smiled, but he was staring off toward the fireplace. He bit his lip and then met my eyes again.
"I've enjoyed meeting someone like myself as well," he murmured.
Something warm swelled inside my chest—elation. I blinked a few times, uncertain of what to say or do about the feelings bouncing around in my head. Then, Sherlock got off of me. He glanced back at me and offered a hand. I narrowed my eyes, suddenly suspicious.
"Oh, please," he scoffed. "You can keep your silly article to yourself. Clearly it means a lot to you."
I hesitated a moment longer before taking his hand and letting him pull me back into a sitting position. I grabbed the paper and crumpled it up into a ball as the detective plopped back down next to me.
"You're... stronger than I expected," Sherlock said. "Your small frame doesn't give any warning to how hard you can... what did you call it? Flip someone like an omelet?"
I shrugged. "People underestimating me is one of my weapons," I replied with a grin.
Sherlock considered me for a moment. "I box," he said. "Well, I did."
"I can tell," I told him. "The stance it quite distinct."
"We could spar at some point, if you like," he said, adverting his gaze to sip his tea. "It is wise to keep in practice."
I let out a small chuckle and shook my head. "Can you imagine the look on John's face if he came home to that?"
"He'd probably be concerned that I'd hurt you," Sherlock mused.
"You hurt me?" I shot him a look. "You punch things. I was trained as an assassin, I'll have you know."
"An assassin who never actually fought anyone until she met me." Sherlock smirked back.
I rolled my eyes and got to my feet, taking the crumpled up ball of newspaper with me. "I fought Miyako. That was probably more than enough," I muttered as I went over to the fireplace.
Inside, there was a modest fire crackling. I knelt down before it and tossed in the paper. Watching it burn, my chest tightened. I missed my old teacher. I couldn't help but wonder how she was... or if she was even still alive. I pursed my lips and glanced back at Sherlock.
"Silas," I said.
Sherlock blinked. "Sorry, what?"
"That's the name of the main character," I said. "In the new manga. Silas. He's a detective that deals with the supernatural beings of the world with his comrades Jasper and Millie."
"All of those name have L or R in them," Sherlock pointed out, half-laughing.
"Yes, but not both and right next to each other," I replied. "It'll be fine. They can handle those ones. There's plenty of anime out there with names containing those letters. Eren Yeager. Ciel Phantomhive."
"Ciel what?" Sherlock laughed.
I waved him off. "Silas Hughes and his sidekicks: Jasper and Millie Wood."
"Fighting... what? Vampires in 19th century London?" Sherlock perked a brow.
"Well, sometimes." I got to my feet and started back toward the couch. Werewolves too. And Fae. And Demons. And—"
"Right, I think I get the picture," Sherlock interjected, holding up a hand to stop me.
I shrugged and plopped down beside him. "What d'you think he'll do next?"
"Who?" Sherlock sipped his tea.
I glanced at him meaningfully, knowing full well he knew who I meant.
Sherlock let out a long breath as he lowered his mug. "Honestly? No idea. That makes it exciting, don't you think?" He grinned at me.
I couldn't help but grin back.