Chapter 20: The Knocks At The Door

I awoke to the sound of violin music. William Tell's Overture, as I could recall. Rather simplistic, but nice. Getting out of bed awkwardly, I padded over to the cupboard that had the few clothes we had managed to get possession of. I sighed, resigning myself to the fact that I'd have to get used to putting trousers on one-armed. Getting them off was fine – you just had to stand on the bottom of them then walk around. I poked and prodded at the jeans on the floor then stood in each of the leg-holes, going on tip-toes. I pulled them upwards, wriggling as I tried to get them all the way up. Looking down at my nightdress, I sighed and flopped my head back. Welcome to mornings.

Fifteen minutes later, I exited my room with my arm still stuck inside my long-sleeved T-shirt I'd decided to wear due to the colder weather and a hairbrush in my other hand. Rolling my eyes at Sherlock, who was attempting to hide a smirk, I passed the hair-styling implement to John, who folded his newspaper up and placed down his coffee before brushing my hair. When I'd asked him how he'd retained this ability a few days before, he'd replied that he used to brush Harry's hair before she cut most of it off. In any case, I was grateful that at least one of us was able to style hair, otherwise I'd walk around looking like Hermione. Giving a appreciative smile to John, I made myself breakfast and mourned the fact that I couldn't stomach cereal in the morning.

After he'd finished the big climax of his piece, Sherlock had flung himself back on his chair and begun muttering 'bored' over and over and over again. I tried to block it out.

The rest of the morning passed as expected. John read his newspaper and blogged, Sherlock fiddled with various objects - including but not limited to his violin, nicotine patches, his phone, his laptop, John's laptop, a mug, a handball and John's gun, which was immediately taken away from him by aforementioned army doctor – and I scribbled a piano-key layout onto a piece of paper and practised the few pieces I knew. However, the as-peaceful-as-you-can-get-with-Sherlock-Holmes peace was shattered by knocks at the door. Three hard, sharp, purposeful knocks.

My mind immediately flew to the box on the mantelpiece. Kayla knew whoever was at the door. She was one of her mother's friends, a secretive alcoholic at night that spent her days maintaining her social image. Divorced twice, no children and both former husbands had left to go overseas. Kayla disliked her extremely, to say the least. And from what I'd glimpsed through the peek-hole on the lid, I wouldn't like her much either.

John stood warily and opened the door to let the woman in. My eyes immediately flickered over her, as Sherlock's most likely were. Had been at a social gathering the night before, heavy makeup underneath her eyes to hide the shadows. Had been sending an email to someone before she'd got here – there was a dent in the skin of her arm, most likely caused by the rim of a desk. Probably a new affair, going by the pin in her auburn curls. Then my eyes fell to the papers in her manicured hand. Oh, no. No way.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked in a bored tone. But I knew better. He was worried.

"Oh!" she said in a faked high-pitched voice, "I'm here to pick up Kayla." She gave a sickening smile.

"Excuse me- what?" John asked, flustered and caught unawares.

"You weren't informed?" she responded in a falsely concerned tone.

"No, we weren't informed that one of Kayla's mother's close friends had manipulated one of the people in social services into thinking that her temporary guardians were unfit and that the child should be moved into your gracious care until they were able to find a suitable family for her. Neither were we told that you would be visiting today, expecting us to simply hand her over," Sherlock said rapidly, standing up and smoothing his shirt.

"It doesn't matter anyway - I'm not going!" I refused, folding my arms in my determination. It likely didn't have the desired effect.

"I'm sorry, baby, but you have to," she said with a pout, leaning down to my level. I jerked backwards, a disgusted look on my face. Who did she think she was?!

"Says what?" John asked, putting a hand on my shoulder.

"Says this," she said, holding up the papers. She then turned them towards herself and began reading them.

"'As we have decided to examine the backgrounds of the current caregivers of one Kayla Robinson, female, age ten, we hereby give temporary custody to one Leilani Excelon, female, age thirty-one, until a time at which we have declared John Watson, male, age thirty-eight, and his flat sharer Sherlock Holmes, male, age twenty-nine, fit for their role as Kayla's guardians,'" she said.

"Well, wasn't that interesting," she said in a falsely excited tone.

"Uh, no," I said truthfully. The only thing I'd learnt from those papers was her name.

"Oh! I missed a bit," Leilani said in a falsely apologetic tone, "'Should the occupants of 221B refuse to act upon the criteria listed above, they will be immediately judged as unfit guardians and Kayla Robinson will be removed permanently.'"

"What?!" I shouted, scandalised. So we couldn't do anything. There was nothing we could do to stop this. My mind briefly pondered upon the fact that I had started referring to Sherlock, John and I as 'we' but soon returned to the situation at hand.

"Well you wouldn't understand it, would you, sweetheart? It means that I'm going to be taking care of you until they're," she gestured at Sherlock and John, "seen as safe to be around. And if they don't do what this paper says, then you'll be staying with me!" she said with fabricated enthusiasm.

"Of course she understood it, she's much smarter than you take her for," Sherlock snapped. My gaze was drawn to John, who appeared to be texting someone, a furious expression on his face. Mycroft. Of course. He'd be able to fix this.

"I'm sure she is," Leilani said, a small smirk on her face, "now why don't you go get your stuff?" She waved her hand in the direction of the door and I stormed out, refusing to be in her presence any longer.

If only she knew, I thought furiously, tossing my few clothes into a backpack with my free arm, If only she knew what I could do to her! I'm not a child, I'm smarter than she will ever be! The nerve.

As I threw my meagre belongings into the backpack, I listened on to the conversation - well, argument – that was happening downstairs. As far as I could tell, Sherlock was deducing the devil out of little miss Leilani while John attempted to not shoot her. I face-palmed. This was not helping their case.

Fifteen minutes later, I was in Leilani's boyfriend's car and we were on our way to her flat, which was on the other side of Bart's. I'd not said anything since I went downstairs to see Sherlock sawing at his violin, playing an allegro fortissimo piece my brother had only played when he was angry and John replying stiffly to the small talk Leilani was attempting to make. As soon as we'd gotten into the car, I'd retreated into my mind palace to review my deductions about Mycroft. After ten minutes of not getting anywhere due to Leilani's constant chattering, I was reduced to imagining how many ways I could murder someone and get away with it. Needless to say, I was not having fun.

Edit: 25.2.16