Chapter 27: Clichés and Blanket Burritos.

Kayla, I know what you've been doing.

You've been telling people about yourself.

Naughty, naughty girl.

I'm afraid that I can't allow you to continue.

Tell anyone else and there will be consequences.

You don't want anything to happen to your pet hedgehog, do you?

I'm glad we had this talk.

I returned from Mycroft's apartment feeling... lighter. As if I'd been carrying a horrible weight on my shoulders that I couldn't carry on my own and I'd removed some of it so that it was more manageable. Which was, I mused, an accurate, if cliché, description.

Back at 221B, Sherlock was who-knows-where and John was rather frustrated at the younger man's ability to disappear so easily. Or so I assumed, as he was pouring tea and muttering under his breath about 'vanishing lunatics'. After watching his actions for a moment, I strode over to the violin, picking it up from where it lay and applying rosin to the rather bare bow. Lifting it and resting it over my shoulder, I positioned my fingers on the strings and began to play a rather jaunty tune, one that would be rather suited to playing whilst a grand chase was on.

I played the same song twice, three times, four times and John had taken a seat in the couch and was tapping his fingers to the beat, five times and I improvised a melody for after it, doubling the length, six times, seven ti-

I felt a vibration in my pocket, then another, then another, then another and two more. I slowly removed the violin from under my chin and placed it gently back into its case. John put aside his tea and stood up, moving to stand beside me. Switching on my phone, my eyes darted over the messages and I passed the phone to John.

He seemed unperturbed by the threats to his well-being and more worried about the fact that somebody knew that he knew about me.

"When Sherlock comes back from wherever he's gone, you two can search for new cameras. Until then," he continued, deciding it best to not overly discuss the matter, "I shall drink my tea."

My mind appeared to be slightly more aired - as if me opening up had opened it up as well, as if my perception of my relationship with the people around me had has a large affect on my mentality. Ignoring this stream of thoughts, I created a cork board in my main room, titling it 'What They've Been Told'. Sherlock: Moriarty. John: Moriarty, that I'm not all human. Mycroft: Being, Sherlock. I couldn't mess up, not when so much could be at stake. John was at stake and with him, Sherlock. With Sherlock, myself and Mycroft. We were at a distinct disadvantage just because of our care for those we were close to.

Having completed my purpose - organisation from the chaos - I reached out, feeling for someone, anyone. I reached fog, just as I always had since he fell. I retreated from my mind, having expected the outcome.

I fell back on the bed and, listening out for Sherlock's arrival, became a blanket burrito.

Edit: 25.2.16

This chapter is still very short. Me having written it on my phone was a valid excuse then, but that is no longer true. Yay for you!

- Little