TheMeddler: Thanks XD And alright; if you want John to join Sherlock for Christmas, he'll be there (Only not just yet =P)
GI06: Wow, thanks :D And yes, I will definitely continue; the next chapter is half done (was going to be put in this one, but that would have made it just too long ;))
I didn't know where I was going. I just wanted out. Out of that house, out of the grounds.
I couldn't leave the grounds – the only way in or out is with a four digit access code, which nobody's told me – and so I headed into the furthest maze, slamming the door open and stalking through the hedges. It was easier finding my way around this time, thanks to the footprints I left in the snow.
I don't know how long it took me to get to the middle. I'd never done it before, and when I finally made it I was surprised to see what was there: a small circular garden, now mostly buried under the snow. There was a white gazebo at one end, several bare trees around the edges and some digging at a nearby smooth and sunken area of snow revealed a two foot moat around it, now frozen solid. It was probably a nice place in the summer.
I sat down in the gazebo and stared at nothing, mind in a whirl. I wondered if Sherlock had arrived yet. I hadn't heard anything to say he was or wasn't coming; Mrs Holmes hadn't been on the phone again, not since that first call. I knew she hadn't because I'd been listening in. I still wasn't holding out a whole lot of hope that he'd be friendlier than his brother, but at least he'd be a new face. Not many people visit the Holmeses. Mrs Holmes has a circle of friends who come over once a week, but none of them want anything to do with me.
I've no idea how much time passed before I decided to move, and even then it was only because snow had started falling again in huge, feathery clumps, and I wanted to get back to the house before it got too heavy.
I stood up, headed out of the gazebo toward the exit and very nearly walked smack into Mycroft and his umbrella (they're inseparable; I've never seen him without it, even on sunny days).
It was such a shock to see him standing and blocking the way out when I'd been positive I was alone that I fell back a few paces, heart suddenly pounding.
"How did you get here?" I demanded.
"I walked." He stared at me, face coldly impassive. Now that I thought about it, I'd never seen him show any emotion.
Walked? That was impossible; the ground was covered with snow. And not just any snow, but the squeaky, crunchy kind. I'd been listening hard and I'd never heard anything that could come close to a footstep.
"Well, I didn't hear you," I muttered.
"You weren't supposed to."
The way he said it sent an odd shiver down my spine, as though he could simply turn the sound of his own footsteps on and off at will. I wasn't afraid of him, not in the sense of him doing something to me now that we were alone, but his calmness unnerved me a little. He wasn't supposed to be calm! He was supposed to be angry, or upset, or guilty, or...or something!
"How long have you been there?"
"Since you started digging in the snow. You really did take the long way to the center, although I suppose that's not surprising."
I stared at him. I wasn't sure how long I'd been sitting in the gazebo, but the thought of Mycroft just standing there watching me and waiting for me to move sent another chill down my spine.
For some reason, the only thing I could think of to say to him was, "You mean you know your way through the maze?"
"Naturally. It was me who designed it."
Oh. My heart sank. Like an idiot, I hadn't thought about that.
"What do you want?" I demanded. I fought to keep my voice steady, although I'm not sure I managed it.
Mycroft gave a restrained sigh. "What do you think?"
"I think if you don't get outta my way, you're gonna regret it!" I said, as boldly as I could manage.
He raised his eyebrows. "Is that supposed to be a threat?"
His voice was odd, I remembered thinking later. There was no shock, no anger, no fear, no mockery; nothing, in fact, besides interest.
"Yep," I told him, although I had no idea what I was threatening him with. I'm tall for my age – I've managed to bluff my way into 15-rated films before now, even though my fourteenth birthday isn't until January – but I've never fought with anyone before and I didn't think Mycroft was a good person to start on. Besides, if he decided he didn't want to move out of the way, what could I do about it? Pelt him with snowballs?
"I see. You realize, of course, that the last person who attempted to threaten me spent the last few minutes of his life trying to learn how to breathe through a pair of punctured lungs."
I opened my mouth to protest this, caught sight of his expression and felt the words freeze in my throat. Mycroft's face hadn't changed from its normal mask, but somehow I knew he was serious. He wasn't challenging me or playing a game. I don't even think he said it to try and frighten me. He was simply stating a fact.
I licked my lips and said in a much quieter voice, "Let me out. Please."
"Not yet."
"I'm not going to apologize, if that's what you want." I said it half to him, half to my feet. Face to face, I was rapidly learning that Mycroft was a very difficult man to defy.
"I'm not in the least bit interested in your apologies. I'm waiting for an explanation."
"You went into my laptop! You went through it and you deleted everything!"
"No I didn't." Still no emotion, just another mechanical statement of fact.
"You're lying," I said, although even I could hear that I didn't sound certain. He didn't look like he was lying.
"Am I? Why?" When I didn't answer right away, Mycroft asked, "Do you think I'm afraid of you?"
I blinked, surprised. I don't know why, but seeing Mycroft standing there in the snow, it was very hard to imagine him being afraid of anything.
"No," I said.
"Then why would I deny it? Oh, I deleted those games of yours, yes, but beyond that I've not the least interest in what you keep on your hard drive. Some kind of pointless websites and files, I imagine."
"And pictures." I glared at him as I said this, still not wholly convinced of his innocence.
"Really?" Mycroft didn't look at me, being more interested in knocking snow off the hedge with his umbrella. "What sort of pictures?"
"Photos. Of my family. Photos you deleted!"
That got his attention; he glanced around sharply.
"Ah. No wonder you were so emotional."
I didn't answer, just kept glaring at him, gritting my teeth so hard it hurt. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing how badly he'd upset me.
"This may seem strange to you, Benedict, particularly in the light of what you've just done, but I don't have any desire to hurt you, either physically or emotionally. Yes, I went into your laptop and yes, I deleted your game files. But I never touched your photographs."
He didn't speak with any hint of smugness or mockery; just with a kind of simplicity that made it very hard to disbelieve him.
"Well, if you didn't do it, then who did?" I demanded.
"A very good question, Benedict. It's a pity you didn't stop to ask yourself that before you threw the tea in my face."
I stared at him. I couldn't think of anything to say; if he admitted to deleting my games, why not the photographs? Like he said, he couldn't really be afraid of anything I would say or do. All at once, I wanted out of this conversation. Slowly, never taking my eyes off him, I edged nearer to the gap in the hedge.
"Go on, if you want to," Mycroft told me, pulling out his phone. "I'm not going to come after you. I have far better things to do with my time."
He turned away and I walked past him with as much dignity as I could muster. Part of me wanted to run, although I didn't know why and I wasn't about to give Mycroft the satisfaction of knowing he'd rattled me. If only he hadn't been so quiet.
I followed his tracks back through the maze and saw Mycroft's car idling outside. There was no sign of the driver; he must have driven down himself. Funny. I didn't think a Holmes would do anything as inconvenient as drive their own car.
A sudden impulse came on me. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Mycroft was nowhere to be seen, then rummaged in the snow until I found a stone. Looking around, ready to drop the stone and run at the first sign of a witness, I dug it into the side of his car and dragged it along, scratching the paintwork.
There. He'd deleted my games and probably my photos as well. I'd scratched that precious car of his. We were quits now.
I stared at the ugly scratch in the paintwork and suddenly felt afraid of what I'd done. Dropping the rock, I turned and broke into a run and didn't stop until I was back at the house and in my room. Given the size of the grounds and the fact that my bedroom's on the third floor, this wasn't as easy as it sounds.
I yanked off my shoes (no trainers, not for a Holmes boy, just shoes) and threw them at the door, then hurled myself on my bed to think. It didn't seem possible that Mycroft could be telling the truth about deleting my photos, especially given the fact that he admitted getting rid of my games. But then, as he'd said himself, why would he lie?
A few minutes later, I still couldn't figure it out and for want of something better to do, I grabbed my laptop and loaded my iTunes. At least Mycroft hadn't deleted that. Probably someone as old-fashioned as him didn't even know what it was. I plugged in my headphones, set the songs on random and slumped back on my bed to listen to Eminem.
I didn't go down for dinner, despite Mrs Holmes calling me. Instead I just turned the volume up on my headphones, lay there and waited until she shut up. I was starving – I hadn't eaten since breakfast – but I couldn't face her just then. Couldn't face the stupid lecture about good behavior I knew she was saving up for me, and really couldn't face being forced to apologize to Mycroft.
In spite of the sound blasting down my headphones, I somehow managed to fall asleep.
When I woke up, I was in the maze.
It wasn't Mycroft's; his maze is always kept in immaculate condition by the gardeners, the hedges trimmed weekly to keep them neat. The hedges in this maze towered above me, tall, dark and forbidding.
Panic shot through me and I stared around, my heart suddenly hammering in my throat. Not again. Not here.
I've always had a problem with sleepwalking, one I don't like to talk about. The first time was when my dad was killed, although it hadn't lasted long. The second was on my third night in my foster home (no, nothing happened; I don't know why it started then). That had stopped after about a month and I hadn't done it since, not until now.
Had I left the door to the maze open? Possibly, but I had no idea where I was, much less how to get back. Why had I sleepwalked here anyway? It didn't make any sense.
I stumbled forward, trying not to wince as the snow bit into my bare feet, and did my best to follow my own footprints back. Snow was coming down thick and fast and I was freezing, my body so cold it hurt to move.
It was useless. The snow was falling too quickly, filling in the tracks I'd left. I made it around two corners and through one passage before I ran out of footprints. I kept trying, though. Kept shuffling on, taking turns completely at random in the crazy hope that one of them would lead me out. Deep down, I think I knew that there was no way I would get out of this maze before freezing to death, not unless I could somehow get help from outside.
I slowed as I reached a dead end, then drew in a long breath which burned my throat, and let it out in a scream. Not something I usually do but I was desperate and yelling words would have been a lot harder.
I turned around, thinking I'd keep searching for the exit, but my foot came down on a particularly icy patch and I slipped, tumbling sideways into a snowdrift. Getting up seemed like far too much effort and so I just lay there, waiting. The snow was soft, gentle and my body was numb enough that the cold wasn't such a problem. I'd get up in a minute, I told myself. Just another minute...
I don't know how long I was there, drifting in the cold and the haze. I was vaguely aware that I'd stopped shivering at some point. I didn't know if that was a good sign or not. Somehow it didn't seem important anymore.
A sudden noise woke my mind up a little. I tried to place it, but couldn't. Never mind. Too tired. Couldn't be important.
Seconds passed, then all of a sudden I felt hands on me, but distantly. Someone was turning my head to the side and supporting it from underneath, lifting it very slightly. Two fingers were placed on my neck and I winced; in my frozen state, it felt like they were burning.
A voice. Deep, distant, underwater. Talking nonsense and talking it too slowly. The last thing I was aware of was being lifted into the air, then everything faded around me.
When I woke up, it was like swimming up through a vat of treacle. I was lying on something hard, and someone had wrapped several layers of blankets around me, along with bundling me in a very long coat. It was soft, and I was warm, but something didn't feel right.
I glanced around, trying to work out where I was and failing. It was small, open plan and cozy (mostly thanks to the fire that was going). An old looking couch was in front of a large, boxy TV and several photographs were scattered around on various shelves that had been fixed onto the walls. I couldn't make out any of the people in them, but I probably wouldn't have recognized them if I had.
"Oh good. You're finally awake. It's about time."
Deep voice. Cultured. Vaguely familiar. I could understand what it was saying this time, although it still sounded muffled.
I stared at the speaker, who was sitting in front of the fire working on his mobile and looking completely at ease in his surroundings. Tall. Dark hair. Cold eyes.
"Whass...time?" I managed. My voice was slurred and I swallowed, working my jaw.
"Five past nine. You've been out for about an hour."
I coughed several times, took a few deep breaths and tried again.
"Do you work here?" I asked, a little more clearly. That was all I could think of, that he was one of the gardeners who had decided to take a late evening stroll and heard me. It would also explain why I thought I'd heard his voice before.
He looked a little amused at the question. "No."
I waited, but he didn't say any more. Maybe he was a burglar?
"If you let me go, I won't tell anyone you were here," I tried. "You can just slip out. I can show you a back way out so no one'll see you." I couldn't – the Holmes estate is walled up like Fort Knox – but he didn't know that.
"Mm. Very tempting, but I would probably be missed."
We spent a few minutes in silence, me lying on the table and feeling awkward, him beeping on his mobile phone.
"Where am I?" I asked, when I couldn't stand the quiet any longer.
"You're in the gardener's cottage. I prefer staying here to being up at the house, so I gave him and his family some spending money and moved them out for two weeks."
I frowned, trying to make sense of this. "Where?"
"A five star hotel in town. Nice place, I've been there a time or two myself."
I shifted my weight, glancing around. I'd never been in any of the staff quarters – that's apparently a big no-no, and I wasn't all that interested in seeing them anyway – so I had no way of knowing if this stranger was telling the truth or not.
"How did I get down here?" I asked.
"I was out for an evening walk and I heard you screaming. Found you half dead with hypothermia in a corner of my maze and brought you back here."
And that was that. He might just as well have been talking about going to the supermarket for all the emotion he showed.
"Shouldn't I be in hospital?" It took a little effort to get the last word out without slurring it into incoherency, but a lot of concentration on my part did the trick.
"Hypothermia's not that difficult to treat, so long as you know what you're doing. I got some advice from a friend of mine. From what I can see you've managed to avoid frostbite, though I'm not sure how. You're awake and talking, which is more than you were when I found you, so that's a good sign. We'll see how you are in the morning. If you're no better than you are now or if you take a turn for the worse during the night, I'll call an ambulance."
I frowned, trying to bully my fragile mind into telling me where I'd heard this man's voice before.
"Do I know you?" I asked. I already knew the answer was no – I was sure I'd remember meeting him – but it seemed the politest way of saying that I didn't have a clue who he was.
"You eavesdropped on my phone call last week. And we have seen each other once before, although it's hardly surprising you've forgotten since you were trying to drown my dear brother in tea at the time."
It took my still muggy brain a few minutes to put this all together, then the answer hit me and I stared at him.
"You're—" what was his name?— "Sherlock? You're my other brother?"
"So I've been informed," Sherlock answered, not bothering to look up from what he was doing.
It made sense. Who else but a Holmes would commandeer someone's home for two weeks and move them out into a hotel, just to suit themselves? Though having said that, I don't think the gardener put up much of a fight; if it came down to a choice between spending Christmas and New Year here, or in a five star hotel with some spending money, I know which one I'd pick.
"But..." I began, then hesitated.
"But?" he prompted.
"You don't look like Mycroft."
Yeah, I know. It was a stupid thing to say. Blame the hypothermia. Anyway, attitude aside, I really had expected Sherlock to look just like a younger version of his brother.
"Why should I? We're brothers, not twins." Sherlock glanced at me, looked me up and down, and then went back to his phone. "And you're not exactly similar yourself."
"I'm adopted!"
He smiled a little at that. "True."
He was certainly right about my not looking like one of the family though; from what I'd seen, the Holmeses tend towards dark hair, and Sherlock's in particular was dark enough to pass for black in certain lights. My hair is a kind of dirty blonde and always messy. At least, it was until I came here and Mrs Holmes insisted that I get it cut. I didn't actually mind that much; at least now it's not flopping in my eyes and it's a lot easier to look after. I don't even have to brush it.
I half turned over to try and face him, the blankets rubbing against my bare skin. That's what felt strange, I realized with a shock; I was naked. I wasn't sure how I'd imagined my first meeting with Sherlock, but being naked and cocooned in blankets and a long coat on the gardener's kitchen table really hadn't been part of it.
"Where are my clothes?" I demanded.
He raised his chin to indicate something beyond my right shoulder, never taking his eyes off his phone. "Drying. They were soaked right through; I had to get them off you, otherwise you'd have just got worse."
"You...took my clothes off?" I said it slowly, not wanting to believe it.
"Yes."
"My clothes? All my clothes?"
There was an amused look on his face as he replied, "You're a boy, and I'm a man; it's nothing that I haven't seen before."
I gawked at him. "But...I'm naked!"
"Yes, I believe we've established that. Moving on." Snapping his phone closed, he dropped it onto the table and looked at me fully for the first time. "How are you feeling?"
"I want to go back to the house."
He returned to his phone. "Go, then. I'm not stopping you."
"But I'm naked!"
Sherlock jerked his head. "Take my coat."
I glanced down at my bare feet, which were throbbing hard from my little outing in the snow.
"W-what about shoes?" I asked.
"I don't think mine would fit you." He raised his eyebrows. "Of course, you could always do the smart thing and stay here."
No way. I didn't think I was in any danger from Sherlock, but I just wanted to be back in my own room, in my own bed. My body felt light, as though someone else was controlling it, but it couldn't be that far to the house. I was sure I could make it.
I swung both my legs over the table, slid off, and tried to run for the door.
I'd got four steps when my legs buckled and I fell. Or at least, I started to fall; Sherlock caught hold of me before I hit the ground. Acting more on instinct than intention, I grabbed at his arm for support. Instead of the semi-flab I'd been expecting, I felt rock hard muscle. Physically, Sherlock was a lot tougher than he looked.
"Come on. Can you walk?"
I took a step. Big mistake. Hot pain flashed up my ankle and I grabbed at him again, almost pulling him down with me.
"Clearly not." Sherlock sighed, the short sigh of a man faced with an unpleasant task. "Alright."
Before I knew what he was going to do, he'd swung me into his arms and dumped me on the table. Yes, this guy was definitely stronger than he looked.
"Stay there," he ordered, then pulled out his phone and dialed a number. "John, me again. You know that hypothermia I called you about? Well, it seems we now have a bad ankle to add to it...Yes, the little idiot tried to run."
I scowled at him. Idiot was bad enough, but little idiot was uncalled for!
"Look, when are you coming down? I'm bored out of my mind here."
He listened to the reply, then rolled his eyes. "Alright. I suppose that'll have to do, but no later! If I have to sit through another batch of Hail Mycrofts, I think my brain will melt. Just tell me what to do here and you can take over when you arrive...No, I put him on the kitchen table."
I opened my mouth to ask why, but apparently John, whoever he was, beat me to it. Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, "The couch is too low and I dislike kneeling. The kitchen table is the ideal height for me to administer any kind of treatment he might need. Now stop boring me with stupid questions and tell me what I need to do." Another pause, then Sherlock said, "Yes, that's very amusing, John; however, I was speaking with reference to the current situation...Yes...Alright, fine. I'm sure there's some around here I can use. And get down here!"
He ended the call, slipped his phone into his pocket and turned back to me.
"Who's John?" I asked.
"Friend of mine. He's a doctor, and probably the only person who can keep me sane in this place."
He reached out for my ankle. Without knowing why, I drew it back, out of his reach.
Sherlock didn't say anything, didn't do anything apart from look at me and hold out his hand expectantly.
I stared at him, unsure.
"I know what I'm doing, now let me see it."
Hesitantly, I let him take hold of my foot.
"Good. Now, let me know when this starts to hurt."
Face impassive, he began to slowly rotate my ankle.
I don't know why what happened next happened, only that it was a knee-jerk reaction. Maybe it was because I still felt dazed from everything that had happened. Maybe I was a little nervous about being rescued by someone who had stripped me naked and wrapped me in his coat. Whatever it was, the instant I felt a bolt of pain flash up my ankle, my other leg shot out to kick him in the face.
Or tried to, at any rate. Faster than I could follow, Sherlock's hand snapped across and caught hold of my foot in mid-kick.
"Yes, while I do admire your zeal, a simple ouch would have been sufficient," he informed me.
I shifted my weight and muttered, "Sorry."
"No you're not." He let go of me and straightened up, then went and busied himself at the counter. I couldn't see what he was doing; my vision kept fluttering in and out of focus. All I could do was lie there and wait while he put whatever it was in the microwave.
Half a minute later, it dinged and he took out a mug, lifted it to his lips, sipped at it, then nodded and brought it over to me.
"Here." He slid an arm underneath me and pushed me into a sitting position, then handed me the mug. "Drink this. Shouldn't be too hot."
I took a mouthful and grimaced. Hot chocolate. Sherlock was right about it not being too hot, but it was about five times sweeter than I like and I could feel my throat itching. I started to place it on the side, but Sherlock caught hold of it on the way and pushed it back towards me.
"No, drink it all; you're still hypothermic and I don't want you collapsing on me. I'm going to get something for your ankle and I want that mug empty when I get back."
"Why hot chocolate?" I demanded.
"Because you don't like tea. Now shut up and drink."
This was true, although I had no idea how he knew. Had Mycroft or Mrs Holmes emailed him or something?
Sherlock didn't seem inclined to tell me; he just turned and walked away, no doubt to get the 'something' he'd been talking about.
I managed to down half of it before he returned with a roll of bandage and a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a teacloth.
"Have you finished it?"
I took another huge gulp of the too-sweet chocolate. "Almost."
"Almost isn't good enough. Hurry up."
I chugged the rest of it down and set the mug on the side. Sherlock glanced in it.
"Good." He took it and set it out of the way, then reached out for my ankle.
I drew it up to my chest, fast. I didn't want Sherlock messing with it, not if he was going to try the whole rotation thing again. Maybe he'd needed to do it for some kind of medical reason, but that didn't matter. It hurt.
A flicker of irritation passed over his face, although his voice was as even as ever.
"Give it back," he instructed me. "I'm not interested in playing games with you. Or would you rather I go and wake Mycroft, let him deal with this?"
No, I would not. Mycroft was the last person in the world I wanted to see. I didn't think he'd want to help someone who had called him a bastard and thrown tea in his face. I couldn't really blame him.
"That's blackmail," I muttered as I let him examine me again.
"No," Sherlock informed me as he drew my ankle towards him and began wrapping a bandage around it, "it's coercion. It wouldn't be blackmail unless I threatened to tell Mycroft that you were the one who scratched his car with that rock."
I stared at him, uncertain. It had been me, he was right, but...how did he know? More importantly, was he going to tell Mycroft?
"What do you want?" I asked him.
He glanced up at me, surprised. "Want?"
"Not to tell him about it."
He returned to bandaging my ankle. "Oh, the look on my dear brother's face when you threw that tea at him is quite enough payment for me. You needn't worry about any reprisals for that, by the way."
"Why not?" I demanded. Not that I wanted any, but Mycroft had never struck me as the forgiving type.
"Because he thinks I put you up to it. Your timing, incidentally, couldn't have been more perfect; seconds before you came in, Mother had been bragging about how she'd taught you nice manners and good behavior, and how you were finally starting to behave as a member of the Holmes family ought to. I suppose I can't really argue with her, given your apparent penchant for sneaking around and listening in on other people's private phone calls."
I frowned. "Yeah, how did you know I was listening?"
"How do you think?" he answered, not looking over (he was now adding the frozen peas to my ankle).
I thought about it for a few minutes – not easy; my mind was clearing, but still quite fogged over – and then said slowly, "You heard me. I thought I was being quiet—"
"You were. The grandfather clock wasn't. Mother always telephones from downstairs and she always keeps the door closed since she doesn't want the staff knowing her business. The only way I could have heard the clock so distinctly in the background was if someone was listening in on the upstairs extension. The staff aren't allowed to use the family phones without supervision, bit of an archaic rule but there you go, and Mycroft would have no reason at all to eavesdrop. You were the only one it could have been."
I stared at him, my jaw hanging, then said, "Okay, but how did you know I was eavesdropping on her and Mycroft earlier?"
"If you'd picked up the phone to make a call, I would have heard the click. You picked up the phone and waited. You knew she was going to be making a phone call and you knew it was one you wanted to listen in on. The family never discuss me in front of outsiders, so the only possible way you could have known that Mother was going to call me was if you'd heard her talking about it beforehand. Nothing but the drawing room is good enough for brother Mycroft and that has a glass paneled door, so you'd have to hide somewhere if you wanted to eavesdrop as anyone who came along and saw you would blow your cover immediately. So, where can you hide close enough to the door to listen in? Among the pot plants." He finished positioning the peas on my ankle. "There you are; simple."
I stared at him, not sure whether he was referring to his treatment of my ankle or his own deductions.
"You..." I swallowed. "You knew all that just because you didn't hear me pick up the extension?"
"Yes, of course. Obvious."
I kept staring at him, past caring about things like good manners. Who was this guy?
"Can Mycroft do what you just did?" I asked him.
Sherlock's face closed up at the mention of Mycroft.
"A little," he said curtly.
I started to ask him where he'd learned it, but at that point someone rapped hard on the door and I jumped out of my skin instead.
"Who's that?"
Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at the door. "Dinner, I expect. That new cook really isn't up to par – I don't know where my mother got her from – so I made my own arrangements for tonight."
I swallowed, aware for the first time of a certain gnawing pain in my stomach.
"No, I don't mind if you have some as well; they always cook too much for me anyway." Sherlock opened the door, handed some money over to the person on the other side with a, "Thank you, keep the change," took the food and slammed the door shut again. I couldn't see it from my current position, but it smelt wonderful.
"What's that?"
"Pizza Hut. Not really my kind of food to be honest with you, but I couldn't be bothered to drive out and buy something, and they're the only place close enough to deliver." Sherlock turned and deposited a small box and a large bottle of Coke next to me.
My jaw dropped, which wasn't a good thing considering I was in serious danger of drooling. I hadn't tasted pizza for months.
"Did you get any starters? Or dessert?"
"Just pizza. I wasn't expecting company for dinner tonight. You can have the Coke if you want it. I never drink that stuff; they just sent it as some kind of special offer. Be a shame to waste it."
I didn't wait to be asked twice. Coke is another thing a Holmes boy isn't allowed to drink (water, juice, lemonade, ginger beer and squash are all fine, but not Coke. I think Mrs Holmes is stuck in a time warp). Before he had a chance to change his mind, I grabbed the bottle, unscrewed the top and chugged as much of it as I could in one go, then opened the pizza box and dived in.
Sherlock ate elegantly, which isn't easy when you're eating pizza with your fingers, but at least he didn't comment on the way I ate either, although given how I was wolfing it down, even I could admit he had a right to. After having my manners criticized at every single meal, including breakfast, it was a refreshing change.
We ate in silence, but it was a nice silence, not awkward. Sherlock didn't seem inclined to talk, and...well, my mouth was stuffed so full of pizza that I don't think he would have understood me even if I had said something.
It didn't take long to finish the pizza – it was only a small one – and when it was done, Sherlock, to my astonishment, picked up the empty box and took it to the dustbin.
"Don't you have someone to pick up after you?" I asked before I could stop myself. I didn't think a Holmes even knew there was such a thing as a dustbin, let alone what to do with it.
"Yes, but he's still in London. Bit of a trek to come just to throw out an empty pizza box, even by my standards."
His use of the word trek reminded me that I was still a long way from my own bedroom. I couldn't face the walk back up to the house, especially not with my ankle.
"Sherlock?" I stumbled a little over his name. Wasn't anyone in this family called Mark, or Steve, or...or something sane?
He half turned to look at me over his shoulder. "Hm?"
"Can I...is it okay if I sleep here tonight? On the couch?"
"You can sleep where you like," Sherlock answered, "so long as it isn't in my room. Goodnight."
I badly wanted to ask him if he'd help me over to the couch – my ankle was now throbbing with agony – but he'd gone into the bedroom and shut the door before I had the chance.
I took the peas off my ankle and managed to slither off the table onto the floor. Hobbling to the couch took a little more effort, especially since I needed one hand to hold the blankets around me (it's difficult to fix them around your waist when you're balancing on one foot and holding onto pieces of furniture to stay upright; try it sometime). Eventually I made it and half sat, half collapsed onto it, then let myself fall slowly sideways and closed my eyes.
Okay, that's it for this chapter ;) Hope you liked it and if you read, please review!
