Hehe: Thanks, glad you liked it :)

GI06: Thanks XD Yeah...somehow a conventional introduction wouldn't do for Sherlock ;)


"Benedict?"

That hated name again. I muttered something that I bet no one has ever said to a Holmes before and snuggled deeper into the couch. I was in a nice warm place somewhere between sleeping and waking, and I didn't much want to leave it.

"Benedict?"

"Ben," I growled, opening my eyes just enough to glare at the couch.

"Yes, whatever," Sherlock said impatiently. "We've been summoned to the house for dinner."

"Oh. Okay. Have a good time." I buried my face in the couch, pulled my blankets up around my ears and tried to find my warm place again.

I'd barely had time to close my eyes when Sherlock took hold of my blankets and pulled them down to my waist.

"I said we, not I," he told me. "Your clothes should be dry by now and I brought some shoes down this morning."

I yawned. "Don't wanna go to th' house."

"No, neither do I. However, the sooner we go to this dull meal, the sooner it'll be over, so do you think you could try to stop acting like a sulky three year old long enough to get to the dining room? How are you feeling?"

I opened my mouth.

"And don't lie," Sherlock added.

"Tired," I said, glaring at him.

"Besides that."

I frowned a little as I considered it, trying to pin down an answer.

"Okay. But kinda...light. You know, like when you get a cold and you're not really with it."

"Mm. Well, I shouldn't worry; nobody's going to depend on you for witty conversation at the dinner table. Mother's quite capable of holding a discussion by herself, especially when she has darling Mycroft for her subject. Get dressed. How's your ankle?"

"Painful," I answered, which wasn't a lie; it hurt a lot worse than it did last night. "Might have to carry me."

Well, he hadn't seemed too happy about lifting me onto the table last night. Maybe the thought of carrying me all the way up to the house would convince him to leave me behind.

"Mm, no. Thank you for the offer, but I'd really rather drive you."

Or not.

"Are you throwing me out?" I demanded.

"Yes. Now hurry up and get dressed!"

Oh. So much for thinking I'd found a potential friend in this new brother. And yet I hadn't had all these blankets when I'd gone to sleep, so at some point he must have come back and covered me over. Maybe he was just in a bad mood.

"My ankle hurts," I muttered.

"Yes, you said."

No sympathy from him, then. Groaning, I started to sit up.

A monstrous bolt of agony shot up from my ankle and I yelped before I could stop myself. Gently, half afraid of what I was going to see, I pulled the blankets up from around my feet and felt my heart stop.

My ankle was swollen to twice its normal size, like someone had inflated the skin from within. I stared at it, my throat suddenly dry. I'd twisted my ankle before – it happens sometimes when you're playing football – but it had never looked like this.

"Sherlock!" It was a squeak.

Sherlock turned, clearly irritated. "Oh, what now?"

"My ankle..." I swallowed, unable to stop staring at it. "Do you think it's broken?"

Sherlock glanced at my ankle. "Of course it's not broken, or I'd never have been able to rotate it like I did last night. You didn't fall again, did you?"

I shook my head.

"Alright. Looks like I'll have to carry you to the car." Sherlock didn't sound too happy at the thought.

"You could just leave me behind," I hinted.

"If it were up to me, I might consider it. As it is, there's really no point; if I don't bring you up to the house, then Mycroft or one of the staff will. Besides, you've been here all day and you need to eat something."

"I can eat something here," I tried.

"No." Sherlock tossed my trousers at me. "I don't expect you'll be able to put your shoes on with your ankle in that state, but the rest of it shouldn't be too much of a problem."

I tried, but when it came to pulling them on over my ankle, I discovered they wouldn't fit around the swelling.

"Sherlock—" I began.

He glanced at me, took in the situation and picked up a pair of kitchen scissors. I barely had time to blink before he'd come over and cut my trouser leg off at the knee.

"How's that?"

I gawked at him, not quite believing what he'd done. Mrs Holmes had ordered several new outfits brought in when I came along (nice Holmes boys don't wear jeans, apparently)and I'd seen the price tags. The pair Sherlock had just shortened were over two hundred pounds.

"Your mum's gonna kill me!"

"No she won't. She'll be delighted at the thought of being able to take you clothes shopping, though I do appreciate there isn't much to choose between that and a slow, lingering demise. Besides, you didn't cut your trousers; I did. You can just blame me."

I had no intention of doing anything else, but I didn't think it would be a good idea to say so and I pulled my new shorts on. A little searching on Sherlock's part turned up a pair of flip flops that he seemed to think would do for me. I wasn't so sure – they were dirty, two sizes too big and I could just imagine Mrs Holmes' face if I walked into the house wearing them – but I didn't quite have the nerve to say so to Sherlock.

Walking was agony. Even with Sherlock's help, just getting from the couch to the front door drained me and I had to stop for a few seconds before going outside. More snow had fallen (and was still falling) but someone – possibly Sherlock, although I doubted it – had cleared a path to the car.

When we reached the car, I was expecting Sherlock to do something like open the door and toss me inside, and had seized his sleeve in a death grip just in case, but instead he was surprisingly gentle and managed to settle me in the seat without jolting my ankle too much.

The drive back to the house only took five minutes, but it seemed to drag on forever. I wished Sherlock had left me back at the cottage, or at least was taking me back so I could go to bed instead of having to sit through a three course meal. Things got worse when we actually got inside, as Mycroft was standing in the hall and working on something on his phone. He glanced up, frowning as he saw the two of us there. I wanted to hang back, but Sherlock strode forward and pulled me with him, a smile on his face.

"Mycroft, good evening! Ben and I have just been getting acquainted out in the garden."

Mycroft glanced at me, his eyes narrowing slightly as he noticed my ankle and flip flops. He opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock got there first.

"You know, I didn't notice it yesterday, but you're looking well. Very well, in fact. Have you lost weight?"

Mycroft looked astonished, as though he wasn't used to this kind of greeting from Sherlock. "I...yes, in fact."

"Excellent." Sherlock looked down. "So that's...what? Another thirty pounds to go? Splendid."

He clapped the suddenly poker-faced Mycroft on the shoulder and pushed by him, half supporting, half towing me behind.

We'd got as far as the dining room door when Mycroft spoke up.

"Interesting. You realize, of course, that for the boy's ankle to have swollen that much, it would have to have happened some time ago. What have you been doing with yourself, Benedict?"

"Ben," I mumbled to Sherlock's bicep. I wasn't sure enough of Mycroft's nature to speak out loud, but even correcting him under my breath made me feel better.

"And just why are you wearing those?" Mycroft asked, nodding towards the flip flops.

I wasn't sure how to answer that, but luckily I had Sherlock.

"Well, he could hardly go out in all that snow barefoot, could he? Really, Mycroft, show a little common sense!"

Mycroft opened his mouth, hesitated, then shut it again as Sherlock supported me into the dining room. I was glad to sit down; my ankle felt like someone had pushed rusty nails into it. Despite sleeping through the night and most of the day, I was still tired and couldn't do anything except long for the couch in the gardener's cottage. It wasn't a very soft couch, but for some reason I'd slept better there than I had in my own bed.

I didn't think I'd be lucky enough to get it, though. Nor did I think that Sherlock would be kind enough to carry me upstairs to my room; from what I'd seen so far, I thought he'd escape the house as soon as he could and I'd be left to hobble up two flights of stairs as best I could. The banisters were solid; maybe I could hang on one of them as a crutch when the time came.

Sherlock plonked himself down next to me, took a bread roll and dropped another on my plate.

"Eat."

Did anyone in this family ever ask you to do something, or did they just speak in orders? I was too tired to protest, though, and so I just picked up the roll and started nibbling at it.

The food, when it came (roast chicken, vegetables and roast potatoes) was bad. I could have cooked it better. I've no idea how to cook a roast, but I'm sure I could have cooked it better.

The conversation, however, was the best I'd had since arriving here.

"Sherlock, you must have some sprouts."

"I don't eat sprouts."

Mrs Holmes sniffed. "Well, I'm giving you some anyway. Benedict, pass your brother the sprouts."

Sherlock glanced at me. "No, don't bother. I'll just push them aside and then Mother will end up boring everyone at this table with another of her interminable lectures on waste. Mycroft, pass me the bread."

Mycroft smirked a little and made no move to pass his brother anything.

"What's the magic word, Sherlock?"

I watched, fascinated, as Sherlock fixed Mycroft with a dangerous stare and said clearly, "Tisbury Court, last Monday, half past—thank you," he interrupted himself as Mycroft grabbed the bread basket and thrust it at him. Sherlock took two bread rolls, dropped a third on my plate, then tossed the basket carelessly back onto the table.

I looked from one to the other, confused. "What? Why were you in court?" Seeing Mycroft had no intention of answering me, I turned to Sherlock. "Was he in trouble?"

His lips quirked with cool amusement. "In a manner of speaking. Let's just say that your adoptive brother has been a very naughty boy."

"Sherlock!"

"Oh, don't worry, brother dear. I don't tell people's secrets."

"If your people followed me, Sherlock, then you'll know that that wasn't why I went in there. I wanted to meet someone."

"Mm. That is generally why people go to that part of Soho," Sherlock agreed.

I stared at him. I've never been to London, but even I know about Soho.

"What, you mean he was with a—"

"Don't talk with your mouth full, Benedict," Mycroft interrupted, despite the fact that I hadn't touched my food yet. "And no, I wasn't." He stared hard at Sherlock and added, "As you well know, dear brother. No, it was work-related."

Sherlock smirked and didn't answer.

"Mycroft was telling his dear mother how busy he's been at work," Mrs Holmes said sweetly, smiling at the favorite son. "He's had to hire an extra five people just to help him."

"Really?" Sherlock glanced up at Mycroft, who looked very much as though he wanted to gag his dear mother with a fork.

"Yes. I'm sure if you asked him, dear Mycroft could find you a suitable job as well, Sherlock."

"Got too much on." Sherlock fixed his brother with a cold stare. "Besides, I've already had ample experience of dear Mycroft's help. I'm not interested, and I don't know what I have to do to get the message home to him. Throw myself off a building, perhaps? Mycroft?"

To my astonishment, Mycroft actually turned pale.

"Oh, Sherlock, as if your older brother would ever put you in that kind of position! That's the silliest thing I've heard in a long time!"

"Yes." Sherlock now seemed intent on trying to freeze Mycroft with his eyes. "I couldn't agree more."

"Well, if you won't let Mycroft look after you and get you a nice job, don't come to me for any kind of support!"

Sherlock never took his eyes off Mycroft as he answered, "I've never gone to you for any kind of support in my life."

"That's not true, Sherlock, you and your brother have always had my support—"

"No, we've always had your money. There's a difference." Sherlock sloshed water into his empty wine glass, hacked off a piece of chicken, speared it on his fork and dunked it in the glass.

"Sherlock!" Mrs Holmes exclaimed. I couldn't blame her. Even I was shocked.

"What? It's dry as a bone!"

"Which is why we have gravy," Mycroft said with an insincere smile. "Speaking of which, Sherlock, would you pass me some?"

"Certainly, brother dear. One lump or two?"

I choked, and tried very hard not to laugh. I have to admit, I was glad Sherlock had refused to let me stay behind. Even with the pain from my ankle, this was the most fun I'd had in months.

In the silence that followed, Mrs Holmes said something which killed any desire I had to laugh.

"You know, Sherlock, Benedict's very keen to go and work for Mycroft as soon as he finishes Oxford."

"Am I?" I said before I could stop myself. This was the first I'd heard about it, and it wasn't much consolation to see that Mycroft looked just as taken aback. It was bad enough having him dumped on me as an older brother, but a boss? And work in his...his...well, whatever it was? I still wasn't clear on that point, although based on Mycroft's clothes and the way he spoke and acted, I thought he might be some kind of bank manager.

We looked at each other and, for the first time since I'd met him, Mycroft and I were in complete agreement about something, namely that it would be a cold day in hell before I came to work for him.

Sherlock glanced at me and said unsmilingly, "If I were you, I'd run while there's still time."

"Sherlock!" Mrs Holmes rose to her feet and pointed. "Leave the table at once!"

"What for?" Sherlock hooked the vegetable dish with his fork and pulled it towards him, then started piling a selection onto his plate.

"If you think for one moment that I will allow you to disrupt this family meal—"

"You summoned me to this family meal, remember?" Sherlock interrupted through a mouthful of carrots. He washed the food down with a gulp of water, then went on a little more clearly. "It's been a number of years since we last saw each other. I would have thought you'd be a little less judgmental. Pass me the bread, Ben, it's about the only part of this damn meal that's remotely edible."

I passed him the bread obligingly, then offered it to Mycroft, who waved it away, and to Mrs Holmes, who just ignored me.

"I don't know why you got rid of Mrs Wilson, Mother," Sherlock continued. "She may not have been as obsequious as you like your staff, but at least she knew how to cook. Put one of these roast potatoes in a sock and you could hospitalize a man." A thoughtful expression crept into his eyes. "Maybe I'll try it."

"The inside is very nice, Sherlock."

"Yes, I'll have to take your word for that, Mother, since I left my jackhammer in London. You might want to explain to your new cook the difference between crisp and crunchy at some point." Sherlock finished the bread and grabbed another piece.

"Now Sherlock, that's enough bread. You haven't touched your peas."

"On the contrary, Mother, I have touched them, which is how I know I don't want to eat them."

Mycroft's knuckles whitened on his fork, and I wondered if he was dreaming of stabbing his brother with it.

"Is it too much to ask for you to be civil for even one meal?" he demanded. "Just until dessert?"

"Probably," Sherlock answered. "What are we having, anyway?"

"You know better than to ask that, dear brother."

Sherlock snorted and didn't answer.

"Will Dr. Watson be joining us, Sherlock?" Mrs Holmes asked, in tones which suggested she hoped the answer would be no.

"Yes; John's coming tomorrow morning, about nine-ish."

Tomorrow. With a sudden dull feeling of surprise, I realized tomorrow was Christmas Day. Usually I'd be on pins and needles, but this time...I don't know. It just seemed so different. We had a tree – boy, did we have a tree; it was fifteen feet tall – but it had been put up and decorated by the staff. They'd done a great job, but still, what kind of Christmas was it where you didn't get to put up your own tree and make fun of everyone else's taste in decorations?

I'd already been told what to expect on the day itself. Presents would be placed outside bedroom doors. Since I don't have any pocket money, I hadn't bought anything for Mrs Holmes (and as for Mycroft, forget it!) but a small part of me wanted to buy something for Sherlock, although I had no idea what.

"Well, I hope Dr. Watson isn't expecting there to be any empty guest bedrooms in this house."

"There are seven empty guest bedrooms in this house, Mother, but don't worry. John and I will stay in the gardener's cottage; I made up the spare room for him."

Mrs Holmes sighed. "You know I don't like you being so antisocial, Sherlock. Mycroft, tell him he's got to sleep at the house."

"Mycroft, tell our mother that I would rather cut off my leg with a rusty chainsaw than spend a single pecosecond in this house, much less in her company."

"Mycroft, tell your brother he's not to speak to me like that!"

"Tell each other yourselves!" Mycroft said tersely while I tried not to laugh. "I said you shouldn't invite him, Mother."

"Mother, tell Mycroft that you didn't invite me; you ordered me to attend."

I wondered what would happen if I joined in this conversation, then decided against it. Part of me didn't want to antagonize Mycroft any more than I had already, and I didn't want to upset Sherlock either; he was the only Holmes I'd met that I thought I could get to like.

"Benedict, tell Sherlock—"

I never heard what Mycroft wanted me to tell Sherlock, since at that moment the doors opened and Mrs Parker came in with a type of dessert known as a floating island, which I really don't like. I guess if someone who knew how to cook prepared it, it might taste nice, but Mrs Parker is not that someone. Last time I ate one of her floating islands I was actually sick.

She set one in front of Mrs Holmes and another in front of me, but I pushed it away and said, "No thank you."

Mrs Parker drew her lips in. She always does that when she disapproves of something. I think she believes it makes her look stern and imperious. In fact, it makes her look like she's been sucking on a lemon, but I haven't worked up the nerve to tell her yet.

She didn't say a word, however, but moved around the table to Mycroft, who also refused dessert with a curt flick of his hand, not even looking at her.

"God, no!" Sherlock exclaimed when Mrs Parker tried to serve the dessert to him. "Haven't you insulted our digestions enough for one night?"

Mrs Parker turned and walked out, back stiff. If she'd been nicer to me, I would've felt sorry for her. It can't be easy making desserts that nobody wants to eat.

"Sherlock, you're not to speak to the staff like that! I like my children to be polite."

"By my standards, Mother, not to mention those of this family, that was polite. What did you say to Mrs Wilson again? You know, that time when she burned your toast?"

"Well, if and when you take over this estate, you can hire whoever you wish as cook. Until then, the decision still rests with me."

Something happened then, something which gave me a nasty sense of foreboding. Mycroft and Sherlock's eyes flicked to me, just for an instant, then back to each other. There was no animosity in their look this time, but a kind of understanding along the lines of Oh, so THAT's it.

I glanced from one to the other, unsure. Mycroft shot me another quick look, then turned back to Sherlock, who raised his eyebrows in a way which said, Well?

Mycroft replied with a no way am I getting involved in this one expression and looked away, sipping at his wine. When I looked at Sherlock, he gave me something that I think was supposed to be a smile and reached out for the bread again. Mrs Holmes was apparently oblivious to the silent conversation her two sons had just had, which was a shame since it seemed like the first conversation they'd had without trying to score points off each other.

I wasn't about to ask questions, at least not in front of Mrs Holmes, but I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that Sherlock and Mycroft knew something about me and/or my adoption that I didn't.

I waited until Mrs Holmes started talking about coffee, then I excused myself as best I could and hobbled out of the room. I may as well have been invisible. Mrs Holmes ignored me and Sherlock and Mycroft were intent on another silent conversation – or possibly an argument – which, if the glances they kept flicking in my direction were anything to go by, was about me.

I don't know how long it took me to get up the two flights of stairs to my bedroom. It felt like hours. Every time I went up a step, it sent a fresh burst of pain along my ankle. I wished I'd thought to ask Sherlock for some Nurofen.

Eventually I made it into my room, closed the door and collapsed on my bed, too drained even to take off the flip flops or get under the duvet.

When I woke up, it was light outside and my stupid ankle hurt worse than ever. I guess walking on it last night wasn't the best thing to do, even though I hadn't had any choice at the time. At least I hadn't done any sleepwalking.

I glanced at my watch. Ten past nine. Not quite breakfast time, and I didn't plan to go down for it anyway.

I sat up slowly, rubbing the back of my neck and hauled myself over to my bedroom window, which overlooks the main drive. I remembered Sherlock saying his friend John would turn up at around this time, and I was curious to see the kind of person he would have for a friend.

I was lucky; the two of them were walking up the drive as I peered out. I expected Sherlock's friend to be like Sherlock himself; tall, elegant and well dressed. Probably with a weight problem, although I don't know why I expected that, unless it was because I thought he'd be the kind of doctor who worked at a snooty private clinic and had expensive – and very long – lunches.

Instead, John was about a head shorter than Sherlock and dressed in a green parka and faded jeans. I could see him and Sherlock talking and opened the window to try and hear them, letting in a blast of icy air at the same time.

"—the family home," Sherlock was saying in a hard, bitter voice.

"Home?" John echoed. "No, Sherlock. This isn't a home. This is an estate!"

"Same thing." Pause. "What do you think?"

John folded his arms. "I think if you ever ask me to buy the milk again, I'm going to punch you in the face."

The room was freezing now. Reluctantly, I shut the window and rummaged around until I found the loosest pair of trousers I had, and managed to get them over my ankle. There. That was better. At least now my legs were a little warmer.

With the help of various pieces of furniture, I hopped and limped over to my bedroom door and opened it to find one small present and one envelope, which turned out to be from Mycroft and contained a hundred pounds. I don't think he'd given it any real thought – a hundred pounds is small change to someone like him – but I was still pleased to have some cash again. It was a lot better than the present, which was a fountain pen from Mrs Holmes. I mean, it was probably solid gold or something, but I don't use fountain pens. Nobody I know uses fountain pens. Even beloved Mycroft writes in biro; I know because I've seen him.

There was nothing from Sherlock, but I hadn't expected anything. There was also nothing from my foster family, which hurt a little. I hadn't thought they'd send me a present, but I thought I'd at least get a card from them. In terms of personal loot, this was shaping up to be the worst Christmas ever.

I shut the door and sat down on my bed, my ankle throbbing furiously, and stared at the wall. I couldn't even be bothered to get my laptop. I'd be called down for breakfast soon, although I thought I'd skip it today. I was sure that Christmas dinner would be huge; the Holmeses don't seem to do things by halves. I hadn't eaten much last night, just some veg and a couple of bread rolls, and if I didn't eat breakfast, maybe I'd be hungry enough to choke down some of Mrs Parker's cooking.

I pulled a book off the shelf without bothering to glance at the title and sat down on my bed to read it.

I was halfway through the third chapter when someone knocked on the door.

For a few seconds I just stared at it, baffled. Nobody in this house bothered to knock; Mrs Holmes just flung open any door and strode right in. Mycroft...actually, Mycroft might. I had no idea about Sherlock.

Abandoning my book – I'd read it before anyway – I limped over to the door, opened it and came face to face with the last person I'd expected to see, namely Sherlock's friend John.

I wish I could say that I was polite and courteous and everything a Holmes boy is supposed to be, but the truth is that I was so astonished to see him that I just stood there and gaped at him. I'd expected to be introduced to John sooner or later, but I never thought he'd come up to pay me a visit.

"Ben, isn't it?"

I nodded and thawed a little. At least he got my name right. If he'd called me Benedict I think I'd have slammed the door in his face.

"My name's John Watson. I'm a doctor, and a friend of Sherlock's; he asked me to take a look at your ankle. You mind if I come in?"

I hesitated. Part of me liked the look of Sherlock's doctor friend – it was nice to meet a regular guy – but the other part wasn't so sure. From my own experiences when I got hurt playing football, when a doctor says he wants to look at something, it means he wants to poke it, and I didn't think my ankle could take that. I still remembered Sherlock's not so tender ministrations when I first woke up on that kitchen table.

"Are you going to touch it?"

"I'll have to examine it, but Sherlock says he did the rotation test, so we can skip that one if you'd rather."

I nodded hard. "Yeah, he did."

Some of my feelings must have been obvious in my voice and face, because John grinned.

"Yeah, I felt a little sorry for you when I got that phone call. I know what Sherlock's bedside manner is like. Last time I got a cold he made me wear a surgical mask and ordered me to go out of the room if I wanted to sneeze."

I stared at him, not sure if he was joking or not. I was starting to believe that anything was possible where the Holmeses were concerned.

"What did you do?" I asked.

"Told him that I'd warn him in advance if it was going to happen, but if he was that determined not to get ill, he could go and live in a hotel until I was better."

"And did he?"

"Yes, he did, right up to the point when he accidentally blew up the sauna." John nodded towards my leg. "C'mon. Let's have a look at that ankle."

This took a lot of wriggling on my part, since my ankle was too painful to just lift it up onto the bed, and so I had to sit down, scoot up on my behind and drag my leg up after me. Even that much coupled with walking to the door and back tired me.

Once I was more or less in position, John took hold of my trouser leg and very gently rolled it back to expose my swollen ankle.

"Wow. That's a nasty one. Must be painful."

That was an understatement, I thought as John continued to examine my ankle.

"What've you taken for it?" he asked me.

I frowned. "Um, I haven't taken anything."

John glanced up at me, surprised. "What, no Nurofen or anything?"

I shook my head. "No. I don't know where they keep that stuff. Is my ankle okay for swimming?"

"Ah, no. Not just yet."

My heart sank. I love the pool, and since it's one of the few things worthy of a Holmes, I spend as much time as I can in there.

"How long until it is?"

"We'll see how it is once the swelling's gone down. For now I want you to rest it as much as possible."

Great. Not only was I stuck with this family, it looked like I was bedridden as well.

"Am I...okay? Otherwise?"

"How do you mean?"

I took a deep breath, then blurted, "Do I have frostbite?"

John blinked. "Shouldn't think so. Why?"

I swallowed but couldn't answer. When I was seven, my teacher brought in pictures of people suffering from frostbite, their fingers and toes black and rotting. It wasn't a good move on her part. I've never been able to get those images out of my head. I'd been terrified I was going to get it after my little walk the night before last.

"Ben, you're going to have to give me a little more to go on. Why do you think you might have frostbite?"

"I—" I began, then stopped. "Promise you won't tell anyone?"

"I'll have to tell someone if you do have it, but I won't gossip about you, if that's what you mean. Go on."

I bit my lip. "I...last night, no, the night before, I...I went out for a walk." That was fine. I didn't have to tell him I'd been asleep at the time. "That was when Sherlock found me. After I'd been walking."

"Right..."

"And...and I was..." I swallowed again. "Well, I was, um, barefoot."

John stared at me in an incredulous silence for a few seconds, then shook his head. "Right. Sorry, Ben, for a minute I could've sworn you said you went out barefoot in eight inches of snow."

I looked down at my hands, then up at him, and then out of the window where more snow was falling. Wasn't it ever going to stop?

"I did," I said.

"Wasn't very clever, was it?"

I shook my head.

"So why'd you do it?"

I shrugged and didn't answer. The only answer he might accept as reasonable would be the truth, and I didn't talk about my sleepwalking.

"Ben?" John prompted.

I looked up at him, my eyes smarting. "Do I have frostbite?"

I think he realized I wasn't going to talk about this; something in his face softened a little. "Let's find out."

He moved to the other side of the bed and examined my right foot, squeezing the toes.

"Does this hurt?"

I shook my head.

"Did you notice anything like a kind of burning sensation, or tingling, or any pain at all? Any swelling? Itching?"

I shook my head again. "Not really. They throbbed a little, but not for very long."

"Right." John sat back on his heels. "Well, it looks like you've got away with it."

Relief – warm, glorious relief – shot through me and I slumped back onto the bed.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Just don't go walking barefoot in the snow anymore, okay?" John turned his attention to my ankle again. "Speaking of which, have you been walking on this since you hurt it?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I had to walk to the couch the night before last, and last night from the car to the dining room—"

"—and then up two flights of stairs," John finished. "Yeah, I see. God forbid anyone in this family do anything as pedestrian as carry you. Well, I want you to stay off your ankle as much as you can today. If you want to go downstairs, I'll give you a hand."

I glanced at my bedroom door longingly. I like my bedroom, but it was beginning to feel like a prison. Nobody comes up here except to clean; if Mrs Holmes wants me, she just calls my name. I don't know what Mycroft would do if he wanted me for something; it's never happened.

"Is Mrs Holmes down there?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Is Mycroft with her?"

"Oh yes. You don't think she'd let her darling boy out of her sight if she didn't have to, do you? Not on Christmas Day."

I thought about what it would be like with Mycroft, Mrs Holmes and Sherlock in the same room; a woman who doted on her oldest son, and two grown men who – if what I'd seen so far was any indication – hated each other, and made my decision.

"I'll stay up here then." The meal last night had been fun, but I didn't feel up to dealing with more of Sherlock and Mycroft's mutual hatred, or their nonverbal discussions about me. I just wanted some peace.

"Problems?" John's voice was quiet.

I shrugged, not looking at him. Yeah, I was having problems, if by that he meant being stuck with a family and life I realized I was beginning to hate, sleepwalking into the middle of a maze, almost dying of hypothermia and having an ankle the size of a football.

"You want to talk about it?"

I shook my head. John was nice, but I didn't want to discuss this with him. I might never sleepwalk again, and so nobody needed to know I'd done it last night. Even Sherlock probably didn't know.

"Alright. Well, if you ever change your mind, I'll listen."

I bit my lip. "Can you pass me my laptop please?"

"Sure." He lifted it off my desk and handed it to me. "Are you okay up here on your own?"

No, I wasn't. I kept thinking about the last Christmas I'd had. That had been with my foster family. There were five of us in that home and the whole atmosphere had been one of happy chaos. I wasn't exactly settled and happy there at the time – I'd only moved in a month or so before and still been in some kind of shock over my mum's death at the time – but I couldn't help enjoying it. This sterile way of celebrating didn't seem right to me. In fact, I couldn't remember ever having a Christmas that I didn't enjoy.

"Ben?" John pressed.

"What do you care?" I demanded.

"I care because I'm nosy."

I glanced at him, caught sight of his grin and grinned back before I could stop myself.

"And I care because it's not nice to be alone on Christmas Day," John added more seriously.

"You've got Sherlock," I pointed out.

"No I haven't. No, he's busy doing his best to drive Mycroft into a padded cell. I don't think he's going to manage it but he seems to have fun trying. And besides, I was talking about you."

I shrugged. "It's okay. I didn't think I'd like being alone when I first moved in, but I'm getting used to it. Anyway, there are so many stupid rules to remember whenever I'm with Mrs Holmes that it's easier to be alone. Being alone protects me from going nuts."

I don't know why, but something in that seemed to alarm him; he glanced at me sharply, a look of sudden, deep concern on his face.

"What about Christmas dinner? You're coming down for that, aren't you?"

I thought about the kind of Christmas dinner Mrs Parker had most likely cooked and felt my stomach yowl in protest.

"Not really hungry." That was a lie; I was hungry, but not yet hungry enough to eat Mrs Parker's cooking.

"Really? What did you have for breakfast?"

"I wasn't hungry then either."

John gave me a long look. "So you haven't eaten since last night and you had nothing before that until lunchtime the day before?"

I had to stop and work this one out, then I nodded. "Yeah."

"Right. I see. In other words, you've had nothing in the last forty eight hours apart from – according to Sherlock – two bread rolls and a few carrots?"

"I was asleep most of yesterday!" I protested. "Anyway, the cook isn't very good and I'm not allowed in the kitchen to make my own food."

"Yeah, Sherlock mentioned that to me as well. He also texted me a shopping list along with a map to the nearest supermarket."

"You're going shopping?" I brightened up. "Can I come?"

"I'm only going to Asda, Ben. It's nothing exciting."

"That doesn't matter. Go on, please?" I hoped he'd say yes. I hadn't been off the grounds since I arrived here, except for a trip to register me with the GP. To be honest, I don't know where I'd go; the nearest town is seven miles away. I don't have any pocket money, so I couldn't buy anything even if I could go into town, but I was sick and tired of seeing the same place, no matter how big and impressive it is.

"Your ankle—"

"I'll sit in the car. I don't mind. I've been stuck here for six months, I've only been off the grounds once. I'm going crazy!"

"What about school? You must go to school."

I shook my head, not looking at him.

"No. They're gonna send me to some boarding school but apparently I've gotta wait for the new intake or something and that's not until April."

"April?" John echoed. "Don't you have, I don't know, a tutor or something?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, but I didn't like him, so he left."

"Oh really? What happened?"

I squirmed a little. It wasn't something I liked to think about. "I just hated him. He was always saying how stupid I was and so I'd have to study more and more until I was having four hours' solid work six days a week with half an hour for lunch and then another four hours' work and then three hours' homework and one day I...well, I kinda flipped."

John raised his eyebrows. "What happened?" he asked again.

I shifted my weight. I liked this friend of Sherlock's – or thought I did; it was a little too soon to tell for sure – but that didn't mean I was comfortable opening up to him.

"Please can I come with you?" I begged.

Again, he seemed to know not to press me and instead said, "Ask your mum."

What little was left of my good mood evaporated and I scowled at him. "She's not my mum!"

"Right. Sorry. What do you call her, then?"

"Mrs Holmes."

John frowned. "What, you don't use her name?"

"I don't know her name. She's not the kind of person you can ask about stuff like that. Can I come shopping with you?"

"If Mrs Holmes says it's okay and if your ankle's better, and if you really want to tag along while I go around Asda, then yes. Though I think you're mad; when I was your age, I used to fight tooth and nail to avoid being dragged to the supermarket."

I couldn't help a small smile at that.

"But on one condition," John added.

I felt my heart drop through the floor. "What's that?"

"You come downstairs for Christmas dinner."

I groaned and flopped back onto my bed, my hands over my face.

"Was that a yes or a no?" John asked.

I took my hands away enough to fix him with my best pathetic look. "Do I have to?"

"If you want me to take you shopping, yes."

"But you said I had to rest my ankle," I tried.

"I also said I'd help you downstairs."

"Will you help me upstairs again afterwards? I mean right afterwards?"

"Once everyone's finished eating, then yes, if that's what you want."

I gave my laptop a longing look, then turned the same look on John.

"I could eat mine up here?" I said hopefully.

He shook his head, arms folded. "No."

Oh well. It had been worth a try.

"I don't really want to eat anything." That wasn't quite a lie. I was hovering somewhere between hunger and nausea and wasn't sure if I'd be able to keep anything down.

"No, but you can't go all day without something. Come on. They're planning to eat at half past one, so you won't have to suffer for too long. And there's some nibbles downstairs, or there are if Sherlock's left any."

I perked up a little. I didn't really want a big Christmas dinner, but a plate of nibbles sounded good.

"Are there any mince pies?"

"Should be. There were about two dozen left when I came up. Along with two six-packs of Dr Pepper, three packs of onion bhajis, at least twenty miniature samosas, six dozen Crunchie bars, five giant Aeros – two regular, two mint and one orange – and eight tubes of Pringles. Oh, and a pineapple."

I stared at him, not quite sure whether to believe him or not. I could sort of see the thinking behind the Pringles, but the rest baffled me. Indian food is, apparently, not something a Holmes indulges in (unless, of course, they're actually on holiday in India) and although chocolates exist, they're usually of the rich Belgian kind.

"Onion bhajis?" I echoed, unable to think of anything else to say. "Crunchie bars?"

John shrugged. "Yeah, well, Mrs Holmes made the mistake of ordering Sherlock to provide the Christmas nibbles. Said it could be his contribution. So, are you coming down?"

I hesitated.

"I think...my ankle's too painful," I said.

"It wasn't too painful when you were talking about going to the swimming pool," John answered. "Come on, I'll give you a hand. We can take it slowly."

Reluctantly, I let him help me to my feet and over to the door. It was only one meal. I didn't think it could last longer than a couple of hours. How bad could it be?


Well, people seemed to want John there for Christmas (at least, one person did and nobody voted to keep him away) so I brought him into the story a little early ;) Hope you liked it and if you read, please review!