hjkl: Thanks XD Mycroft...well, let's just say that things are probably going to get a little easier. Probably ;)


Going downstairs was a lot easier than going up had been, mostly thanks to John supporting my weight and, when we went around corners, almost carrying me.

We were at the top of the last flight of stairs when Mrs Holmes' voice drifted up the stairs.

"Benedict!"

Actually, that's not really how she calls my name. Instead she stretches it out in a high-pitched soprano trill; it's more like "Be-e-e-e-ne-di-i-i-i-ict." and never lasts less than five seconds.

John glanced at me, puzzled. "Benedict?"

"It's Ben."

"Oh right. What, is that short for—"

"No!" I tried to push him away from me and very nearly ended up pushing myself down the stairs instead. There was a confused few minutes, then John managed to grab my wrist and haul me back to safety.

"Next time, push me the other way, okay?" He waited until my heart had stopped trying to crash through my chest, then said, "What was that all about?"

"When I was born, my mum and dad called me Ben. Not Benedict, not even Benjamin; just Ben. It's on my birth certificate and everything, only when I came here Mrs Holmes changed my name to Benedict by deed poll! But it's not my name!"

John held both hands up. "Alright, easy! I was just asking."

I looked away, biting my lip. "I'm sorry, it's just...my ankle hurts."

I think he knew that was a pathetic excuse as much as I did, but he didn't comment on it. Instead he just said, "I know. C'mon, let's get you downstairs and onto the sofa. Get you something to eat as well."

"Be-e-e-e-ne-di-i-i-i-ict!"

Before this summons was finished, I heard Sherlock's voice overriding it.

"For god's sake, will the two of you get down here before she bursts my eardrums!"

John glanced at me.

"Ready for the final sprint?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"If I have to be," I muttered.

"You do if you want to come on that trip with me."

I tried to glare at him, but I don't think I did a very good job, because he looked away with that expression people only get when they're trying not to laugh.

"That's extortion," I told him.

"Absolutely," John agreed cheerfully. "Come on, it won't be that bad. By three o'clock, half past at the latest, you'll be back up in your room if you still want to be."

I let him help me down the last stairs, grumbling just loud enough for him to know I wasn't happy but too quietly for him to pick out any of the words I was using.

To my surprise, instead of taking me into one of the lounges (we have three, although admittedly that includes the drawing room) John led me into the dining room, where Mrs Holmes and Mycroft were sitting. I guess even Christmas nibbles have to be a formal occasion in this house.

Sherlock was there too, but it took me a few minutes to spot him as he was lying on his back across four chairs with a plate of nibbles resting on his chest and his feet lifted several inches in the air.

I stared at him, trying to work out why he didn't just sit like normal people. Eventually I said, "Uh—"

"Mother's orders," Sherlock drawled. "Apparently she doesn't want my dirty feet all over her nice clean chairs. Mycroft doesn't want me arguing with Mother on Christmas Day and John doesn't want me arguing with Mycroft. This seemed an acceptable compromise." He gave a kind of languid wave towards the table. "Help yourself, by the way."

I didn't need to be told twice. Hunger was overtaking nausea and the food there was calling to me. Besides, if I stuffed myself here, maybe I could avoid having to eat too much of Mrs Parker's cooking.

John hadn't been exaggerating about the nibbles; in fact, he'd forgotten to mention the cheese and watermelon hedgehog, the sausage rolls and a bowl of small, steaming golden brown objects in the middle. Curious, I picked one up and tried it, chewing as I tried to place the flavor; soft, creamy, light, and like nothing I'd ever tasted before.

"What's this?"

"Battered cauliflower," Sherlock answered.

I glanced at him, surprised. Usually I hate cauliflower, but like this it wasn't too bad.

"Wow."

"Yes. I don't think it's appropriate for this occasion, Sherlock," Mrs Holmes said from her position at the head of the table. There was an untouched samosa on her plate and a half eaten mince pie and even though I didn't know him all that well, I was sure Sherlock had taken a secret delight in choosing the most inappropriate foods he could. I might have felt sorry for Mrs Holmes if I didn't know she had a kitchen of people who would cook her anything she wanted.

"Then buy the nibbles yourself next year," Sherlock retorted. "John, cauliflower?"

John took a piece, turning it over and over in his fingers as I piled as many nibbles onto my plate as I could fit on there and settled down to eat.

"Did you cook this?" I asked Sherlock, more to break the silence than anything. I doubted he did; whoever heard of a Holmes cooking?

John froze, his own cauliflower halfway to his mouth, then he lowered it to the plate again.

"Sherlock?" he said suspiciously.

Sherlock twisted around and sat up, glaring at John. "Oh, for heaven's sake! Yes. I did cook it. Now shut up and eat."

I glanced at John, not sure what I'd said, but he was too busy staring at Sherlock through narrowed eyes.

"And it is cauliflower this time? You're sure?"

"Well, what else could it be? I prepared it in the kitchen here. What more do you want?"

I pricked up my ears. I've been trying and trying to get into the kitchen, but Mrs Parker won't let me anywhere near it. Maybe I could try Sherlock's tactic.

"How'd you get past the cook?" I asked.

"Simple; I just pointed out to her the advantages of letting me cook."

Mycroft arched his eyebrows. "As I recall, Sherlock, your exact words were if you don't piss off and let me get on with it, I'll blow up the kitchen."

"Exactly. There's enough of the staff here who remember me well enough to know I can do it. Samosa, Ben?"

Oh well, so much for that idea. I took the samosa from the offered plate and bit into it.

"You might have chosen a more traditional type of food," Mycroft remarked. I don't think he'd eaten anything; his plate was completely bare. "Indian cuisine is hardly the sort of thing one expects to find on Christmas Day."

"I didn't hear you complaining about Indian cuisine when we were in Kerala," Sherlock answered.

"You were four when we went to Kerala," Mycroft pointed out.

"What's that got to do with anything?" Sherlock lifted a bhaji using the very tips of his fingers and bit it delicately in half, while I tried and failed to imagine him as a four year old. "If you don't like my choice of nibbles, you can buy them yourself next year."

"I did offer to, but unfortunately Mother wouldn't hear of it."

We ate in silence for a few minutes (at least, John, Sherlock and I did; Mrs Holmes was busy asking Mycroft questions and bragging about his short answers) then Sherlock spoke up again.

"So anyway, Mycroft. What's going on in your sordid little world?"

"Oh, don't pretend you care."

"On the contrary, brother dear, I care very much. You seem intent on dragging me into that world at every opportunity, so I think it's only fair you tell me what to expect. Been chatting with any more of my worst enemies lately?"

Before Mycroft had a chance to answer, John kicked me hard – fortunately not on my bad ankle – and I jerked upright, staring at him.

"What did I do?"

John dropped his bhaji and looked stricken. "Was that you? Oh god, Ben, I'm sorry. I was aiming for Sherlock."

"You missed," Sherlock stated, a smirk playing around the corners of his mouth. I guess if it had happened to someone else, I'd have found it funny too.

"Did I get your ankle?"

I wondered if I could say yes and get out of this early, but it probably wouldn't work. John would insist on examining it and, being a doctor, would know in an instant that I was lying.

"Yeah, but not the bad one," I said without thinking.

Mrs Holmes stopped bragging about Mycroft and turned to stare at me. "Which bad one?"

"Benedict injured his ankle a couple of nights ago," Mycroft remarked.

"Yeah but John saw it and he says it's fine and nothing to worry about and he's a doctor so he should know!" I said in one breath, all the time staring at John and silently begging him not to contradict me.

"I saw it as well," Mycroft reminded me. "It's far from fine."

"Ah, but you're not a doctor," Sherlock pointed out, "so how would you know?"

"I'm not an idiot either, Sherlock. Benedict goes out and, to use your own words, gets acquainted with you, and then he's back with a bad ankle."

Sherlock's tone was suddenly so cold – so dangerous – that it froze me in place, my samosa halfway to my mouth.

"Mycroft, if you are insinuating for one minute that I had something to do with the boy's injury—"

"I'm not insinuating anything of the kind, Sherlock," Mycroft cut across smoothly. He paused just long enough for everyone to see it coming, then added, "But since we're on the subject—"

Sherlock was on his feet so fast I barely saw him move, Mycroft only a split second behind him. For one crazy moment I thought they were going to have a free fight, although it was hard to imagine Mycroft doing anything like that. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to fit very nicely with the idea of violence; I don't know why, but it wasn't hard to imagine him punching someone.

"Boys?" John's voice was firm but resigned, as though he was used to breaking up fights between Sherlock and Mycroft. "Not now. Not here. Not on Christmas Day."

"He started it," Sherlock said, glaring at his brother.

John sighed. "Yeah, but be fair, Sherlock, that's not usually how it goes, is it? Come on, behave!"

"Yes." Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on Mycroft as the two of them lowered themselves into their seats and I started to breathe again. "Alright. We'll save it for New Year's. He'll be too drunk then to remember anything anyway."

Mycroft gave Sherlock a smile that I think was about as genuine as Sherlock's affection for him, then said, "I never get drunk, Sherlock. You know that."

I don't know about Sherlock, but I believed him. Getting drunk on New Year's Eve usually goes together with fun and parties. Mycroft...well, he must have some hobbies, although I couldn't imagine what they might be, but I also couldn't imagine him attending any kind of party unless it was of the black tie variety, and even then it would probably be under protest.

"Sherlock, will you behave!" Mrs Holmes demanded. I don't think I've ever heard her so close to losing her temper. "I only allowed you to come so that you could make up with your older brother."

"Allowed me to come? Listening to you, Mother, anyone would think I wanted to be here. Ben's here because he doesn't have a choice, and Mycroft's here because he's busy sucking up to you trying to get into your will—"

"For heaven's sake!" Mycroft snapped, just as I said, "If that's true, then why does he only come to visit her once a week? Why doesn't he ever call her?"

All eyes turned to me and I wanted to drop through the floor. I really wasn't trying to defend Mycroft; the words had just tumbled out before I could stop them.

There was a short pause, then Mycroft looked at Sherlock in a way which said, Go on then, explain that one. I was getting very good at reading the Holmes boys' silent language.

"He doesn't need to," Sherlock answered. "Compared to the contact I've had with Mother over the years, a weekly visit from Mycroft is the very pinnacle of devotion. How much of those visits does he spend on his phone when Mother's not looking, Ben?"

I must have gone red or something because Sherlock smirked.

"Thought so. He's just keeping up appearances. Wants into the will, like I said. Wants to get his hands on this estate."

To my astonishment, Mycroft laughed. I mean, he actually laughed. I didn't realize he even knew how to laugh.

"Oh Sherlock." He shook his head, still clearly amused.

"What?"

"You and I both know it's nowhere near that simple. Especially not now."

Again, I got the same uneasy feeling I'd had last night; that the two of them were talking about me, although I still didn't understand what they were saying. They couldn't believe I was any kind of threat to their inheritance; I might have jumped ahead of Sherlock in the queue, but there was no way I would replace Mycroft as Favorite Son.

Sherlock stared at his brother for a few minutes, then shot out several words in a foreign language with the same ease and fluency as he spoke English. I didn't have a clue what he said, but I got the questioning tone well enough.

Mycroft replied in the same language. I had an odd feeling that it was somehow familiar, but I couldn't think where I'd heard it before.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and retorted something, jerking his head towards me, and I glanced at him nervously. I hate the way they sometimes discuss me like I'm not there, but up until now, at least I've always been able to understand what they're saying about me.

Whatever Mycroft said in response, it earned him a look from Sherlock that I could read only too easily as Yeah, right!

The discussion went on for a few minutes, with Sherlock's side becoming a little more heated. I heard my name mentioned once or twice and my nervousness grew.

Actually, that's not quite true. I'd been nervous right from Sherlock and Mycroft's first silent conversation about me last night. I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling I'd had ever since then, that I was a very small fly in the middle of a very large and devious web.

Yeah, poetic, I know, but it's how I felt. I turned a pleading look on John, silently begging him to get me out of this.

"Without sparking off another fight, how's your ankle, Ben?" John asked.

"Hurts," I said, with perfect truth.

"Do you feel up to showing me the pool? I think there's time before lunch."

I scrambled to my feet, hanging onto the table for support. I'd show him the family safe if it got me out of this situation. I'm not into confrontations, especially not on this level.

Sherlock glanced at us, frowning. "I showed you the pool when we came in."

"Yeah. Well, I'd like to see it again. Besides, if you're going to have entire conversations about Ben in Latin, you might have the decency to wait until he's not around." He fired off a don't argue look and Sherlock shrugged and went back to his conversation with Mycroft – which had now proceeded into the same silent, almost imperceptible signs and facial expressions I'd seen them use before – as John helped me over to the door.

I was so keen to get away that I moved faster than I should have. It was alright until we were about halfway down the hall that led to the pool, and then my vision suddenly clouded with stars. I stopped, swaying slightly, fighting to clear my head.

"Ben?" John's voice echoed in my ears. "Are you okay?"

Might have known I couldn't fool a doctor. I'd answer him in a minute, just as soon as my head was clearer.

"Ben?"

"I...dizzy."

I have to admit, he was fast. Before I'd even finished saying the word dizzy, I was on a chair and John's hand was on the back of my neck, pushing my head between my knees.

I don't know how long I sat there like that. It felt strange to have someone touch me; the Holmeses really aren't big on that sort of thing. I've seen Mycroft kiss his mother on the cheek, but I don't think there's any real affection there; he just does it because he feels he ought to.

"Okay." My voice was a little slurred. "Okay now."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Alright." John took his hand away. "But sit up slowly. Don't want you passing out on me."

I obeyed. I was suddenly seized with a crazy impulse to grab his hand and cling to it like a much younger kid, if only to prove to myself that it was real.

I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head, fighting to dislodge that thought. Of course it was real! What was I thinking?

"Ben?"

"I'm fine!" It was more a bark than an answer and I winced. "I'm sorry. I just...sorry."

"Alright. Just relax."

Relax? The thought of relaxing in this house was so mad that I burst into a fit of giggles, which lasted a little too long. When I looked at John (or to be more precise, when I managed to look at him without remembering what he'd just said and giggling some more) I saw the same look of dark concern in his eyes that I'd noticed before.

"It's okay. I'm okay. Everything's...everything's okay."

The expression on John's face said that he seriously doubted that, but he didn't say anything besides, "Alright. You feel up to going back to the dining room?"

That snapped me back to my senses in a hurry.

"Can't I eat mine upstairs?" I pleaded.

"No, sorry. But I do promise not to kick you this time, no matter how much Sherlock annoys me. C'mon. The more you eat, the quicker you'll heal."

I gave him a long look. I may be a kid, but I'm not stupid.

"Are you saying that because it's true, or because you're trying to get me to do the social thing on Christmas Day?"

"Both," John admitted. "And because it would be nice to have someone at the dinner table who I can have a sane conversation with."

He was right there. I hadn't had a sane conversation, as he put it, for a long time, at least not one that didn't involve an argument or degenerate into criticism on some aspect of my behavior.

"Can I have some painkillers first?" I tried.

"Yeah, with your ankle I think you'd better. I've got some in my parka; wait there. And no sneaking off up to your room!" John added.

Drat. Oh well, given how bad my ankle was, I doubted I could have made it very far without help anyway.

I sat there for a good few minutes, waiting for him to get back, when Sherlock strode down the hall, saw me and came to an abrupt stop.

"Where's John?" he asked.

"Went to get some painkillers."

"Oh yes, of course."

"Sherlock?" I said before he could walk away again. "Can you, um, do me a favor?"

He glanced at me curiously. "I expect so. What sort of a favor?"

I swallowed, unsure if I wanted to ask him now. But still...the worst he could do was say no, right?

"It's just, you know there were a few nibbles left over?"

"More than a few, but go on."

I wondered a little at that, how Sherlock could be so unconcerned about spending, well, however much he'd spent, on nibbles that nobody had eaten. Then I realized that Sherlock's purpose probably hadn't been to bring food that everyone would enjoy so much as to drive his brother and mother crazy.

"Can I have them? To eat, I mean?"

"Well, I didn't think you wanted them for tennis practice. And yes, you can. I assume you want the Dr Pepper as well."

I nodded hard.

"Alright. I'll see what I can do. Maybe hide it under your pillow or something."

That would work. My bed is huge, with a soft headboard and about seven pillows and cushions. It's a little too big, to be honest, but it's handy for squirreling things away.

"Thanks," I said, but Sherlock was already halfway down the hall, working on his phone. I wondered if he ever stopped texting people.

A few minutes later, John was back with the painkillers and a glass of water. As soon as he was within arm's reach, I grabbed the pills out of his hand and swallowed them, then snatched the water and chugged it down so fast I spilled half of it.

"How long do they take to work?" I demanded.

"About half an hour. So should be just in time for you to go back upstairs if you want. C'mon, before they send out a search party for us."

It was a slow walk back to the dining room; so slow, in fact, that Sherlock got there before us. I think I could have gone a little faster, but John didn't want to overstrain my ankle, and to be honest I wasn't in any hurry to get back there anyway.

In the short time since John and I had left, the table had been cleared of nibbles and relaid for Christmas dinner. Mrs Holmes ignored our entrance, but Mycroft gave us a brief glance.

"Change your mind about the pool?" (How did he know that? How?)

"I had to get Ben some Nurofen," John said in a cold voice that was very different from the one he'd taken to me. "In case you haven't noticed, Mycroft, his ankle is extremely painful. I'm not even sure he should be down here."

I opened my mouth to protest that I wouldn't have been down there if John hadn't dragged me down there, caught his warning look, shut it again and meekly let him help me to a chair as Mycroft said, "It's Christmas Day, John, a time for family. How is your sister, by the way?"

John curled his hand into a fist, then uncurled it with what looked like real effort.

"Fine."

"Well, that's good, isn't it? I heard the Priory does splendid Christmas lunches. So nice that Sherlock was able to finance Harriet's stay. I'm sure she's very happy there."

"Don't push your luck, Mycroft," John warned.

I badly wanted to ask where or what the Priory was, but it looked like such a touchy subject for John that I didn't quite dare, and so I sat in silence until the food was brought in.

The Christmas dinner was huge, although there were no crackers, and mostly inedible. The turkey was dry, the stuffing was drier and the sausages and bacon were both crunchy. Sherlock, I noticed, didn't bother trying to eat any of it but instead dived into the bread basket and dumped four rolls onto his plate and one on mine. John managed to force down some of the potatoes and turkey and – with the help of a lot of gravy – so did I.

"I think Mrs Parker's cooking is coming along nicely," Mrs Holmes said, although she didn't sound convinced.

"I think you've got early onset dementia," Sherlock retorted. "She's useless! Even a homeless person wouldn't touch this stuff."

"You would know," Mycroft remarked, just loud enough for us to hear.

I was puzzling over this when John said, "The vegetables aren't too bad."

"The vegetables?" Sherlock echoed, poking some of the vegetables in question with a fork gingerly, as though they might jump off the plate. "She burned the carrots. How do you burn carrots, for god's sake? If you overcook them they usually just turn to mush. I'm telling you, Mother, the woman's a culinary train wreck. You'll wake up one morning and find she's blown up the kitchen or something."

"Well, she wouldn't be the first to do so, Sherlock," Mycroft murmured.

I could see Sherlock was still simmering over this remark when the dessert came in. Instead of the traditional Christmas pudding, there was a lime cheesecake, leftover mince pies and something which was black on the top but which – according to Mrs Parker – was a rhubarb crumble.

I'd just started to dive for the mince pies when Mrs Holmes cleared her throat.

"Before we move on to dessert, I would like to say a few words about this time of year. Christmas is a time where one should spend a moment or two thinking about others, being grateful for that which one has received, and a time for showing that little bit extra respect and consideration towards the members of one's family—"

"Oh, shut up and pass me the cheesecake," Sherlock interrupted. "I don't suppose your new cook could have messed that up too badly."

He was right about that, I thought. Mrs Parker hadn't messed the cheesecake up, because she hadn't made it; it was a Waitrose product. I'd seen her taking it out of the bag a few days ago. I wasn't going to tell anyone, though. I was saving that particular revelation for the next time I wanted a between-meal snack and she threatened to tell Mrs Holmes.

"For your information, Sherlock," Mrs Holmes said frostily, while I took advantage of the distraction to make a grab for the mince pies, "Mrs Parker came highly recommended by a number of people—"

"Friends and family don't count as references," Sherlock retorted, in between demolishing large bites of cheesecake.

"—and Mrs Wilson may have been more experienced, but her attitude left a lot to be desired. I needed to hire someone who would treat your elder brother and myself with all the respect and courteous language that we are entitled to."

Sherlock pasted an innocent look on his face. "But unfortunately Gordon Ramsay was busy, and so you had to make do with Mrs Parker. Shame. Mycroft, pass me some more of that cheesecake; it's actually rather good."

"You've already had a piece, Sherlock."

"Yes, well, if they were a decent size, I wouldn't have to keep going back for more." Sherlock raised cold eyebrows. "I don't recommend you do, though. Don't want to ruin that diet."

Mycroft flung his napkin on the table, pushed his chair back and strode out of the room.

"Sherlock Holmes!" I had never seen Mrs Holmes look so outraged. "You will go after your poor brother right this very second and apologize to him!"

"I will not. Ben, pass me the—"

I handed him the cheesecake platter.

"Thank you." Sherlock took two pieces. "I'm sure Mycroft will recover from his tantrum soon enough, Mother."

"That was a little below the belt, Sherlock," John said.

"Oh, he'll recover. My brother's got no feelings; he's said so himself on numerous occasions. Ben, you've hardly touched your food, can I pass you anything?"

"No thanks." I didn't want anything just then except to go to bed and sleep. I still wasn't sure what to make of Sherlock, whether he was genuinely concerned about me, was just being polite or – having lost Mycroft as a target – was now zeroing in on me.

"His name is Benedict, Sherlock," Mrs Holmes said.

"Ben," I muttered, although I didn't have the energy to argue just then. Sherlock glanced at Mrs Holmes.

"He ought to know."

I glanced at John, too tired to worry about being polite. The Nurofen didn't seem to be working; my ankle was just as painful as ever.

"Can't I go back upstairs now? You promised I could."

For a horrible moment I thought he was going to refuse, or at least insist that I wait for everyone else to finish eating, then he nodded.

"Yeah, okay. Come on, I'll take you."

"Benedict isn't going anywhere," Mrs Holmes said, before I was more than halfway to my feet. "The meal isn't over yet."

"It is for him," John informed her. "He needs rest."

"Well, he can rest at the table." She gave us that smile I absolutely hate, the one which says, There, you see, I'm right after all, aren't I?

"What, with your two other sons trying to kill each other? Hardly a peaceful atmosphere, is it?"

The smile froze. "Dr. Watson, I know you mean well, but as the boy's mother, I—"

"You're not my bloody mother!" I don't know why I picked that moment to yell that. Blame the pain in my ankle, I guess, or the added tension in the atmosphere that happened whenever Sherlock and Mycroft were within about fifty feet of each other.

I also have no idea why I did what I did next, which was to turn around and bury my face in John's chest and cling to the front of his jumper. Maybe that was down to the pain as well. I mean, I'd only known the guy for a few hours.

The silence stretched out for all of five seconds before Sherlock said, "And on that note, I'm going outside to get some fresh air and to check on the maze. Merry Christmas, everyone."

Check on the what? a little part of me wondered. The rest of me was busy scrambling around trying to find enough pieces of my mind to put back together.

"Ben?" John's voice was very quiet. At some point he'd put his arm around me, although I didn't know if he was trying to comfort me or just making sure I didn't collapse. "Come on. Let's get you upstairs, eh?"

Not looking at anyone, I let him help me out the door and upstairs to my bedroom. I barely noticed the stairs or distance this time; I was too busy trying to make some sense out of what was going on in my mind.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled as soon as we were inside and he'd shut the door. I didn't quite know why I was apologizing to him, unless it was for turning him into a security blanket in front of everyone, or maybe my earlier fit of the giggles, but I felt it needed to be said.

"It's okay, mate." John supported me over to the bed and sat me down on it. "It's alright. Go on, you get some rest. I'll be back to check on you later."

I lay down and shut my eyes. I was asleep so fast that I didn't even hear him leave.

When I woke up, it was five to six in the evening and my stomach was growling loudly. I wondered if Sherlock had found time to smuggle the nibbles up to my room yet.

A little careful rummaging among my pillows revealed that yes, he had brought the food up and also that he'd been very generous with it; there were four carrier bags' worth of nibbles (including half the Crunchie bars and three of the giant Aeros) and one six-pack of Dr Pepper. I wasn't quite sure how Sherlock had managed to sneak in, hide all these rustly bags under my pillows and sneak out again without waking me, but I was glad he had.

I pulled out a sausage roll, opened a can of Dr Pepper and proceeded to stuff myself, then settled back on the bed with my laptop and headphones.

I was so engrossed in my iTunes that I didn't hear the knock on my door. I wasn't even aware I had a visitor until the door opened and John came in.

"Ben?"

I jumped, pulled off my headphones and stuffed them under the blanket. "Sorry, I didn't know you were there."

"No. I knocked, but obviously you didn't hear me." John came over to the foot of my bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay," I told him.

"Right. And is that okay as in okay, or is it okay as in shut up and stop bothering me?"

I managed a grin and said, "The first one." It was true too; for some reason I was feeling better than I had in weeks.

"Good. Are you coming down for supper?"

I fixed him with my most appealing look. "Do I have to? I'm not hungry."

John glanced down at my bed, which was now full of crumbs, two Crunchie wrappers and the remains of a giant Aero (I'd eaten about half of it before finally admitting defeat) and raised his eyebrows.

"I'm not surprised," he said. "Did Sherlock smuggle this up for you?"

"Yeah." I'd wondered a little about that; Sherlock didn't seem the most accommodating of people in the normal run of things. Maybe he'd just done it because he thought it would annoy his mother. "You did say you wanted me to eat something."

"Half a giant peppermint Aero, two Crunchie bars and who knows what else wasn't quite the something I had in mind, Ben." Despite the sternness of his tone, I noticed an amused gleam in his eyes. I wondered if John had ever smuggled sweets up to his room as a child.

"I had three samosas, two sausage rolls and four bhajis too," I said as innocently as I could.

"Oh, did you?" He was half smiling now.

"Yeah. And some Dr Pepper."

"Mm. Very healthy."

"It's Christmas," I pointed out. "You gotta stuff yourself until you feel sick; it's traditional."

To my surprise, he laughed. "Well, I can't argue with you there. Alright then. I'll tell them you won't be coming down." He paused, then said, "And I'm sorry about earlier."

"You're sorry?" I stared at him. What did he have to be sorry about? He hadn't suffered a fit of the giggles or grabbed hold of a near-stranger for comfort.

"I should have taken you straight back upstairs when you nearly collapsed. I'm...well, I was an idiot, as Sherlock was kind enough to point out to me as soon as he got back in. I just didn't like to think of you all alone up here."

I blinked. "But I'm usually alone up here."

"Yeah, so you said. That's what worries me."

I shrugged and looked away. It didn't worry me. Being alone gave me a little breathing space from this family.

"Alright." John stepped back into the doorway. "Well, I'll be downstairs if you need anything. Try and get some sleep. And a happy Christmas," he added, then I heard him say under his breath, "what's left of it, anyway."

I wasn't sure if he meant that as a criticism or not, and didn't like to ask. Instead I just said, "Thanks. You too."

For a moment I thought he was going to say something else, then he just nodded, smiled and walked out, closing the door behind him.

About two minutes later it opened again and Sherlock strolled in.

"I see you found the food," he said by way of greeting, nodding towards my supper.

I swallowed my sausage roll, almost choked on it and eventually managed to gasp out, "Yeah. Thanks."

Sherlock waved this away and strode over to the foot of my bed. "I'll make this quick, Ben, since you'd much rather I wasn't here."

I blinked. It was true I just wanted to curl up with my laptop and listen to music, but I wouldn't have put it quite as bluntly as that.

"Um—" I began.

"Oh no, please don't pretend to be polite. I get enough of that whenever John brings his latest girlfriend home." Sherlock dropped onto all fours and scrambled forward. "Somewhere around here, assuming it hasn't been—ah!"

I was just wondering whether every member of this family was nuts when Sherlock prised up a small section of the floor, about a foot in length, to reveal a small space underneath.

"You may find this useful," Sherlock told me while I stared at it. "As far as I know, nobody besides me is aware of it. I came across it when I was five years old and destroying my room. Used it to hide all my personal items."

"Why were you destroying your—" I began before another question overtook that one and my jaw hit the ground. "This was your room?"

"Yeah. Hasn't changed much. Funny, that; when I lived here, Mother was always having it redecorated and refurnished when I was out and about. Used to drive me mad."

"And you don't mind me being here?"

I know it was a strange question to ask, but I couldn't help it. Even after six months, I still felt like an outsider in this family, and finding out I was living in a bedroom that had originally belonged to one of them made me a little nervous. I don't know why.

Sherlock, for his part, looked surprised. "What? No, of course not, why would I mind? It's not like I need it anymore."

I swallowed, then asked the question I was dreading the answer to.

"Is Mrs Holmes angry with me?"

"In a word, yes. Don't worry; I'll blow up her favorite cushion or something. That'll take her mind off it."

"I can't let you do that for me!"

"You're not exactly in any position to stop me. Anyway, I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it because I want to see if a feather cushion is more efficient at containing an explosive force than an artificial one, only Mrs Hudson has forbidden me to carry out that particular experiment. Annoying, but then I'd rather blow up Mother's things anyway; she's got more of them to spare."

"Oh," was all I could think of to say.

There was a silence, during which Sherlock studied me and I tried very hard not to remember that the last time we'd been alone together, he'd seen me naked.

"I meant what I said last night, Ben," he said at last, his face serious. "If there's any way out of this adoption for you, take it and take it now. If you know anyone, a social worker or someone who can pull strings to get you out of here, maybe back to that foster family of yours, pick up the phone and call them right this second. Or use mine, if you don't want Mother to overhear. You don't want to grow up in this house. It's poison."

I studied him, unsure. It didn't sound like he was trying to turn me against his family out of spite; there was something very real in his voice and expression.

"You did," I pointed out.

"No." Sherlock shook his head. "No, I all but moved out of the house and into the grounds when I was twelve and ran away the day after I turned fifteen. I haven't been back since, not until now."

I stared at him. Sherlock looked a lot younger than Mycroft, but at the same time, he wasn't a young man, if you get what I mean.

"Twenty years," Sherlock supplied, after I'd been trying to puzzle it out for a few minutes.

Twenty years? I couldn't imagine that. The last time Sherlock had seen his mother, I hadn't even been born yet. I wondered how he'd lived on the grounds. Where he'd lived. Had one of the staff taken him in or something?

"I'm here until early January, as you know, so you don't have to decide now," Sherlock added. "Just think about it."

For one moment, every instinct I had shot up inside me and urged me to accept his offer, to try and do everything I could to get myself out of this house, away from this family.

I wish I'd had the sense to listen, but of course I didn't.


I didn't intend to finish this chapter today, but the writing bug just took over ;) Hope you enjoyed it and if you read, please review!