bookgirl 121: Thanks, I'm glad you enjoyed it! XD

TheMeddler: Aw, that's a shame :P But thanks XD


I slept late the next morning. I dimly heard Mrs Holmes shrilling my name at around breakfast time, but I buried my head in the pillows and ignored her. I didn't feel much like eating.

When I finally woke up, my throat had that tight, dry feeling it usually gets just before I come down with something, and my heart sank. I couldn't be ill now. John had promised to take me to Asda and after being confined to the estate for the last six months, there was no way I was going to miss out on that.

I know, I know, it sounds pathetic, getting all worked up over a stupid trip to the supermarket. But you try living in your own home for six months without even a walk outside and see how appealing it sounds to you. Even an estate the size of this one (some five thousand acres, according to Mrs Holmes) would drive you mad.

I ferreted around in my pillows until I located my bag of nibbles, dug out a samosa and took a bite. The pastry was cold, greasy and so crisp it hurt to swallow. I managed one, then gave up and turned my attention to the Dr Pepper. That slid down a little more easily, although the fizziness of it felt like someone jabbing pins into my sore throat.

I swung my legs out of bed and got gingerly to my feet. My ankle was still too painful to walk far, but I managed to limp over to the door and open it. I couldn't remember if John had said he was going out today or tomorrow, but I wasn't about to risk missing him.

I headed downstairs and into the breakfast room. One good thing about sleeping late; it meant that Mrs Holmes was nowhere to be seen. That was one meeting I wasn't looking forward to.

I wasn't alone, however, as Sherlock was standing at one end of the breakfast bar with a satsuma and a bowl full of some kind of yellow liquid in front of him and some kind of gun type thing in his hands.

"Morning," he said without looking up. "No, don't sit there—" as I started towards the chair at the end of the breakfast bar— "I'm not sure this is properly calibrated yet."

I perched as close to him as I could get, on the basis that Sherlock probably wouldn't blow himself up with whatever-it-was and studied the bowl.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"An experiment," Sherlock replied, as though that should explain everything.

"Oh. What's in the bowl?"

"Orange juice."

I started to ask what kind of experiment he could possibly be doing with orange juice and a satsuma, but a sudden fit of coughing overtook me and I couldn't get the words out.

Sherlock glanced at me with a puzzled frown, then reached out and put a hand on my forehead before I could dodge.

"You're ill." It was a statement, not a theory.

"No I'm not!" I snapped, knocking his hand away. Bad enough my ankle was useless; I couldn't get a stupid cold too!

"Yes you are." He dropped his weird gun thing on the side and got to his feet. "Wait here; I'll get John."

"No!" I could imagine John's reaction only too well; it would involve the words stay in bed and don't go out and probably drink plenty of fluids as well. Worse, he'd refuse to take me with him. "I'm not ill! I'm not! I'm—" I broke off, racking for something to say that would stop him leaving, and blurted out the first thing that came into my head. "What's your mother's name?"

Sherlock turned, eyebrows raised. "Rather an odd choice of question to stall me, Ben. Anyway, don't you mean our mother?"

"No!" I was starting to think it might not be so bad claiming Sherlock as a brother, but not if that meant having a mother like Mrs Holmes as well.

Sherlock pulled out a chair, spun it around and sat down on it back to front, leaning his arms on the headrest and looking at me as though I was a specimen under a microscope.

"You have been adopted into this family – god help you – you've been living here for the past six months, and you still don't know her name?"

I shrugged. "It just...well, it never seemed a good idea to ask her. What is it?"

"Agatha."

"Agatha? But that's...normal." I frowned, wondering where this trait of weird names in the Holmes family had started. "What's your dad's name?"

"Pyrford."

Oh right.

"Where is he?" I said. There were dozens of photographs all around the house and on the walls, pictures of Mrs Holmes and of Mycroft, but none of Mr. Holmes, nor, now that I thought about it, of Sherlock.

"Dead."

"...Oh." There didn't seem to be much I could say to that. I remembered when my dad died. Most of all, I remembered that it had been a sunny day, which seemed odd at the time. People weren't supposed to die on nice sunny days. "Um. Sorry."

"Oh, don't be. It happened a long time ago, and we weren't particularly close."

"What was he like?" I asked.

"I don't really remember, to tell you the truth. I was five when he died, and he never spent a whole lot of time at home when he was alive. If you want to know about him, you really should ask Mycroft. Why?"

I shrugged. "Just...this is sort of my family now. I'd like to know more about it. I mean, I didn't even know you existed until I heard Mycroft and Mrs Holmes talking about you. I thought Mycroft was an only child. What happened to your dad?"

"He went out looking for a contract killer."

I shifted my weight. I thought I knew how this story was going to end, but I wanted to hear it for myself. "And?"

"He found her," Sherlock answered, proving me right. "Came back to us in a box. His head, at least; they never found the rest of him. Since Mother found out he was having an affair with his driver just before he left, I'm not entirely convinced this was an accident."

I stared at him.

"His driver?" I echoed. "Why?"

"No idea. Maybe he thought the secretary would be too cliché." Glancing over my shoulder, Sherlock said, "Ah, John, perfect timing. Ben's feeling a little under the weather. I think he may be coming down with a cold."

"No I'm not!" I insisted, and then sneezed four times.

"Of course you're not." Sherlock shouldered the black tube thing. "Looks like I'll have to finish this experiment some other time, without any innocent bystanders. Maybe I can persuade Mycroft to come and sit in here for a spell."

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, can't you lay off your brother for just one—" He broke off as he caught sight of the black tube/gun/whatever, then said in a completely different tone of voice, "Please tell me that isn't a flamethrower."

"Of course it's not a flamethrower, what would I want with a flamethrower? No, this is an incendiary unit of a military nature which is going to be instrumental in my exploding cushion experiment. See you later, Ben. Do enjoy your brief taste of freedom today, won't you? God knows when you'll get another one," I heard him mutter, not quite under his breath, then he strolled out, hefting the flamethrower as he went.

"You've made quite an impression on him," John said.

"Yeah, right," I muttered.

He smiled a little. "You don't know Sherlock."

"I—"

"No," he interrupted, "you really don't. I couldn't believe it when I saw the way he treated you at dinner; all that can I pass you anything, dropping bread on your plate and smuggling all those leftovers upstairs for you. That's not Sherlock. Usually he lives in his own private little universe and never notices that anyone else even exists unless he wants them for something. I've never known him be that attentive towards anyone, especially not someone he only just met."

I considered this, frowning slightly.

"I thought he was just being polite," I said aloud.

"Ah, no. No, that's the one thing Sherlock's never been. He's alright really, but it takes a lot of work to realize that. Now, how are you really feeling?"

"My throat hurts a little," I admitted. "But it's nothing serious. I'm fine. I'm okay to go shopping with you."

John raised amused looking eyebrows. "Oh, are you? Did you ask Mrs Holmes?"

I groaned. I'd hoped he'd forgotten about that.

"Sorry, Ben. Pulling rank on her as a doctor is one thing, but kidnapping you is something else, even if it's just for an afternoon. If she says it's okay, and if you're feeling up to it, then I'll take you with me. I'm leaving in about fifteen minutes."

Fifteen minutes. How was I supposed to get permission in fifteen minutes? Mrs Holmes is the kind of person who sulks. She'd never call it that, of course, but I think that's what it is. If you don't tell her exactly what she wants to hear or if you argue with her, she withdraws and refuses to admit you even exist until she thinks you've groveled enough, which can take days sometimes.

It wasn't until I glanced out the window and saw Mycroft's car parked with the others that another idea occurred to me. Mrs Holmes doted on Mycroft so much that if he gave me permission to go, she wasn't likely to object.

A little determined limping on my part brought me to the library. I'd had a feeling Mycroft might be there – he's very much the books-and-armchair kind of guy, if you know what I mean – and I was right; he was settled in one of the chairs, reading the paper and looking every inch the lord of the manor. All he needed was a couple of big floppy dogs sprawled out in front of the fire and the picture would have been complete.

He looked up long enough to see who it was, then went back to the paper. For the first time I wondered if he ever read books. Did he have a favorite author? Watch TV? He didn't seem like the Xbox type, but there must be something he enjoyed. Maybe he played chess or Othello, although I wasn't sure who with. Even his clothes were the same as he wore for the office. Didn't he ever want to kick back and relax in jeans and a t-shirt? Did he even own a pair of jeans and a t-shirt?

It was weird. I mean, how could I be a part of this family for six months and still know nothing about my adoptive brother except his name and the fact that he lived somewhere in London?

I limped in, sat down on the nearest chair and cleared my throat.

"Um. Mycroft?"

He glanced at me, looking a little surprised. It was probably the first time I'd ever tried to start a conversation with him.

"Yes?"

I bit my lip, trying to gather enough courage to ask him and chickened out at the last minute.

"Do you know Sherlock's got a flamethrower?" I said instead.

Mycroft sighed. "No, but that does explain the increasingly frantic messages I've been getting from work. One of these days he's going to get me fired. I shouldn't worry about it though; while my brother's behavior may be erratic, even he's not going to set fire to a building he happens to be standing in. But you didn't come all the way down here just to tell me what he's up to."

That was very true, and not just because I wasn't quite sure what Sherlock was up to.

"John says...he says I can go to Asda with him today if I want," I said. "And I do. Want, I mean. But he said I've gotta make sure it's okay first, so..." I let the sentence trail off, hoping Mycroft was smart enough to pick up on it and also hoping he wasn't the kind of man to hold a grudge over a silly little thing like having a cup of tea thrown in his face and being called a bastard.

He stared at me for a moment or two, then said, "Let me make sure I understand this. You're volunteering – in fact, you're asking – to go to the supermarket?"

"Yeah." His lack of hostility emboldened me enough to add, "It's okay for you. You can drive away, or...have people drive you," I amended. "I can't!"

Mycroft actually folded his paper when I said that, the better to stare at me. I squirmed, feeling like an insect on a pin. I don't know what it is about him; whenever he looks at me, it's like he's looking right into my head.

"Do you mean to tell me that you have been here ever since you arrived? For six months?"

I shifted my weight. "Well..."

"Well what?"

"Well, Mrs Holmes took me to the GP and the dentist two days after I arrived, just to get me registered and checked over, and then took me clothes shopping."

"And since then?"

I shook my head. "Can I go?"

Mycroft raised thin eyebrows. "After your little outburst last night?"

I took comfort in the fact that this wasn't quite a no.

"Did Sherlock tell you about that?" I asked.

"You've seen the two of us together, Benedict. Do you think Sherlock and I have the kind of relationship which involves cozy little chats over a cup of coffee?"

I wasn't sure how to answer that and so I said, "Please can I go to Asda with John?"

Mycroft sighed. "Well, if you're that desperate for a change of scene, then I suppose you'd better. Thinking about it, it's probably a good idea to absent yourself for a while, at least until Sherlock has had time to blow up those cushions." Glancing up and seeing my open mouth, he offered me a thin smile. "There's very little I don't know, Benedict, especially when it concerns my little brother. Off you go."

I stared at him, my jaw still hanging. "You mean...I can go with him? You're giving me permission?"

"If that's what you want to call it, then yes." Mycroft waited until I was in the doorway, then said, "Do remember to say good morning to Mother before you leave, won't you?"

I bit back the first reply that came to mind, which centered around the idea that I would rather swim naked in piranha infested waters than say a single word to Mrs Holmes.

"Where is she?" I asked, as politely as I could.

"In the morning room, I expect. She usually sits there for an hour or so after eating."

I hobbled out without another word. I knew Mycroft well enough by now to know that he'd check to see if I'd done it, and if he discovered I hadn't, then I could kiss goodbye to any other future trips out.

A long and painful walk brought me to the morning room. I try to avoid it whenever possible; not only is it packed full of those silly little china ornaments of girls in frilly dresses, but everything else in there is frilled and chintzed to within an inch of its life. Even the carpet has a flower pattern woven into it.

Mycroft was right though; Mrs Holmes was in there, sitting by the window with a cup of tea. I swear she lives on the stuff.

"Um. Hi," I said awkwardly.

Mrs Holmes looked at me, then turned her head away. I swallowed, then went on.

"I'm sorry for what I said yesterday. I was stupid and childish." (I didn't really think I'd been either of those things, but I didn't want to give her any cause for complaint). "So...uh...yeah. I just wanted to tell you that."

Nothing. I may as well have been talking to the marble statues on either side of the door. Oh well; I'd done what Mycroft wanted. Now it was time to do what I wanted.

I limped outside to the cars, mouth dry with anticipation. Finally. After six months, I was getting a change of scenery.

John was leaning against his car, wearing the same parka I'd seen him in before and paging through a magazine. He looked up as I approached.

"Well?"

"It's okay!" I forced myself not to beam like a lunatic. "I can go!"

John grinned. "Great! Hop in, then."

I opened the door and scrambled into the passenger seat as fast as I could, snapped the belt across my waist, and waited impatiently for John to join me.

Once he was in and we were moving, I couldn't sit still. I kept twisting around, trying to see out of all the windows at once, until a particularly nasty flash of pain shot up my ankle. At that point, I settled down a little and started quizzing John.

"Did Sherlock give you a long list?"

"Fairly long. Should be in there for about an hour."

"An hour." I slumped in my seat a little. John glanced over at me, lips quirking in a smile.

"You were the one who wanted to come," he reminded me.

"I thought I'd have longer." I moped for a few minutes, then a thought struck me and I brightened. "Can we stop off at some other shops on the way?"

"It's Boxing Day, Ben. I'm not sure any other shops will be open."

"Well...can you at least slow down a little? I'm sure you're speeding."

"I'm going twenty five because of the road conditions, and we happen to be in a forty."

"Oh." I slumped a little further, playing with my fingers. "Well, is it very far to Asda?"

"Should be about twenty minutes, I think."

Twenty minutes each way. Forty minutes, plus an hour in Asda...that wasn't very long. I'd hoped to have at least two or three hours away from home.

"Can't you slow down and make it thirty?" I pleaded. "I can pay you. Mycroft gave me some money for Christmas."

"Blimey, you are desperate, aren't you? No. Sherlock said, and I quote, that if he had to wait even one minute longer than necessary, he'd rearrange all the labels on my medical supplies, and he has an annoying habit of carrying out his threats. Look on the bright side; at least you're getting out. How's your ankle?"

"Okay. I'm sure it would be fine if you wanted to, you know, take a look in every part of the store. I wouldn't want you to miss anything."

"What you mean is, you don't want to go back to the estate."

I shrugged, squirmed a little in embarrassment and then looked out of the window with single-minded intensity and didn't answer. The estate is miles from the nearest town and we were driving past empty fields, which weren't very interesting to look at, but were at least a change.

Eventually, the fields gave way to houses and gardens, many of which had families in them either having snowball fights or building snowmen together.

Watching them brought a lump to my throat and I swallowed. I remembered building snowmen with my mum and dad ages ago. There hadn't been much snow, but Mum had taught me how to make a small snowball and roll it around and around until it got big enough to make into a snowman. We'd ended up with about ten medium sized ones in the end, and then we'd taken it in turns making snowballs and throwing them at our snowmen, trying to knock their heads off.

Mrs Holmes and Mycroft wouldn't be interested in anything like that. Sherlock...no. He seemed cooler than his older brother, but something said he wasn't the snowman building, snowball fighting type of guy. I wasn't sure about John.

Once we got into Merle, it took fifteen minutes for John to find Asda, and another ten of driving in circles around the car park before we could get a space which, luckily, wasn't too far from the main entrance.

Inside, the place was packed. After six months with the same faces, I couldn't stop staring at everyone we saw. I wanted to drink in every detail of their features, to learn everything about them.

At least, that was part of it. The other part made me feel suddenly shy and nervous. If you've ever spent a long time mostly alone and then gone into a crowded place with chatter and noise all around you, you'll know what I mean. It's like your senses go into overload.

Using the trolley for support, I limped over to the fruit and veg section, where I picked up a net of kiwis and looked around for a basket, only to find that they'd all been taken. Seeing my dilemma, John nodded towards the trolley.

"Tell you what, just stick whatever you want in there. We can sort it out at the checkout."

I did what he said, adding several microwave cheeseburgers, two six packs, a family pack of Mars bars and a DVD (I wanted to get Hellraiser, but there was no way I could pass for eighteen and John flatly refused to buy it for me, so I had to settle for part two of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows).

It was over far too soon, which is something I never thought I'd say about a trip to the supermarket. We were back in the fruit and veg section, John having discovered that he'd forgotten the bananas, and I was wondering just what a dragonfruit tasted like and how you were supposed to go about eating it when John said, "Right, I think that's it."

I tore my gaze away from the exotic fruit section and stared at him. "What?"

"That's it," he repeated. "C'mon. Time to go."

"Can't I have a little longer?" I begged. "Please? I haven't seen the frozen food section yet."

John gave me a look that wavered between disbelief and amusement. "Ben, it's the supermarket, not the zoo!"

"Yeah, but...but my ankle's hurting really badly!" That wasn't a lie. I wouldn't have missed a trip out for anything, even just a trip to the supermarket, but I guess my ankle felt differently.

"Well, if it's hurting really badly, I think we should get you back home so you can rest it."

Okay, so that one didn't work. I cast about for something else and tried again.

"Yeah, but shouldn't we buy something frozen to put on it? You know, for the swelling?"

"No."

I blinked, surprised.

"No?" I echoed.

"You only need to do that when you first injure it. After that, the damage has been done and there's not much point. It would be like running cold water over a two day old burn."

Oh. I wondered if it was worth trying to argue with him on that score, but after all, he was a doctor and probably knew more about it than I did.

"Okay, but can't I sit and rest it for a few minutes? Gather my strength?"

"Oh, right. So all of a sudden your ankle's flaring up again just as we're going back to the car. Bit of a coincidence, isn't it?"

"I only need a couple of minutes' rest." I cast a longing glance at the soft chairs against the wall and added, "Maybe half an hour."

"Ben, I am not sitting in Asda with you for half an hour!"

"You could wait in the car," I suggested hopefully.

"I'm not sitting in the car by myself for half an hour either, nor am I going to abandon a thirteen year old kid in the supermarket." John didn't sound angry, but there was a note in his voice which said he wasn't going to give in on this one.

"Well, can I at least look at the magazines before we go?" I asked, with my best pleading expression.

John looked at me, then let out a sigh accompanied by a half smile, which I took to mean Oh...alright then.

"Go on," he said, proving me right.

I grabbed three gaming magazines and one biking one, then limped after John to the checkout, my spirits dropping further with every step. I wanted to stay out, wanted to see a little more of the surrounding area (although my ankle was now throbbing quite painfully and I wouldn't mind sitting down).

"Will you take the long way home?" I asked him as soon as we were outside.

"I don't know the long way home."

"I do!"

John gave me a long look.

"You told me you'd never been off the estate," he pointed out.

My heart sank and I glanced around, looking for some other excuse to put off our return to the estate. It wasn't just not wanting to be there; I was getting nervous that Mrs Holmes would spot us coming in, demand to know where I'd been and blow my cover. I wanted to put off that moment as long as possible.

"Um..." I began, then stopped.

"Tell you what. If you come back to the car right now without any more stalling, I'll take you with me next time I go, so long as you get permission from Mrs Holmes again."

I wondered what he'd say if he knew I hadn't got it this time, then forced the thought away. I doubted Mrs Holmes had missed me. Even if she had, Mycroft would have told her where I was. So long as she didn't see me coming back in John's car and comment on it, John didn't have to know I'd snuck out.

"You promise?" I asked.

"Promise. If you get permission."

I subsided and climbed into the car. I didn't like the thought of asking Mrs Holmes for permission next time either; if her mood this morning was anything to go by, it would be ages before she was ready to even acknowledge my existence, much less do something nice for me.

The journey home passed mostly in silence. I vaguely remember John doing his best to start up some kind of conversation, but I was too worried about what Mrs Holmes would say if she found out what I'd done and too depressed at the thought of this trip being over to answer him much.

When we arrived back at the estate, it was quarter past one. Lunch in the Holmes family is always served at one precisely, so John and I left the shopping in the car to unload later and headed into the dining room.

"You're late," Mycroft remarked.

I don't know what John was going to say in response to him, but he glanced at me before replying, so I think he must have changed his mind.

"Yes. Sorry. It was a bit of a hectic journey back."

My heart stopped, but Mrs Holmes didn't seem to pick up on John's words. Probably she thought he was talking about getting back in from a walk or something.

I was actually quite hungry, and the lettuce part of the whatever-it-was-dish looked more or less edible, so I stabbed it with my fork, folded it several times so I could fit the whole leaf into my mouth, and began eating.

"I understand the two of you spent the morning together," Mrs Holmes said, addressing John.

"Yes." John glanced up from cutting his piece of turkey, which looked like it had been cooked with Sherlock's flamethrower. "Yes, we went to Asda and got some shopping. Didn't we, Ben?"

Somehow I managed to swallow my lettuce and managed a tiny squeak by way of an answer.

"To Asda," Mrs Holmes repeated. "That's nice."

"Yeah. Course, it was a bit crowded." (Whydid John have to talk to everyone? Why?) "Took us ten minutes to get parked."

"Which is why I sent the two of you instead of going myself," Sherlock interjected. "Ben—"

I knew him well enough by now to know what he was about to say, and so I handed him the bread basket.

"Thank you. Anyone else want any? John? Ben? Mother, how about you?"

I didn't say anything, just sat there with my fingers crossed under the table, hoping and praying Sherlock's little diversionary tactic would work. I should have known better.

Mrs Holmes gave me an icy look. "In future, Benedict, you are not to leave the estate without permission. Is that clear?"

John turned a shocked look on me, and I immediately passed it on to Mycroft, who swallowed his mouthful, wiped his mouth and set his napkin down on the table before speaking.

"He did have permission, Mother."

Mrs Holmes stiffened. "He most certainly did not!"

"He asked me this morning if he could go and help Dr. Watson with his shopping in Asda, and I said that he could."

It was worth everything I'd gone through since arriving here just to see the look on Mrs Holmes' face at this news.

"He should have come to me, not you."

"Yes, and I'm quite sure he would have done, were it not for the fact that you were still in bed and he didn't want to disturb you."

I snatched up my napkin and pretended to be wiping my own mouth in an effort to disguise how low my jaw was hanging. Mycroft, covering up for me?

"On a similar note, Mother, isn't it about time he had his own driver?" Mycroft went on. "The boy needs his independence, after all. We can't keep imposing on Dr. Watson's good nature."

Better and better. I wasn't sure what had happened to bring Mycroft onto my side, but I hoped it would last.

"It was one trip to Asda, Mycroft," Sherlock retorted. "Hardly constitutes an imposition."

I also hoped that Sherlock would fall into a tub of something warm and sticky for saying that. If imposing on John's good nature, as Mycroft put it, would get me my own driver, then I was prepared to stand up and swear that I'd imposed like no one had ever imposed before.

"Well, perhaps not," Mycroft conceded. "But he's not going to be here all the time, and then what? You can't expect Benedict to stay inside the grounds until he's sixteen."

"Benedict stays here, Mycroft, unless he's with either me or you. I'm not going to risk losing this son."

"Have you lost sons before, then?" I asked her. I was a little sick of them discussing me as though I wasn't there, although at least this time they weren't doing it in Latin.

"She's talking about me," Sherlock said flatly. "And you realize I will have to string you upside down for a week for making me say this, Mother, but Mycroft does have a point. Ben needs his own driver. I had one when I was his age." He tore a piece of bread off his roll with his teeth, then said around his mouthful, "Whatever happened to Alan, anyway?"

"I fired him, of course. I wasn't about to keep him, not after he lost my poor son."

"Oh stop it, Mother, you're going to make me vomit. Of course he lost me. That was the idea."

"I hardly think Benedict's going to settle in here if he keeps rushing out all over the place," Mrs Holmes said icily.

"Hardly think he'll be good for anything at all if he doesn't," Sherlock countered. "You may find this hard to believe, but there is a world outside of this estate, just waiting to be discovered."

"Yes, and speaking of discoveries, Sherlock, your brother tells me you were performing some kind of experiment on a satsuma with a flamethrower."

I froze, the fork halfway to my mouth, and prayed Sherlock wouldn't think Mrs Holmes was talking about me.

Sherlock swallowed his mouthful. "Don't be absurd. What the hell would a satsuma be doing with a flamethrower? Well, might come in useful for self-defense on Christmas Day, I suppose, but—"

"Sherlock!"

"Don't Sherlock me, Mother. You really should be more precise with your grammar. Anyway, considering the damage I did to your three best cushions, you should have been relieved at my experimenting on something less expensive."

John glanced at me and said in a voice too low to carry (having a huge dining table can really be an advantage sometimes) "And you shouldn't have lied about having permission."

"I didn't lie!" I protested. "I got permission; Mycroft said I could go. "

"I said you had to ask Mrs Holmes, not Mycroft."

"I didn't think she'd let me go," I mumbled. "And she knew where I was; Mycroft would have told her. It's not like I went off behind her back."

"No, that's exactly what it was like, Ben. Getting permission from Mycroft was better than not getting it at all, I'll give you that, but you still should have asked Mrs Holmes for permission."

"But she wouldn't have given it to me!" I protested.

On the other side, Sherlock, who apparently had ears like a bat, snickered.

"He does have a point."

"You—just...don't start, okay?"

"Don't start what?" Sherlock queried. "You're the one who keeps insisting I need more practice in caring." He drawled that last word, turning it into more of a sneer.

"Yes, but not—"

"Oh, I see, you meant I should only care about those people you want me to care about; in other words, complete strangers." He pulled a mock-sad face. "Sorry, Ben. Looks like John doesn't want me caring about family members. You're on your own."

"Sherlock, stop this, alright?" John ordered. "Stop it now. Play with Mycroft's mind if you have to – at least he can fight you on your own level – but you're not playing with mine and I really am not going to let you play with Ben's."

"That's hardly fair, John. Everyone else around this table has played with his feelings. Why can't I have a turn?"

"Sherlock!" The reproach came from three people in unison.

Something snapped in my mind just then. One minute I was fine, the next...it was like I was drowning in static. That's kind of a weird description, I know, but it's also the most accurate I can manage.

Calmly, not rushing or looking at anyone, I got to my feet. On some level I was still aware of what I was doing, but it felt odd, like someone else was controlling me from a distance.

I picked up my glass of water and held it up, turning it around in my fingers, watching as the liquid caught the light. Pretty. Then, my movements slow and deliberate, I tipped it up and let the water pour down onto my plate. That was pretty too, the light flickering through the drops and turning them into a cascade of diamonds, diamonds which pattered onto my plate and merged into one another.

No one said anything. Even Mrs Holmes seemed to be at a loss for words.

Still calm, I let the glass slide out of my fingers. It landed on the table with a faint thud, but didn't break.

That done, I turned and limped out, closing the door softly behind me, and made my way upstairs to my bedroom, where I sat down on my bed and stared into space.

I'm not sure what happened next. It's like...having clicked out of reality I just clicked back into it. The weird, puppetlike feeling had gone; I was fully myself again.

I looked at the radio clock on my bedside table and felt a sudden shock; it was ten past four. Had I really been sitting there doing nothing for over two hours?

Feeling a little shaky, I got to my feet, clinging onto my desk for support. I waited until I felt a little surer of myself, then headed over to the door. I had no idea where I was going; I only knew I didn't want to sit up there by myself just then. Maybe John—no, John was probably still angry over what had happened earlier.

I hobbled around the house for a while until I came to the lounge, which was empty except for Sherlock; he was lying on the sofa with a book in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He was also using one of Mrs Holmes' finest bone china saucers as an ashtray. She was going to kill him when she found out, and about the only consolation I could think of was that at least she wouldn't blame me.

For a few minutes, I just stood there and stared at my adoptive brother. I couldn't think of anything to say, and I wasn't sure he'd listen to me even if I could.

"Something bothering you?" Sherlock drawled.

"Yes, something's bothering me! Your stupid retard family is bothering me!"

"Oh. I thought you were just feeling bad because you betrayed John's trust and in doing so got him into serious trouble with Mother and Mycroft and disappointed the only person on this estate who's bothered to show you a moment's kindness. My mistake."

"I didn't betray his trust," I protested, although my voice shook a little.

"Yes you did. He trusted you to do what he asked, and you didn't. John is fundamentally a very moral man. There's nothing he hates worse than dishonesty."

"Yeah, well, he's got no idea what it's like here! You and John are the first new faces I've seen! I can't even go out for a walk because the stupid gate's locked! I can't look out 'cause the whole place is walled up and no matter what I do it's not good enough! I just have to say, do and think exactly what Mrs Holmes orders me to. I don't talk right, I don't dress right, my posture isn't perfect and I wasn't born knowing everything a Holmes should know, and I'm not allowed to stay in touch with any friends from my old life and I can't even find new friends because I'm not allowed to leave and the last time Mrs Holmes brought back a nice boy for me to play with, as she put it, he bugged me so much I pushed him in the goldfish pond!"

Sherlock chuckled low in his throat and I rounded on him.

"It's not funny!" I said stridently.

"Oh, I don't know. I found it extremely funny when I was a child."

When I gawked at him without answering, he rolled his eyes. "Please. Do you really think that you're the only one ever to hate this house? This life?"

I stared at him. "Well...yeah. I mean, they're your family."

"Oh, I see, and family matters," Sherlock drawled. "How quaint. At least I got away from here before Mother could subject me to her idea of matchmaking, unlike my dear brother. If I cared for him in the slightest, I might actually have felt a little sorry for him. Mother can be very determined. Quite how Mycroft managed to retain his bachelorhood, I have no idea."

"Matchmaking?" I echoed nervously.

"Mm. Quite common among families like ours." Sherlock sucked on his cigarette and blew smoke out at the ceiling. "You'll be in for it too, as soon as you reach a good breeding age. Fifteen or sixteen's usually the time to start."

I went scarlet. "But...Mrs Holmes was talking about uni and—"

"Oh, you'll get to go through all that first," Sherlock agreed. "Mother just likes to get a head start, so that by the time you collect your degree, you're all ready to tie the nuptial knot. You end up well educated and married, ready to start producing grandchildren, and she can sit here, pat herself on the back and compliment herself on what a wonderful job she did of raising you."

"She's mental," I muttered.

"Extremely." Sherlock glanced at his cigarette, which he'd smoked almost down to the filter, then rolled the stub idly between his fingers before crushing it out in his makeshift ashtray. "I told you before, Ben, if you have even half a microgram of common sense, call your social worker and tell her to get you out of here. This place...it gets into your mind, into your pores and then it eats away at you until there's nothing left. Why do you think I was so determined to leave? I could see what was coming; a whole life where Mother dearest picked out my hobbies, my clothes, my friends...everything, in fact."

I felt a shiver crawl down my spine.

"I'm not going to let her do that to me," I said, in a voice which was a lot braver than I felt.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "That's equally dangerous. You can only push people so far before they push back, and a push from Mother would probably send you flying."

I shrugged.

"You don't believe me," Sherlock stated. It wasn't a question. "You should, you know. My family – our family, I suppose I should say – isn't what you might call tolerant when it comes to imperfections."

I felt a nasty jolt run through me. I wondered how they'd feel if they found out about my sleepwalking.

"Sherlock?"

He glanced at me. "Hm?"

"Did you ever have a, well, a sort of problem? Like, something you knew you should take to a doctor but you were too embarrassed to bring it up?"

Sherlock stared at me, then closed his book.

"Which embarrassing problem have you—oh, of course. The sleepwalking."

So much for keeping it a closely-guarded secret. I swallowed, feeling my face go red.

"How long have you known?" I asked.

"Oh, from the beginning. When we first met, you were barefoot in my maze and barely conscious. Snow was half covering you so you'd clearly been out there for some time. If you had crept out for a little late night exploration, you would have a coat or at least some shoes. I've never heard of anyone walking barefoot in the snow before, at least, not voluntarily. Mazes are hard enough to navigate in broad daylight, let alone after dark, but if you'd gone in there and got lost during the day, I would have found you then. You went in when it was dark, so why? Can't have been on your way to the middle, as no one besides me has ever made it there and even if you could find the doors leading to the inner parts of the maze, they're all locked and I have the only keys. You had no torch, so clearly you weren't out for an evening stroll and you were in a snowdrift when I found you; if you'd been fully awake when you'd gone in there, you would have kept moving. No, you were too tired to think clearly, but not because it was late; it was barely eight o'clock when I found you. That coupled with the fact that you had no shoes tells me you were wandering around in your sleep. Obvious."

Oh. There wasn't much I could say to that.

"Not to mention you also did it that same night I brought you in," Sherlock added.

I stared at him. "But...my ankle. I thought the pain would wake me?" Then again, I'd thought that same thing here and look what happened.

"Yes, so did I. Apparently we were both wrong; you came into my bedroom at around midnight. Seemed to think my bed should be yours."

I felt my face grow cold, then hot again. Why couldn't the ground ever open up and swallow me just when I needed it to? Was that really too much to ask?

"I tried to..." I began, but couldn't finish the sentence. This is one reason I hate sleepwalking. I usually end up embarrassing myself in some way. Trying to get into bed with Sherlock wasn't quite as bad as the very first time I'd sleepwalked, when I'd ended up locked outside the house in my underwear, but it still ranked in my top three Most Humiliating Moments.

"Yeah. I had to get out of bed and take you back to the couch myself. You went happily enough."

"I'm sorry."

"What on earth for? It wasn't your fault." Sherlock took a sip of coffee, then went back to his phone.

"Do you...know anything about it?"

It was a strange question to ask him, especially since I still had no idea what he did for a living, but he seemed to know about everything else.

Sherlock considered it for a few seconds, then shook his head.

"Not enough to tell you how to stop it. You'll need John for that."

I hesitated. It wasn't just embarrassment about sleepwalking that stopped me going to John; I hadn't forgotten his reaction after lunch. I'd been avoiding him since then, not sure if he was still angry with me.

"He won't bite your head off, Ben," Sherlock informed me. "For all his faults, John's never been one to bear a grudge."

I hesitated. "So you think I should ask him about it?"

"Well, let me put it this way. I can't help you, so either tell John or tell my mother and have her take you to the GP. She'll do it, if that's what you're worried about."

"Really?"

"Oh yes. The more troubled your behavior is, the more she can pat herself on the back for taking you in and looking after you."

"I'm not her stupid trophy!" I said stridently.

"No, Mycroft's her stupid trophy. I believe Mother has something rather more special in mind for you."

I stared at him, the fire in my belly suddenly no more than cold, dead ash. That same cold foreboding was creeping over me again.

"W-what do you mean?"

"Exactly what I say. Hadn't you better be getting down to John? It's getting dark and I rather doubt Mother will bother with the outside lights, since we're not expecting any visitors."

Something told me that it would be useless to quiz him anymore, especially since he seemed to want me gone for the moment. I wondered if John would know. I didn't think he knew much more about Sherlock's family than I did – in fact, since I'd been living with them for six months, I probably knew more – but he and Sherlock seemed close and I thought if my adoptive brother confided in anyone, it would probably be him.

It took a very long time to limp down to the gardener's cottage, and more than once I thought savagely that Sherlock could at least have driven me down. I'll be honest, though, and admit that it took a lot longer than it should have taken as at one point I lost my nerve and started back. I'd almost reached the steps to the door before I forced myself to turn around. My sleepwalking excursion into Sherlock's maze had left me more shaken up than I wanted to admit. Admittedly I hadn't sleepwalked since, but last night I'd had a vivid nightmare about being trapped in there. I guess it was better than my usual nightmare about fire, but I still didn't like it. If John did have some kind of pill or something that could cure my sleepwalking, I didn't want to put it off for even one night.

For a long time I stood there, staring at the door, my heart hammering under my ribs. I wasn't afraid of what he might say, but I was aware that the last time we'd spoken, he'd been angry over the whole permission thing and I'd been trying to drown my lunch.

I swallowed painfully (I really was coming down with something; I just hoped it wasn't anything too bad) then raised my hand and knocked.


Okay, this was a long one but still, I hope you liked it and if you read, please review!