Zombie-Slaying Ninja: Thanks, I'm glad you're enjoying it :D


For a few minutes, nobody answered. I didn't know whether I was glad or sorry about that. I'd just about made up my mind to run (or at least limp) back to the house when the door opened and John stood there, looking a little surprised.

"Ben, hello. You looking for Sherlock?"

I swallowed, then shook my head. At least he hadn't slammed the door in my face. Or yelled at me. Or both.

"Can I...can I talk to you about something?" I asked.

He looked surprised, but nodded. "Yeah, course you can. Come on in. How's your ankle?"

"Hurts," I admitted.

"Need a hand?"

I started to insist that I was fine, but something in his face changed my mind halfway and I said, "Maybe...a little?"

John smiled and I felt the knot in my chest loosen a little. If he was smiling, things couldn't be that bad.

"C'mon then."

He pulled my arm over his shoulders and helped me over to the couch. I sat down with my face burning, already wishing I hadn't started this but determined to see it through. Maybe it would have been better if he had slammed the door in my face; at least then I wouldn't have to bring this up.

"So, what did you want to talk to me about?" John asked.

I racked my brains trying to think of a way to ask him that would cause me the least humiliation, then it hit me.

"I...um...well, I have this friend," I said slowly. "He's got a problem."

There. That was good. At least now John wouldn't think it was me who was sleepwalking.

"Oh, a friend. I see." John settled himself next to me. "And does this friend have a name?"

"Um, yeah. Ken."

John raised his eyebrows, looking like he was trying hard not to smile. "Right. Okay. And is, ah, Ken in trouble?"

"He's...well, he used to have a problem, but he kinda stopped it. Only now he's started it again."

"Has he been to the doctor? Or isn't it that kind of problem?"

I squirmed. My throat had constricted, making talking very hard.

"Um. I don't know. But you're a doctor, right? I mean, a real doctor? 'Cause I, um, I sort of promised Ken I'd ask you about this. His problem, I mean."

"Alright." A little more serious now. "And what exactly is Ken's problem?"

"He..." I hesitated. "It's...well, a little stupid. I mean, it's something only little kids do so he, um, doesn't like to talk about it."

"Hmm. How old is Ken?"

"Fourteen. Well, fourteen in January."

"Okay. So similar sort of age to you, then?"

Was he buying it? I hesitated, then nodded.

"Yeah. But not me!"

"Right, yes. Not you. So Ken's got a problem, has he?"

I nodded again.

"And he hasn't talked to the doctor about it. I see. What about his mum? Has he talked to her?"

I stared at him, forgetting my cover story. "Are you kidding? You've met her! She's mental! And she's not his mum," I added, not quite under my breath.

"No, I haven't met her. I don't know anyone named Ken."

"Oh. Yeah. Um. Well...she's kinda like Mrs Holmes. And I wouldn't go to her and so Ken wouldn't go to his mother and...and so he—you're not buying this whole friend thing, are you?" I interrupted myself.

"Nope," John answered, although he was smiling. "So why don't I get us both a drink and you can tell me what's really bothering you?"

I felt myself go scarlet, but nodded.

"Alright. What d'you fancy? Coke? Orange juice?"

"Can I have both?"

He looked at me a little askance. "What, in the one glass?"

"Yeah. About a quarter juice and the rest Coke."

"Is this something you have often?"

"Not here, but my dad—" I broke off abruptly. I'm not allowed to talk about my birth family. According to Mrs Holmes, doing so makes me ungrateful and nobody wants to hear about them anyway.

"Your dad what?"

I didn't want to answer that. Well, no, I sort of did, but what if Mrs Holmes was right about it making me ungrateful? I couldn't care less what she thought, but I didn't want John thinking badly of me.

"Where did you get Coke?" I said instead.

"I didn't; you did. You bought it at Asda this morning, remember?"

Now that he mentioned it, I did. In our hurry to get inside for lunch, John and I had left the stuff in the car.

Thinking of that brought on another, less pleasant realization; even though John had told me to put my stuff in the trolley and that we'd sort it out at the checkout, I'd completely forgotten and he'd ended up paying for my stuff as well as his.

I rummaged in my pockets, trying to find the hundred pounds Mycroft had given me.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Um, how much do I owe you?"

He glanced around, a puzzled look on his face. "Owe me?"

"You know, for Asda. We were going to sort everything out at the checkout but we didn't."

"Oh, that. Don't worry about it."

"Really?"

"Really." He came over, my drink in one hand and an open bottle of beer in the other. "Call it a late Christmas present."

I felt myself grow hot. "Really? Um. Thanks."

"Don't mention it. It works out for both of us, since I had no idea what to get you." John offered me my drink, then frowned. "Are you sure you want to drink this? It looks disgusting."

"I know, but it's nice."

John eyed it a little dubiously. I could sort of see why; Coke and orange juice combined looks like the kind of liquid you'd scoop out of a ditch.

"Mind if I try a bit?"

"If I can try some of your beer," I bargained.

He studied me for a few seconds, then held out his bottle with a conspiratorial smile. "Go on then. Just a little, and don't tell Mrs Holmes."

I swapped my glass for his bottle and took a small mouthful. It was a strange taste. I'd had the odd sip of wine on special occasions, but this was nothing like that. For some reason, the flavor I kept thinking of was bread.

"Like it?" John asked.

I frowned, trying to work out whether I did or not.

"I dunno," I admitted. "It's kinda weird." Keeping half an eye on him, I added, "Maybe I better drink some more to see."

"Oh no you don't." John fielded the bottle on its way to my mouth and replaced it with my glass.

I sipped at the sweet mixture. Drinking Coke and orange juice brought back memories of family barbecues, when Dad and I would get through a whole family sized bottle of Coke in one meal.

We sat in silence for several minutes. Well, John was silent, at least. I kept starting and stopping various sentences, trying to get up enough courage to tell him what was happening and losing my nerve halfway through each time. John didn't seem inclined to push me; instead he just sat there, taking the occasional swig from his beer.

Finally I managed to force out, "I...there's…there's this, this thing that I do sometimes."

Alright, it wasn't very helpful but it was a complete sentence, which was a big improvement on what I'd been coming out with so far. Embarrassed, already wishing I could take the words back, I stared at my hands, twining and untwining my fingers.

"A thing. Okay. What sort of thing?"

I opened my mouth, felt the words freeze in my throat and shut it again.

"Promise you won't tell Mrs Holmes? Or Mycroft?"

"I'm not the least bit interested in having any sort of conversation with Mycroft at all, Ben, but if you do need medical attention of some kind, I'll have to tell Mrs Holmes."

I shifted my weight, not liking the way this was going. "But you're a doctor. Can't you help me?"

"Not if you don't tell me what it is you're so ashamed of," John answered candidly.

I tried, I really did, but every time I started the words just dried up. He watched me for a few moments, then said, "Alright, let's try this another way. You say that there's this thing that you do sometimes. Is there a certain time of day when it happens?"

I swallowed, my throat so dry it hurt. "N-no. Not really. It's more of a night time thing."

"Okay. Well, now we're getting somewhere. Why do you think you do it at night?" When I was silent, he went on. "Is it because you don't want anyone to know?"

I shook my head. "No. I mean, I don't want anyone to know but that's not why I do it at night. I don't choose when it happens, it just…happens mostly at night."

John smiled a little. "Alright. So it's something you do mostly at night, something you're ashamed of and something you have no control over. Is it something that happens when you're asleep?"

I nodded, heart racing. Did he know? He couldn't know!

"Right. Well, I've got it down to three possibilities. Think you could narrow it down to one for me?"

"I…" I stared at my hands a while longer, took two or three deep breaths, then forced myself to look at him and said in a rush, "I sleepwalk."

He nodded, as though it was no big deal. "Well, that was one of them."

I didn't want to ask what the other two had been; instead I just said, "That's how I met Sherlock. I went to sleep in my room and woke up inside his maze. He found me and brought me here. And, um, took my clothes off to dry."

John chuckled. "Well, from a medical point of view, he did the right thing, but it must've been a bit of a shock for you when you woke up."

I nodded, biting my lip, still not looking at him.

"He'd never hurt you, Ben," John said more seriously. "You know that, don't you? He may not be the easiest person in the world to get along with, but he'd never hurt you."

I glanced up at him and swallowed. The Coke and orange didn't seem to be doing any good; my throat felt as tight and dry as it had when I first started.

"Would Mycroft?"

"No. And I don't like Mycroft, so I'm not just saying that to be loyal. Mycroft's not a nice man, but believe me, he would never, ever do anything like that to you."

I looked back at my hands. I hadn't really been worried – however cold and aloof Mycroft was and however much he unnerved me, I'd always felt safe with him in that respect – but it was still good to have it confirmed.

"And at least your sleepwalking explains why you were out barefoot in the snow," John added. "I didn't think you were that stupid. Are you on any medication?"

"Mrs Holmes makes me take vitamin pills sometimes." Personally I think this is a waste of time, but I've never objected. The pills she gives me taste like orange Starburst, so I quite like them.

"Well, they wouldn't cause you to sleepwalk. You haven't been given any pills by a doctor lately?"

I shook my head.

"Okay. Well, by itself, sleepwalking isn't anything to worry about, and it's really nothing to be ashamed of either."

I scowled at my knees. "That's easy for you to say. You never ended up locked outside the house in your underwear before." I still wake up in a cold sweat thinking about that night. I'd been too scared to go to sleep for weeks after that, and whenever I did I always dreamed I was back out there.

John winced. "Ooh. Not funny. How many cars went past while you were out there?"

I pulled my good leg up and buried the lower half of my face in my knee.

"Hundreds," I mumbled.

"Yeah. That's the down side of sleepwalking."

"You mean there's an up side?" If there was, I hadn't found it.

He smiled a little at that. "No. Not really. What worries me is that your bedroom's on the third floor and you've already wandered outside once before. And in these temperatures!"

I swallowed. "If Sherlock hadn't found me, would I have died?"

"I don't know. I wasn't here, so I don't know how bad you were or how long you were out there in total. But you'd certainly have ended up in hospital." John paused, then said, "You should have gone to hospital anyway, but if I know Sherlock, he'd have wanted to do it all himself. Guy's a control freak."

I could believe that. Growing up in a house where your every move had to be approved, right down to your choice of music and hobbies, would make a control freak out of anyone.

"Does it ever go away on its own?" I asked. "The sleepwalking, I mean."

"Yes, sometimes. Why don't you go to Mrs Holmes about this? I'm sure she'd be happy to take you to a doctor."

"You're a doctor. Can't you do something? Give me something? She doesn't have to know. I...I don't want to worry her."

John raised his eyebrows. "You don't want to worry her, or you don't want to embarrass yourself?" When I didn't answer, he shrugged. "Either way, the answer's no. I'm not your doctor and I've never seen your records or your medical history, so I'm not comfortable prescribing something that may have side effects. Do you know how long you were out in the snow?"

I shook my head. "No. Sherlock said he found me at about eight. I can't remember when I fell asleep and I never know when I start walking."

"Right. So you sleepwalked out of your bedroom, out of your house and into the maze."

I nodded, not looking at him. "Yeah...I guess. But I don't know how. I mean, the front door's always locked. I'd need to sleepwalk over to the keys, get the right one and unlock it, and then I'd have to open the door into the maze."

"Ben, there are cases of people getting dressed and driving a car in their sleep, so unlocking a door is pretty basic compared to that."

"But what if it happens again?"

"Hmm." John took a gulp of beer. "Do you know if the door to that maze locks?"

I nodded. "I think so, but I can't find the key. I think Sherlock took it."

"That's easy enough then. I'll get him to lock it and bring the key back here to the cottage. Then even if you do somehow manage to sleepwalk outside, you won't be able to get in, so you won't get lost again."

His matter-of-fact acceptance gave me the courage to ask the question I'd never quite dared to ask my own doctor.

"Is it true that if you wake a sleepwalker, they die?"

John chuckled. "No. They'd be a little confused, maybe even lash out in a panic, but they wouldn't die. That's just an urban legend. Have you ever sleepwalked before?"

I shifted my weight, not looking at him.

"Well...a little. When my dad died. And when I was in my foster home."

"Right." John hesitated, then said, "So your parents didn't die at the same time?"

I shook my head. "No. Dad died when I was ten. My mum died a couple years later."

"And did your sleepwalking stop on its own after a while?"

I racked my brains, trying to remember, then shook my head. "Not really. Well, it did when I was with my mum, but not...not after. But my foster mum took me to the doctor and he told her to wake me in the middle of the night. After that, I stopped."

He nodded, as though that made sense. "When did you start? Was it just after you moved in?"

I stared at him. "Yes! How did you know?"

"Stress or trauma can sometimes cause sleepwalking. It's not a very common cause, but it does happen. You did it after you lost your dad, then again after you'd lost your mum and a bunch of strangers grabbed you and shunted you into a house where you didn't know anyone before you had time to blink. That's enough trauma for anyone; in fact, I'd almost be worried if you didn't have some kind of reaction. How long were you with your foster family?"

I frowned, trying to remember. "About...six months? But I knew after four months that I was coming here. It just took another two to sort out paperwork or something."

"Do you miss them?"

I shrugged, and repeated what Mrs Holmes always said whenever I tried to talk about my foster family, or my birth family.

"Don't need them anymore. I've got this place."

"I didn't ask if you needed them, Ben. I asked if you missed them."

I didn't, exactly. I'd been settling in, but I was torn out and taken here before I could really get close to them. I missed the life there more than the people. Missed being able to wander into the kitchen and get myself a glass of milk or something without having to apply to Mrs Parker for permission, which she never granted.

But still...John was different. I didn't think he would laugh at me for what I was about to say, or get angry.

"Kinda," I admitted. "Maybe. Well...a little. Don't tell anyone, okay?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

I shrugged again, playing with my fingers. "Mrs Holmes...well, she always says that caring's not an advantage and that I should just put it all behind me and move on. She says that the only way I can do this is to stop thinking about it and forget I ever lived with those people. That's exactly how she says it, those people. I'm not allowed to talk about them. Ever. She says it's unhealthy."

John glanced at me, frowning, and I rushed on.

"I mean, I talked to you because you asked me and you need to know stuff like that because you're a doctor, right? 'Cause sometimes parents pass things on to their kids. Can you pass sleepwalking on?"

He shrugged. "It can happen sometimes, yeah. Did your parents sleepwalk?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "John?"

"Yeah?"

I opened my mouth, then shut it again. I wanted to tell him about what happened after I'd poured the water onto my plate, how I'd suddenly lost a chunk of time, but couldn't bring myself to do it. It wasn't that I thought he'd laugh at me; I was scared he'd brand me crazy and ship me off to a nuthouse. When I was eight, I'd made the mistake of watching a horror film that was set in an insane asylum where people were tied to the bed and forcibly injected, and the images of that film had stayed with me and left me with a secret phobia of places like that. Okay, I'm not a total idiot, so I knew the reality probably wouldn't be anything like Hollywood, but I still couldn't shake that fear. To be honest, I didn't even know how you ended up in one, except that telling a doctor what had happened would probably get me bumped to the front of the queue.

"Nothing."

"Sure?" His voice was very kind and I pushed myself to my feet before I could change my mind.

"I better get back to the house," I said, not looking at him. "Thanks for the drink."

"Alright. Need a hand?"

I shook my head. John was too easy to talk to. If I let him walk me back to the house, I'd end up spilling all my secrets.

"Okay. Well, I'll see you at dinner."

I hesitated. For a moment I thought about asking him if I could stay here until dinner, then I lost my nerve and limped over to the door instead.

The trek back to the house didn't seem quite so bad this time. After talking to John, I felt as though an invisible valve had been turned, letting off a small amount of stress. I was starting to feel more like me again. Maybe it was true what they said. Maybe talking did help.

As I passed the drawing room, I heard Sherlock and Mycroft's voices coming from inside. For a moment I stopped, torn, then I crouched down and squirmed in among some friendly pot plants to listen. At the time, I didn't think I was doing anything bad. I mean, I wasn't spying on them because I wanted to discover their secrets or anything; I was just curious to know how Sherlock and Mycroft would talk to each other when they thought nobody was listening.

"I don't care," Sherlock was saying as I wriggled into position and pricked up both ears. "The answer is no."

Mycroft sighed. "Must you always be so stubborn? You could easily afford a holiday cottage in the area."

"I could afford half a dozen holiday cottages in any area, Mycroft, you know that. You just want me nearby so you don't have to make your weekly Sunday. You don't want to be here any more than I do, you're just too weak to tell Mother you don't want to see her. Is that why you brought Ben here? So you wouldn't have to play the dutiful son anymore?"

"I had nothing to do with Ben's adoption, Sherlock."

"You had everything to do with it. Oh, I'm sure there are social workers out there who would be blinded by Mother's wealth and the estate, but even they don't have the authority to bypass ninety percent of the system."

I heard a creaking sound that probably meant Mycroft had leaned back in his chair.

"Oh, I helped things along on that score, but I had nothing to do with Mother's decision to adopt. That was her idea entirely."

"Yes, I suppose any idea as stupid as that would have to be. She decided to bring some poor kid into this place and you let her so you wouldn't have to be inconvenienced every Sunday. Ice Man." There was a slight sneer in his tone that hinted at this name being some kind of private understanding between them.

"Virgin," Mycroft countered in exactly the same tone.

I heard Sherlock chuckle.

"Not quite," he answered. "I'm afraid Moriarty was rather misinformed on that point. Of course, it wasn't the only point he was misinformed on, was it?"

"Sherlock, if you were in any kind of relationship, I would know about it."

"Oh, I never said I'd had a relationship, Mycroft. Just sex."

Oookay. I swallowed, half curious, half embarrassed. Maybe it was time to stop listening.

"Ah. Miss Adler, I presume."

"You presume wrongly, brother. I'm not interested in sex with anyone who uses the word leash in reference to me."

Yeah, definitely time to stop listening. I started wriggling backwards, trying to get out without alerting either Sherlock or Mycroft to my presence.

"It's just as well. God knows what you would have done for her if she'd offered you sex."

"She did offer me sex. I just wasn't interested."

Mycroft sighed. "Why did you come here, Sherlock?"

"I was summoned, remember?"

"You've been summoned for the past twenty years. Why come now? Why didn't you come before?"

"Well, I never had a little brother before." I knew, just knew from the tone of his voice that Sherlock was smirking.

"Don't insult my intelligence, Sherlock. You weren't the least bit interested in Benedict. You came here because you wanted to hurt me, didn't you?"

"Ooh, aren't you the paranoid one? Tell me something, Mycroft. Did you talk to Ben before adopting him? Did that poor boy know exactly what kind of life he was going to be walking into? You and I barely came out of it in one piece, and we were born to it."

"Is that why you've taken to him so much, Sherlock? Don't think I haven't noticed you covering up for him, or destroying various items to divert Mother's anger onto your head."

"Well, he can't rely on you, brother dear. Your track record with children isn't all that good."

There was a clink that suggested Mycroft had just set his cup back in its saucer.

"Sherlock, I have never lifted a finger to hurt a child. Any child."

"Really." It wasn't a question. "What about what you did to Nate?"

"Nate should never have been in your network to begin with, Sherlock. The boy was fifteen, for god's sake!"

"Yes, a fifteen year old who you tortured to get information that he didn't even have!"

"For goodness' sake—" Mycroft sounded exasperated, as though this was a frequently made point between them— "I did not torture that boy, nor did I order him to be tortured! I didn't even order him brought in! I don't know how else I can explain this; my agent was not acting under my authority when he did what he did. Incidentally, Sherlock, I would like to know what you did with him."

"You really wouldn't. If you're talking about the body, I dumped it in the Atlantic. I can give you the coordinates, but it was three months ago and to be honest I doubt there's much left of him now."

Mycroft sighed. "I take it he was dead when you 'dumped him'?"

"Extremely so; I sliced through his carotid." Sherlock said this in the same matter-of-fact tone you'd use to talk about buying new curtains. "Admittedly that wasn't my first idea for what he did to Nate, but since my first idea involved a rubber sheet and a flamethrower, I think he came out of it rather well."

Another sigh. "Always so impetuous. I still haven't forgotten your behavior on the roof of that hospital."

"You seem to have forgotten something else though," Sherlock remarked, his voice suddenly cold.

"Oh? And what might that be?"

"You put me on that damn roof, brother!" I had never heard that word snarled with so much hatred before. I'd also never heard someone go from cold to a boiling fury as fast as Sherlock did. "You sold me out for a secret that wasn't even true! You watched the press destroy me and my reputation and all the time you just sat back and did nothing. I mean, with your contacts, you must have been able to do something! Tell me, what would you have done if I hadn't devised a contingency plan? Actually no, don't tell me, I already know the answer: you would have let me die."

"No, I would not!" Mycroft answered sharply. "If you think for one minute-"

"What I think, brother dear, is that you would have let me throw myself off that building and die in ignominy and all because you didn't have the balls to admit that you'd made a mistake!"

I redoubled my efforts to wriggle out quietly. There was a sick, churning feeling in my stomach. I don't do well even with normal arguments, and this one had a level of viciousness I'd never come across before.

I'd managed to get most of me out from among the plants when the door to the drawing room opened and Mycroft and Sherlock emerged.

Maybe I should put that a little differently. When I say they emerged, what I mean is that Sherlock ran Mycroft out of the door and slammed into the wall bare inches away from me, gripping him so tightly by the shirt I could see his knuckles turning white.

"Did you think for one minute that I would let it go?" His voice was low, chilling me and making me very, very glad that I wasn't Mycroft. "I've always been very tolerant of you sending your little spies around to watch me, but you really crossed the line this time. The next one I find will come back to you in a body bag. Do you understand me?"

"I understand that walls have ears."

Sherlock tightened his hold.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

"It means, Sherlock, that perhaps we should continue this conversation in private?"

I didn't see, but Mycroft must have flicked his eyes towards me or something because Sherlock's head snapped round to stare at me.

I froze. I think I actually trembled, although I don't know for sure. I do know that I have never been so frightened in my life. I was alone in a room with a man who was furious enough to kill. Correction; a man who already had killed. I didn't quite believe that Sherlock would murder me, but from the look on his face, I found myself expecting some kind of violence. I tried to say something, to promise never to mention what I'd heard them talking about, but the words wouldn't come.

Sherlock lunged and I flinched instinctively, but instead of hitting me, he seized me by the wrist and yanked me upright.

"Get out!"

I didn't have much choice, as he half shoved, half threw me through the door, sending me sprawling.

The door slammed behind me and I lay there on the floor, shaking all over, mouth dry. If this was a story or TV show, I guess John would have come along at that point. Since it was real life, nobody came except one of the staff, who took a quick look at me and then kept on walking. I felt like I was invisible. I could dimly hear Sherlock and Mycroft talking, but their voices were too low to distinguish any of the words.

After a few minutes, I pushed myself to my feet, and limped upstairs to my room, a single thought replaying itself over and over in my mind: enough was enough. I was going to do what Sherlock had told me to do. What I'd wanted to do for a long time, if I was honest with myself; I just hadn't been able to summon up the nerve. I picked up my phone and listened for a few minutes to make sure Mrs Holmes wasn't on the extension, then I called my social worker.

It rang. And rang. I'd just about decided that she was going to let it go to answerphone when she picked it up, sounding out of breath.

"Maureen Howarth."

"Maureen, hi. It's Ben."

"Oh...Ben." Her voice changed in an instant, going from her friendly talk-to-me phone voice to a flat monotone. "How are you?"

I swallowed. She didn't seem too pleased to hear from me. "It's...okay, but not good. I mean, this place isn't good. I don't think it's working out."

"These things take time. You can't expect to be settled in immediately."

"I know, it's just, well, I've been here six months and things keep getting worse. There's all these rules and I gotta—"

"Of course there are rules, Ben. That's part of being in a family."

"I know that! I had one for twelve years! I just...this isn't going to work. I don't feel like I belong here."

"Hm." Maureen sounded bored. "Well, maybe you're not making enough of an effort. I know your mum's older than a lot of other mothers, but why don't you try and find something that you and she can do together?"

"She's not my mum!"

"If that's your attitude—"

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry!" I took a deep breath, then tried again. "I'm really sorry, but...can't you put me with another family? Please?"

"Oh god, no. The adoption was finalized almost as soon as you moved in. Your brother managed to get it pushed through. He's very important and when you get older I'm sure he'll be well placed to help you find a job. Look, Ben, we can't just rip you out of your adoptive family and send you to live with complete strangers."

"You ripped me out of my foster family and sent me to live with complete strangers," I couldn't resist pointing out.

"Ben, there is nothing I can do. You're a very lucky boy and you should be grateful to have such a wonderful opportunity. I work with several children who would love to live in a house like you have."

"Okay! Great! Let them come here and I'll go somewhere else!"

"You mustn't bother me again, Ben; I'm really very busy."

The line went dead. Slowly, I lowered my phone and stared at it, as though I could reopen the connection just by thinking about it.

She hung up on me! I'd never had that from anyone before. And I'd never expected Maureen to do it; she'd always seemed nice, if a little harried at times.

I was just wondering whether or not I should call back when someone knocked on my door and I jumped, the phone tumbling out of my hand onto the bed.

"Ben?"

Sherlock. I felt a sudden jolt of adrenalin and my hand went to my bruised wrist, rubbing it unconsciously.

"Are you in there?" Sherlock's voice was calm, quiet. "I want to talk to you. And..." Long pause. "And I'm not going to hurt you."

When I didn't answer right away, he opened the door and walked in. Instinctively I grabbed a pillow, although I don't know what I was going to do with it. Even if I hadn't hurt my ankle, I didn't know if I could outrun him. I'd never seen him run, but there was kind of a lithe grace about him that suggested he was fast.

"Are you afraid of me?" Sherlock demanded.

I swallowed hard. "Yeah."

"Why?" He moved a little closer and I pushed myself back, clutching my trusty pillow.

"Are you going to kill me?" I asked.

Sherlock looked disapproving. "What? No! Who told you that?"

I licked my lips. "No one, but..."

"Go on," he prompted.

"I heard you talking to Mycroft. I heard what you said to each other."

"So? I eavesdropped a lot as a child. Still do, as a matter of fact. Hardly a capital offense." Sherlock was silent for a while, then said in a somewhat strained voice, "And...I'm sorry. I shouldn't have reacted the way I did. I was emotional." The way he said emotional made it sound like he was confessing to something dirty. "I should never have come back here. This place brings out the worst in me."

"Is it true you killed a man?" I blurted out, before my nerve failed me completely.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and settled down on the bed next to me.

"A man? No. Several, yes. If you're referring to David Holland, that particular man kidnapped and tortured a fifteen year old street kid who worked for me, one I happen to be quite fond of. Some of the others in my network used to accuse me of playing favorites with him. All totally absurd, of course. I don't have favorites. Ever. Oh, and you can put down the pillow; if I did decide to kill you, I doubt a bag of feathers would be sufficient to stop me."

I bit my lip and shuffled a little closer. I was fairly sure that if Sherlock had been planning to kill me, he wouldn't have stopped to chat first.

"What exactly did he do for you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Spied. Followed anyone I wanted following."

"You mean...like Mycroft?"

"No, I've not the least interest in knowing what my brother is up to, Ben. Frankly, I'd be quite happy never to see or hear from him again, since whenever he shows up, my life goes to hell. I send my networkers to spy on interesting people. And people who don't have the legal power to have them locked up for as long as they please," Sherlock admitted.

"Was that it? You just got him to follow people for you?"

He looked at me and said levelly, "What else would I want him for?"

There was no tactful way to answer that question and so I decided not to attempt it.

"I hate your brother," I said, which really wasn't true. I didn't hate Mycroft and I hadn't forgotten his covering up for me at dinner or letting me go to Asda. I don't even know why I said it, unless it was because I could vent at Sherlock without having him leap to his brother's defense. I felt if I didn't start letting out some more of what was boiling inside me, I'd explode; the encounter with Sherlock downstairs had shattered any relief I'd managed to gain from my talk with John.

For a moment Sherlock looked like he was trying to decide whether or not he should put his hand on my shoulder. Acting on a wild, crazy impulse, I solved the problem by grabbing his wrist and pulling his arm around me, and leaning into his side. He stiffened – I think he wondered what I was doing – then cleared his throat and patted my shoulder awkwardly.

"I called my social worker," I said, or rather mumbled. My face was mashed against Sherlock's ribs, which made talking difficult.

"Oh?" When I didn't elaborate, he went on. "Well, I think you're very wise."

I didn't answer.

"It was nothing personal, Ben. I hope you can believe that. I didn't want you out of this family because I don't like you. I wanted you out of this family because I know what it's like. It would only have got worse for you. You'll be much better off leaving this place behind. Find yourself a normal family. Forget you ever met any of us."

"She won't help me!" I blurted.

Sherlock was silent for a few minutes. Then he said, "What?"

"She won't help. She says...I'm..."

"Well?"

"She says I'm being ungrateful and I should be happy to live in a house like this. And she told me not to call her again."

Sherlock sighed. "In other words, brother Mycroft has already got to her and laid down the law. Well, it was a long shot at best."

I stared at him, eyes huge. "He can do that?"

"He could snap his fingers and have you placed with any family in this country he chose. I imagine he rushed the application through for Mother dearest and stopped anyone from contesting the adoption to save himself the trouble of having to rush through another application."

"What about you?"

"Me?" Sherlock looked surprised. At least, I think he did. It's hard to tell with him. "I'm a consulting detective, not a government drone. The best I could do would be to take you with me when I left, and if I did that, Mycroft would simply shut down every road from here to London and have you dragged back. My brother, though it pains me to say this, is not a stupid man. If you want to get away, it'll have to be under your own steam. But then, you knew that already." He paused. I could see him visibly debating what to say, then he went on. "I can't help you much, but if you do make it to London, then come to me. I can hide you."

I stared at him, frightened. A lot of kids dream about running away from home – whenever Mum or Dad told me off about something, I used to lie in bed and fume myself to sleep, imagining how much better life would be if only I lived with my best mate – but Sherlock seemed to accept it as a cold fact rather than a romantic dream.

"You mean...you're not going to stop me? Tell me I should stay here?"

"That would be rather hypocritical of me. I can't smuggle you out with me, but I can give you this." He reached into his coat and pulled out a Blackberry.

I gawked at it. I'd wanted one of those for ages, but Mrs Holmes refused to let me have any mobile phone (like I said, she's living in a time warp) and now this new brother was just giving me one? Was this his way of apologizing for earlier?

"Are you mental?" I asked at last.

"Don't be absurd. What could possibly be mental about giving someone a Christmas present, albeit a rather late one. Isn't that what older brothers do?"

Something told me this wasn't a rhetorical question, crazy as it sounds. I resisted the temptation to ask if Sherlock had ever received a Christmas present from Mycroft and stretched out a hand.

"You mean it?"

"I wouldn't have offered if I didn't mean it. Go on, take it. I always carry a couple spare for my Network, so you may as well have one. My number's programmed into the memory. For use in emergencies only; I'm not a lover of idle gossip, nor do I want you running up a huge phone bill at the end of every month. You can use your own phone to talk to any friends you may have."

I took it, feeling like I was being swept along on a wave that was not only far too big for me to handle, but was going to crash down around me at any second.

"What do you mean by an emergency?" I asked.

"If you hear Mother talking about you and she says something you don't quite understand, if she's talking about sending you somewhere besides school, then for god's sake text me. Anytime, it doesn't matter." Sherlock caught hold of my shoulders and looked me straight in the eyes. There was a tiny mark in his right eye, a small spot of brown like a freckle. I wondered what had caused it. Had he always had it?

"I mean it, Ben." His voice was low, intense. "Keep that—" he indicated the Blackberry— "with you at all times. Don't let anyone know you've got it, if you can help it, especially not my family."

"What about John?" The words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them.

"Hmm." Sherlock tilted his head slightly on one side as he looked at me. "Yes, okay. You do seem rather attached to him."

That was good. Half the fun of having a new and expensive toy is bragging about it; I couldn't wait to show this off to John. Sherlock was right about my being attached to him, although I wasn't sure how or why it had happened. Maybe because Mrs Holmes and Sherlock were both obsessed with Mycroft (albeit for very different reasons) and John and I were always left on the sidelines.

"Sherlock? If I did want to leave—" and even saying that frightened me— "what...what would I do? I mean, I don't know much about camping or living off the land."

"Why would you want to know—oh, right, you've got some romantic notion of traveling from here to London on foot." Sherlock sighed. "Okay, you want to run away from home, here's what you do. You keep the money my brother gave you for Christmas, and you get one of my family's drivers to take you into Merle and wait in the car for you. Then you go through the shopping center, come out the other side and buy a ticket to London Waterloo. From there you get a cab to my address; that's 221B Baker Street. Do you want me to write it down for you?"

I shook my head. "N-no, I think I can remember. But..."

My voice tailed off. I wanted to say that I didn't know whether or not I wanted to run away, or if living with Sherlock would be any better than living with his mother, although the thought occurred that it could hardly be worse.

"It's just a backup plan," Sherlock assured me. "Who knows? Things here may get better and you may not want to leave."

"Oh, I want to!" The vehemence of my reply surprised me; it burst out before I could think about it.

"Then when you go, you'll have to go quickly. Find me before Mycroft finds you."

"What if I don't want to hide with you? What if I want to hide with John?"

"John and I are flatmates, so if you're hiding with him then you're hiding with me. And as I told you, I can hide you from my family. I'm about the only one who can, so if you don't want some of Mycroft's people to drag you back here for Mother to keep you on a leash, you're going to need me. Think it over."

He got to his feet so abruptly he spilled me sideways onto the bed, and walked out, closing the door behind him. Left alone, I rolled over onto my stomach, staring at my new Blackberry, and wondered what the hell I was supposed to do now.


Okay, that's it for this chapter ;) Hope you enjoyed it and if you read, please review!