Slightly shorter chapter today, but like I promised before the story line is now starting to pick up again...

Please review! :)

A Warning

The trouble with living with Sherlock, is that nothing goes well for very long, nothing can stay normal, even the things you eventually accept as normal like having the kitchen workspace covered in scientific equipment for his weird experiments. Of course that's not the sort of person Sherlock is, he can never stay in one place for long, he's always moving and always changing, he always has something up his sleeve that you didn't know about.

But the real trouble with living with Sherlock is that you are never safe. He gets into your head, but he also gets into the heads of others. I thought my troubles were over, but I was about to be proved wrong.

Darkness had already settled over 221B Baker Street, and I thought I was alone. Not completely alone, as I could hear Mrs Hudson and Sherlock talking downstairs, it sounded like she was nagging him about something, reminding me of how much of a mother-son relationship they had created. I think that's nice, it's good to have a bit of family, as Sherlock's pointed out to me recently through Harry. I haven't got on with my sister so well for a long time, I guess she's just avoiding things to bicker about because she's worried about me (and I suppose she has a right to), but it is nice to be spending time with her and enjoying each other's company. I have Sherlock to thank for that, despite him still refusing to talk to his brother (he even has a slightly worried look on his face when I bring up the subject) and he has turned my life upside down in several ways, but still I should be grateful to him.

Even though he's going to turn my world upside down one more time.

I'm sitting in my room, taking advantage of the few quiet moments of an occupied Sherlock Holmes to spend some time with myself and read a book. I am no longer feeling suicidal so Sherlock feels safer leaving me on my own. It sounds strange, saying that I was suicidal. Before this all happened I wouldn't have believed I could have reached that point, and now, when the medication had only been working for a few weeks, it seems so strange thinking that there was one point I actually attempted to end my own life. I'm grateful that I cannot remember what it was like being in such a dark place, I don't want to remember.

A strange, scuffling noise draws me out of my book and my thoughts. It sounded like it came from the living room, but I knew it couldn't be Sherlock, I could hear his muffled voice downstairs with Mrs Hudson along with it. There's no one else in the house. Perhaps a cat's somehow got into the house (I remember leaving the living room window being left open a crack) and is now causing havoc. I decide to go and investigate just in case a feline creature had ended up in 221B Baker Street and Sherlock finds out.

But a cat hadn't got into the house, the living room was empty, as far as I could tell. Through the dim I could just about see the furniture and I couldn't hear anything scuffling around any more. Perhaps it's just my imagination.

I turn the light on.

My mouth falls open.

Someone had got into the house, they had climbed in through the window, not even bothering to close it again when they had left and it stood wide open, but that's not why a shiver ran up my spine.

The person who broke in hadn't stolen anything, I know they haven't, they've just left a message. A message written across the wall in a symbol that no one else would have understood other than me and Sherlock. The bright yellow paint that's screaming in my face, screaming a warning of my imminent death, that I will become a dead man.

There's only one thing you can say in this situation:

"SHERLOCK!"