Three
Relativity

By the time I reached the pretty semi-detached house, Sherlock was already on the doorstep, blocking my view of the tall, blonde woman who had answered the bell. I picked up my pace, not wanting to prolong the look of surprise on her face.

"Mum!" I called, running as well as I could up the gravelled path in my heels.

My mother peered up around the shoulder of the mysterious dark man and caught my eye. "Oh, Annie, dear!"

I finally reached the brick step of the exposed porch and stood up properly again, no longer having to bounce about to prevent my heels sinking into the ground.

"Mum," I greeted, accepting her warm hug and guessing that my companion hadn't yet bothered to introduce himself, "this is Sherlock. He hasn't said anything odd, has he?"

I could practically feel Sherlock rolling his eyes behind my back. The thin lips on my mother's face pursed, her large green eyes narrowing. "Um, no."

"Honestly, Melanie," Sherlock drawled, stepping past me and the woman holding the door open and into the house, "You have very little faith in me."

I followed the detective inside, hoping that perhaps Sherlock might actually act a tiny bit civil (or maybe sane would be more accurate) at this gathering. God knows, it wouldn't be so bad if my parents thought I was dating someone other than a guy who boasted that the pinnacle of his personality was that he was a high-functioning, rather than average, sociopath.

"I was just pointing out that the only natural exit route were this street raided would be the small alleyway opposite number seventy-two. Is that normal enough for you?"

My step stopped.

"Mum," I said quietly, calming my thoughts, "That counts as odd."

My mother tilted her head to the side as she looked at me. "I know, dear, but I thought it best if I let it pass."

I spotted Sherlock strolling up to my prudish aunt out of the corner of my eye and acted quickly. "Coats upstairs, right? Great, come on, Sherlock."

Before he had the chance to object, I grabbed his arm tightly and yanked on it, leading him away from the immanent social disaster and up the stairs towards my old bedroom.

"Look," I whispered unnecessarily – it was highly unlikely anyone downstairs would have heard me from this distance over their mundane chatter – as we walked into the small room at the end of the corridor, Sherlock no longer being led and not needing any sort of verbal indication that this was where we were headed, "I know I told you this on the train, but just a reminder for you here; can you please refrain from talking about escape routes and raids and corpses while inside my parents' home?"

Sherlock threw his coat onto the old bed in the centre of the room. "I was being considerate. Isn't that what you said I should be?" He added without taking a breath, "Who said anything about corpses?"

"No one and I'd like it to stay that way."

Sherlock started towards the door. "Coat on the bed, Melanie."

I sighed, placing my hands on my hips. "Why are you here, Sherlock?"

I didn't receive an answer. Sherlock was already halfway down the hall.

"I didn't know you were bringing a friend, dear."

My father laughed, his half-moon spectacles slipping a few millimetres down his crooked nose. He slapped Sherlock on the upper arm, a gesture that took the genius a little off guard.

"She's twenty-nine, June," he said with a large grin under his neat white moustache, which had been a magnificent brown in my youth, "Ar think it's alright fa' you ta say 'date'."

My mother smiled abashedly, "Yes, well, of course."

"Besides," my father continued in his thick Brummie accent, "Ar did tell you." He paused and frowned. "Ar think. Didn't I?"

Being with men who forget to tell you anything must be genetic.

"I'm terribly sorry if I've caused you any trouble. Arthur assured me it would be ok." Sherlock put in, now fully recovered from the assault from my father's hand. I would have shaken my head in incredulity at the man's acting if we hadn't been in polite company.

My mother smiled and tucked a short strand of straight hair behind her ear. "Oh, no, it's lovely. Arthur got enough food for five armies anyway."

I noticed the twitch of Sherlock's left hand. He must have come up with an exceptionally good retort for that hyperbole.

"Yes," my father agreed, slapping Sherlock's shoulder yet again, "Ar've bin dying ta meet you, ayn ar love?"

Sherlock seemed to be attempting to control himself. His facial muscles were struggling not to jerk about too much.

"Haven't I." he corrected.

"What?" my father asked, thinking he might have missed something.

I chuckled politely. "Nothing, dad. Don't worry about it."

Before I had even contemplated what I was actually doing, I found my hand slipping into Sherlock's grasp and giving a supportive squeeze. He was, after all, trying. In response Sherlock's eyebrows rose and he glanced at me.

I smiled and shrugged.

"Looker you." My father exclaimed, seeming to get over the whole thing instantly. He waved at our empty hands. "Gerem a drink, June."

As soon as my mother had left for the kitchen to fetch us some beverages, his face became slightly darker than his usual chipper self. He nodded at Sherlock. I could sense what was coming. This would be bad. "Lucas bin telling us about you."

Yep, bad.

"Dad, listen, you know how overprotective Lucas can be and-"

"I can assure you, Arthur," Sherlock interrupted, taking me completely by surprise as he wrapped an arm around my waist, "your daughter is in safe hands."

"Why wudn'er be?" my father asked, a frown forming on his forehead. "I was gonna ask 'bout that trick o'yers."

I glanced from my father to Sherlock and back again. Had Lucas not ratted me out to our parents? Had he not mentioned the abrupt outings, the adrenaline addiction, or the mortal peril that went hand in hand with knowing Sherlock Holmes? Had he… had he kept quiet?

"Trick?" Sherlock spoke, his voice dripping with suspicion.

"Ahr, that 'ole psychic thingamabob you do."

Oh, dear.

"Psychic?"

"Bet you cud tell what ar 'eard on rayjoe this morning just boy looking at us."

My father didn't seem to realise what he was doing.

"Something intellectual, no doubt about the current financial crisis. You thought the presenter was too hard on the first speaker but too soft on the second."

My father laughed. "That's barmy, that is."

I placed a hand over Sherlock's. Mainly it was to subtly indicate not to fly off the handle and start throwing things at my family, but it was also to remind him that if he squeezed my ribs any tighter one might just pop out.

"Oi, Neil, come an' see this!"

One of my father's friends from work trotted over to us, a puzzled expression on his broad face.

"Show 'im, Sherlock." My father said, nudging Sherlock's forearm.

That might have been the rib.

"Drinks!" my mother loudly interjected, handing me the glass of red wine and Sherlock the cup of squash he had asked for just to be polite. "Dear, why don't you go and talk to your niece and her husband? They've just arrived."

My father turned away from us and looked to the other side of the large, homely living room. My cousin Erica was chatting away with a lady I didn't know. He happily made his excuses and went over to join them, goading Neil along with him.

I shut my eyes as my head flopped onto my mother's shoulder, glad Sherlock's death grip had finally been relaxed. "Thanks."

She patted me comfortingly. "No problem, honey. I know your father can get a little over-enthusiastic at times."

I pulled my head away and let out a relieved breath of laughter. "That's one word for it."

"Please excuse my husband, Mr. Holmes." She apologised, adding in a hushed whisper. "He's from the North."

I groaned. "Mum, you can't say things like that."

"Really?" she asked, her usual confusion about political correctness as genuine as it ever was.

"Yes."

She frowned. "But I married him despite it."

I grimaced. "That doesn't make it any better!"

There wasn't any point telling her how much worse that statement made her previous one appear.

Sherlock chuckled. During the conversation with my father his mask had been slipping, but now it was clearly back in full use. He must have felt in control of the situation again. "It's quite alright, June. And please call me Sherlock; this is the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth, after all."

"Well, then," she began in her sweet voice, "tell me about yourself, Sherlock."

This chapter was really just to introduce Melanie's parents.

I had to control myself when writing Melanie's father's speech. I originally phonetically spelt out nearly every word, but then reconsidered. I thought it might be nice if you could actually understand what he was saying.

And I'm in no way mocking the Birmingham accent. That would be major pot calling kettle black since I speak full-on Island Scot. Accents aren't funny. They're serious things.

If any Americans or other non-Brits are having trouble imagining his voice, think Ozzy Osborne. He's probably the most famous Brummie out there. Except Melanie's father hasn't spent years off his head and doesn't now struggle to put a sentence together because of it.

Oh, and I know Birmingham isn't really the North, but Southerners tend to think it is anyway. They don't own maps.

Would any of you lovely people be kind enough to send me a small review? It would brighten up my otherwise terrible day.