Chapter Three: If you prick us…

Mrs. Hudson, being Mrs. Hudson, had readied her car as per instructed.

Now she watched anxiously as Sherlock bundled their things into the boot and then jumped into the passenger seat.

'He's wearing…' she trailed away. John squeezed her shoulder lightly and nodded.

'I know'.

'And… jeans'?

'He was in a hurry'.

'Bloody hell, he's even wearing your sneakers'!

'What'?

John looked down at Sherlock in the car and – indeed – there were his sneakers, the red and white pattern unmistakable.

Sherlock in jeans and sneakers, he thought humouredly, he's almost human.

'Come on, let's go'! Sherlock yelled, banging his hand on the side of the car door.

John raised his eyebrows to Mrs. Hudson and shrugged. To his surprise she pulled him into a warm hug.

'Be careful Mr. Watson', she murmured.

John frowned and pulled away, Mrs. Hudson sounded very worried.

'Why? I'm always careful, and besides I have Sherlock with me, that man could fence blindfolded if the need ever arose…' he trailed away.

Mrs. Hudson ran a hand through her curling greyish hair.

'I… I just have a bad feeling about this… something's awry...'

'It's okay Mrs. Hudson'.

'I know. Just don't get shot, I don't know what I'd do without my boys'.

'I promise. And, like I said, I have Sherlock with me. What could go wrong'?

Mrs. Hudson looked towards Sherlock nervously; he was fiddling with the CD player and – in his getup – looked quite the teenager.

'That', Mrs. Hudson stated, 'is exactly why I'm worried'.

They were half way out of London when John finally sucked up the courage to ask.

'Your wearing my'-

'I know'.

'Are you going'-

'Yes'.

'Do you like'-

'No'.

'Oh… okay'.

They lapsed into silence again. John watched the bright lights of a large 8 wheeler truck go past, illuminating his hands on the wheel.

'Sherlock'? He muttered, regarding the man in the off kilter rear view mirror.

'Mm'? He answered absentmindedly, turning the page of his book and marking it.

'You were talking about Shakespeare before…'

'Yes. His Romeo and Juliet'.

'Why'?

'Moriarty read to me from it. Take him and cut him out of little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine, that all the world will be in love with the night, and pay no heed to the garish sun. The paragraph is Juliet grieving Romeo, but I think in Jim's sense my father is the dead Romeo and I am Juliet – the garish sun'.

'Son…' breathed John, the puzzle clicking together.

Sherlock nodded.

'He knows my… genial need for limelight, so to speak…'

John snorted, though instantly regretted it.

'He believes if he kills my father the rest of the world will be forced to ignore me in this time of need and instead turn to Mycroft, Regina and the rest of the family…'

Regina? Though John confusedly, who's Regina.

'But why Shakespeare? There are plenty more poems about death…'

'My father, he used to read to me from Shakespeare. Which leads me to believe this is not our charming Moriarty but someone far more imprudent. Someone who knows me quite well…' he trailed away.

John drummed his fingers on the steering-wheel and thought for a moment.

'What if it is Moriarty'?

Sherlock – in one of his rare moments – looked surprisingly irate.

'If it is James… I will cut him into little stars'.

'Welcome to MacDonald's, can I take your order'?

John looked to Sherlock with an impending sense of dread.

'Do you want anything'? He mumbled.

Sherlock gave his The Look that suggested do I want to eat from MacDonald's…ever?

'Right. Of course', the doctor growled, leaning out the window and reciting his order.

'Sure. Anything else with that'?

'… Do you do salad packs'?

'Uh…' clearly the girl had never been asked this before, 'I think so yeah…'

'One salad pack'.

'Fruit or veg'?

'Fruit'.

'Please drive forward'.

John nodded and put his foot down; the car idled forward into darkness.

The window slid open and a tall, gangly girl with shocks of ginger hair and acne lent out the window, a contrite look on her long face.

'I'm so terribly sorry, there's been a mix up with your order, there'll be a short wait'. She frowned confusedly at the two men's blank, emotionless faces. One of them, the short, blonde one, seemed to snap out of it and smiled a cautious, small smile.

'Sure. That's okay'.

The ginger haired girl – Poppy – nodded and dashed into the kitchen.

John turned the ignition off.

He turned to face Sherlock worriedly.

He hadn't spoken the entire 1 and a half hour drive.

'Are you okay'? John muttered, 'you haven't spoken in over an hour…'

'Is that a bad thing'?

'No… it's just weird…'

'Would you prefer me to talk'?

'No'! John exclaimed a little too quickly, 'I was just pointing out the obvious'.

'Oh… I do wish Tulip would hurry up…'

John felt a proverbial rock drop in his stomach. Sherlock had… made a mistake.

'Her name's Poppy, Sherlock. Poppy', he murmured.

A brief look of confusion flashed across Sherlock's face, and then it was gone.

'Oh', he muttered, 'I know… I know…'

Before John could open his mouth Poppy returned with their order in a brown paper bag.

John took it, payed and thanked her.

Then he handed Sherlock the fruit salad gingerly.

'Eat'.

'No'.

'I'm not driving any further until you eat'.

'Fine by me'.

'Child'.

'Mother-hen'.