Sherlock spent the rest of the afternoon hiding in his bedroom, waiting for Mrs. Johnston to come upstairs and yell at him for failing miserably and in the worst and loudest way at getting along and being polite to Cassidy, but he was waiting for something that never came. As a result, he spent the afternoon doing essentially nothing. He could reread his chemistry book or the book he'd borrowed from the living room, he supposed, but when he thought about the dozens of books downstairs that he had never read and that were completely open to be read, he couldn't bring himself to read something he had already read before.

He did spend a little while cleaning out his mind palace. He hadn't tidied it up in a while and there was all sorts of information in there that he didn't need and would probably never care to know about again. He updated some things and he made a room for /this/ foster home, which took the longest out of all the things he did. He had made a room for every foster home he'd been subject to. He supposed he probably should delete some of them - there were some things that he really never wanted to relive - but for now, putting a lock on the doors of the worst ones would be enough.

When he left his mind palace, it was nearly five o'clock. They had eaten a late lunch, but still - three hours! Dinner would be soon.

Briefly Sherlock considered not going down for dinner - he'd eaten almost every meal they'd had in the four days since he'd arrived - but he had already done enough to ruin his stay here. He would go down.

John came up to fetch him for dinner at 5:32 precisely. He was as tentative as he had been the other day now - Sherlock's mood swings were too unpredictable for him to act otherwise. Sticking his head in the room, he said "Um, Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" asked Sherlock, although he knew precisely what

John wanted.

"Well, it's just that dinner will be ready soon. It will be really good - you should come down. I helped make some of it," John told him with a hint of pride at what he'd done.

"Okay," said Sherlock lazily.

"Are you coming down, then?" John asked him.

"Oh... why not. I'll be down in just a minute," said Sherlock. When John left, Sherlock could hear him running down the stairs, stomping loudly. John had never been light on his feet.

He sighed, knowing he had to follow. Down to Hell, then.

Unfortunately, Sherlock went down too soon. There were only two people in the kitchen, John having been sent to fetch everyone else - Mrs Johnston and Cassidy. Because there were only two people, there wasn't the nice hubbub that Sherlock had used to slip into the kitchen unnoticed before. As soon as he stepped off of the stairs, they knew he was there, and there was no going back.

Excellent.

"Hi, Sherlock," said Cassidy amicably, seemingly having forgotten their altercation of a few hours previously. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. There was no way she had just forgotten his shouting at her and everything.

"Hi," he replied, on his guard. He sat down on the opposite side of the table from where Cassidy sat; she didn't miss the gesture, but she made no comment.

Just then, Mycroft came in. He sat down in between the two, a seat away from Sherlock. He didn't say anything to him. Apparently Sherlock's retort that morning was still too fresh in his mind. Well, he'd forget eventually.

"What's for dinner?" he asked.

"Enchilada casserole and green beans with bacon," said Mrs Johnston.

"That sounds delicious," said Mycroft, smiling politely. What a suck-up. Sherlock knew for a fact that Mycroft hated casseroles of all kinds. "Can I help at all in preparing it?" he asked.

"Oh, I've got this, and it will be ready as soon as everyone is here, but thanks for asking!" said Mrs Johnston, obviously pleased. A moment later, as if replying to her call, Michael, John, Rob, and Charlie all came into the kitchen and sat down around the table. "Speak of the devil," she said. "Let's eat."

Sherlock ate as quickly as he could, which was rather fast. He hadn't gotten very much on his plate, anticipating some strange, crusty nastiness, and had been surprised to find that the casserole was really delicious. However, his desire to go back upstairs was stronger than his desire to eat more enchilada casserole, so he was the first person to be finished. He made to leave the table, but he was stopped by Michael's voice -

"Don't forget, you'll have to help clean up when everyone's finished eating!" He said it in a light tone of voice, but the words made Sherlock groan inside. He had forgotten about the after-dinner clean up. And it didn't look like everyone else would finish even half as quickly as he had.

"I'll wait in the living room, then," he said, and he was relieved when Michael turned back to his meal and to the conversation he had begun with Mycroft about ambitions and internships and the government and dull nonsense like that.

With little else to do, Sherlock walked over to the bookcases on the walls and read a few titles. He had already read a number of these books - his father had owned a small library of books and they had gone to the library at least once a week - but there were enough to intrigue him, and there was at least a week's worth of reading on these shelves, maybe even a few weeks.

One title in particular caught his eye, called The Disappearing Spoon. He pulled it off the shelf to see what it was about. It seemed to be some sort of chemistry book, stories and facts about each of the elements in the periodic table. It seemed interesting enough; he pulled it off the shelf and sat down to begin reading it.

He had only made it through the second chapter when his name was called to come and clean up. He sighed, made a note of the page he was on, and set the book on the stairs to be brought up when he headed up there. He wished he'd examined those bookshelves before - there were more than a few good-looking books that he could have read over the last four days.

In the kitchen, the table had been cleared off and the plates were now being rinsed and put in the sink, the counters were being wiped, and the stoneware casserole dish that the enchilada had been cooked in was being scrubbed out. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do, so he lingered in the doorframe for a moment.

"Here, Sherlock, come and take this rag and wipe off the table, would you? You can just wipe everything nto the floor. I'm about to sweep it as soon as everyone leaves," Micahel told him. Sherlock took the proffered dishrag and began wiping off the table. It didn't take long. When he was finished, he put the rag back and turned to go upstairs, but Michael stopped him again and said "One last thing, Sherlock. Come here for a moment so we can talk." By now, the only people in the kitchen were Michael and Sherlock; everyone else had finished what they were doing and had left.

"Why are you having trouble settling in? How can we make it easier for you?" Michael asked him. Sherlock shrugged, uncomfortable. He would have rather cleaned up the whole kitchen by himself than be asked such a question and he wasn't sure how he was supposed to answer.

"Can I ask kind of a personal question?" Michael continued.

"Sure," Sherlock said. Didn't mean he would answer.

"Does it have something to do with the fact that you seem to be one-sidedly feuding with your brothers?" Sherlock shrugged, looking away.

"What are you mad at them about?" Michael asked. By now, Sherlock wished he were anywhere else then here. He would have even rather been at the last foster home they'd been in... and that was one of his locked doors. He could feel himself turning bright red.

"Nothing," he muttered. Michael bit his lip, then pulled up a chair, indicating that Sherlock should do the same.

"No, I know it's something. I won't tell them, if that's why you don't want to trust me. I won't bug you about it anymore if you don't want me to after this either, I swear," he said, completely serious. Briefly, Sherlock debated whether or not to tell him... well, what could it hurt? He'd probably be out of here soon anyways.

"Mycroft was the one who brought the police to us after our parents... well... we could have been fine. He's almost an adult, and we could have both gotten jobs. He didn't need to do that," Sherlock said in a flat, emotionless voice. His hands clenched the end of his chair tightly. He almost felt like he could drift away from reality if he let go or if he showed how he felt on his face, or even if he looked Michael in the eye. "We would have been fine."

Michael was quiet for a minute or two, and Sherlock couldn't tell what he was thinking. Eventually, he spoke.

"And John?"

Sherlock couldn't answer this one. He knew it wouldn't go over well to say 'he has fun with you people without me.' He had already made things bad enough. He shrugged. Fortunately, Michael seemed to realize that he had pushed Sherlock enough for the time being. He nodded once or twice, then all of a sudden pulled Sherlock into a hug - what was it with these people and hugging? This was the second time in as many days that this had happened. Sherlock tolerated it for a few moments, then he pulled away.

"Okay, you can go now, if you want. Thanks for... thanks for talking to me," Michael said. Sherlock didn't reply. He almost wanted to, he almost wanted to say something back - he felt odd.

He nearly ran upstairs, going as fast as his ankle would let him. Uptairs, he knew, was safe - he had a door to shut and a lock to lock and no one could bother him if he didn't want them to.

Except, he almost wished Michael would follow him.

Almost.