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You and Sherlock Holmes were sat in the living room of 221B Baker Street. The fire was roaring and you enjoyed the heat as it washed over you and warmed you to the core. Three cups of tea were scattered around the room, and you were busily writing away on your notepad as Sherlock Holmes’ latest client was telling his story.
Mr Ferguson seemed very average to you. Middle aged, balding, but friendly and he appeared to be happy and polite. That is of course, until he began to mention his family, and the reason for his visit to you and the famous detective.
Mr Ferguson then became something you could only call, deranged.
“A vampire?”
You can count the times on one hand when you had seen Sherlock Holmes looked truly confused. There was the time when you informed him that you had never read a single book all the way through in your life. That had led him to instructing you to pick one book in the Baker Street flat, and read it, immediately. Then there was last night when you played Cluedo with him for the first time, and won victoriously. Sherlock had brushed it off as beginner’s luck. That is of course, after he had managed to begin speaking again.
“Yes Mr Holmes, a vampire” Mr Ferguson says, before pulling out a tissue from his pocket and wiping his sweaty forehead.
“Is this a practical joke? I should warn you I have an extremely bland sense of humour.” Sherlock replies, although you note that he sounds more disappointed than annoyed.
“No Mr Holmes! Of course not!”
“What kind of vampire?” Your questions cause’s two heads to quickly swing to your direction, and you look down and begin to pretend taking notes to hide your blushing face.
You had thought it was a valid question to ask. After all, Mr Ferguson stating that his daughter was flying around the room and drinking blood would have led to a very different kind of investigation to what you're sure the client was looking for. You would already mentally fitting the man for a straitjacket.
“Mr Ferguson, for the first time in a long time I can honestly say that I’m … confused.”
“Ditto.” You reply, finally looking up from your unflattering doodle of Mycroft to watch as Sherlock fidgets in his leather arm chair. “Well, not about the ‘long time’ thing. I was confused this morning. But this is rather confusing -”
“You believe your daughter to be a vampire?” Sherlock continues, appearing to ignore your comment.
“No Mr Holmes, certainly not. My daughter believes she is a vampire.”
“History of mental illness?” Sherlock says then, snapping quickly into detective mode. He nods in your direction, and you know that is the silent order to take notes. You could almost hear Sherlock in your head saying ‘proper notes. Don't just scrawl whatever you hear’.
“Yes Mr Holmes, she was diagnosed with depression and anxiety when she was 14. She’s 16 now, and our doctor believes she may also have bipolar disorder…”
You write furiously, before catching one word in particular that confuses you. You didn’t think people had their own personal doctor. Surely Mr Ferguson had misspoke.
“Our doctor?” You ask, not even raising your head from your task.
“Yes, our family has a private nurse and doctor.” You nod, before quickly scrawling that underneath what you had already written.
“That sounds expensive.” You mumble, and regret it immediately. You wondered if the painkillers John had you taking were affecting your brain.
“It is, however I will not gamble with the health of my family. Only the best -”
“Mr Ferguson, why exactly have you come to me?” Sherlock asks, the man sitting with his hands caved under his chin as he usually does when he is thinking “Surely this matter would be better suited to a medically professional, a Doctor, or even, as much as I loathe to say it, a psychiatrist.”
“I …” Mr Ferguson stops then, getting choked up. Sherlock doesn’t say anything, just continues to watch him closely. “My daughter is only 16 years old Mr Holmes, and for the majority of her life she has been in the so called ‘care’ of people who claim to be able to help her. No one ever has, and I cannot bring myself to put my poor girl through that again.”
“I’m sorry.” You say, after the man had pulled out a tissue again and wiped his moist eyes. "It sounds like your daughter has had to rough start in life."
“She’s never been to school, always had to be home schooled. She hasn’t got any friends. I had hoped that when I remarried, she might enjoy having siblings … But they don’t get along. She spends every moment of her life in her bedroom, unable to communicate with us. No one understands her.”
“I’ll take the case.” Sherlock says suddenly, standing and buttoning up his jacket in one smooth movement.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’ll take the case Mr Ferguson. There is a train at 12:30 today, so we should be with you down in Sussex by this afternoon. Until then I suggest you drive home and inform your family.”
Mr Ferguson looks at you, and then back at Sherlock, a huge smile creeping onto his face.
“Thank you Mr Holmes, thank you!” The man exclaims, shaking hands with the detective and letting Sherlock guide him to the door.
You sit perplexed, listening as Sherlock wishes the man farewell at the door. The man comes bounding back into the room on his mobile, no doubt texting as usual.
“I thought you didn’t like domestic cases?” Is all you can think of to say, the strangeness of the case and Sherlock’s behaviour confusing you greatly.
“I do, but this isn't a domestic case.”
“Isn’t it?”
Sherlock doesn’t answer, just sends you a look that’s half ‘of course’ and the other half ‘you idiot’.
“Texting John?” You ask, standing quickly and regretting it when your stiff legs and sore head protest. It had only been three days after all, and your body was pretty rubbish at healing.
“Yep.” Sherlock pops the ‘p’ in a childlike manner. He knows you hate it when he does that. “Just checking you're travel friendly …” The man mutters, and you turn from your path to the kitchen to gaze at him questioningly.
“What?”
“What?” The man responds, pocketing his phone and walking towards his bedroom, no doubt to pack.
“I thought you were asking John to come with you.”
“Of course not” The detective exclaims, and before you have time to be flattered, he continues “He’d be worried about Mary the whole time. It would be a nuisance, and I need someone that can concentrate. Relatively well.” And with that the detective dashes into his bedroom and begins loudly throwing clothes on his bed.
With his back to you he doesn’t see the face you pull, before you walk to the kitchen and make a cup of coffee. If you were going to be travelling with Sherlock Holmes, you were going to need something a great deal stronger than tea.
You and Sherlock stand outside Baker Street, waiting for your taxi and shifting you bag on your shoulder and wrapping your coat around yourself more. It was still winter, nearly Christmas you realise.
“What about Mrs Hudson?” You ask, turning to see Speedy’s and it reminding you of your lovely friend.
“She knows we’re heading out. Hopefully we’ll be coming back tomorrow.” Sherlock says casually, just as the taxi pulls directly in front of you and your companion.
“That soon?” You ask breathlessly as you clamber in behind Sherlock.
“Of course, it’s not a complicated case.”
“If that’s true, why are we heading all the way to Sussex?”
Sherlock doesn’t respond to your question, just smiles to himself and looks out of the taxi window.
You had never been in Euston Station before. You had always believed it to be the posh station, and would never have been able to make it five feet near the building without being shooed away by security. This time however, you are smiled at by the attendants, and one even offers to carry your bag, even with it being just a small rucksack. You politely declined, following Sherlock sweep through the train station and board your perfectly timed train. Although, you wondered who was perfectly timed, the train or Sherlock.
“What do you think?”
“About …” Sherlock lounges in his chair opposite you. Of course the man would buy all four tickets around a table, just to ensure no one would sit next to him.
“Don’t play coy Sherlock, it really doesn’t suit you.” You mutter, trying not to be distracted when the train lurches forward and begins to glide to your destination.
Sherlock laughs once quickly at your comment, before becoming serious again. “I think it’s not as simply as Mr Ferguson believes it to be.”
“You should have got John, he’s the medical expert. Or Molly, she would probably be fascinated by all this. Basically, anyone else but me. I have the least amount of medical experience. That being, none.” You reason after a few moments of silence, and Sherlock sighs. You secretly enjoy frustrating the man.
“Molly has absolutely no deductive reasoning, and as I said before, John would be a nuisance.” Sherlock replies simply, and you watch as he begins to quickly glance at other passengers on the train.
“And I’m not?” You ask, glad to hear that your voice hid your surprise quite well.
“No.” Sherlock says, and you must seem shocked, because he rolls his eyes at your expression. “You’re my assistant.”
The trip to Sussex went far too quickly for your likely. You were enjoying your time on a train, and the fact that Sherlock was quiet for most of the journey. He had insisted that you read him the notes you had made on the case, and so the man had sat silent gazing out the window, listening to you speak ever since.
“… history of mental health issues. Two siblings, one baby boy, age unknown and one teenage brother …”
“Do you read John your notes on the cases?” Sherlock interrupts, and you raise your head to look at him. It was a random question, and you wondered irrationally if you were in trouble.
He had moved from his position leaning up against the glass window, and was currently resting his head on his hands, with his elbows sitting on the table in front of him. You close the notebook before placing it down on the table. Your voice was beginning to become horse from all the speaking, and you wanted a break.
“Sometimes.” You answer, suddenly feeling shy. “When he came to check up on me yesterday morning I told him about the things he had missed from the case. I couldn’t remember everything so I just picked up my notebook and started reading. He seemed to find it interesting.”
“Do you think he misses it?” Sherlock interrupts you once again, before leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.
“You’re the detective.” You reply, and Sherlock laughs once.
“True, but John Watson has become remarkably good at hiding things from me.” Sherlock says, and you note the fact that the man looks troubled.
“Really?” You ask incredulously.
The detective is not given a chance to reply to your question, as a voice from over the train intercom announces you have arrived at your destination. Sherlock grabs his leather duffle bag and sweeps out of his seat in one fluid motion, and you scramble ungracefully to follow him, almost forgetting to collect your notebook from the table.
“Thank you for coming Mr Holmes, nice to see you again …” The man adds to you as you walk into the house behind Sherlock.
“Thanks, you have a lovely house.” You reply honestly, looking around the pristine hallway and into the living room beyond.
“Thank you dear. Please come through.” Mr Ferguson waves a hand towards another doorway and you follow Sherlock into the kitchen.
“Coffee?” You turn to Sherlock and watch as the detective looks at you at the same time.
“Please, that would be great.”
Mr Ferguson begins moving around the small but immaculate kitchen, and in no time two steaming mugs of coffee are placed in front of you and Sherlock.
“Your wife?” Sherlock asks, before taking a sip of ridiculously sweetened coffee without any milk. You wince as he drinks it, wondering why on earth he needed to add four sugars to such a small cup.
“At work …” Mr Ferguson replies distractedly, no doubt also being bemused by Sherlock’s strange drinking habits. “She won’t be back until this evening.”
“Are your children here?” You ask, realising suddenly that it must be the Christmas holidays.
“My step son Mark is at school, a cookery class I think. And since the incident with my daughter, my young son has been taken to a daily nursery. Just for the time being of course. We loathe the idea that he's away from us when he's so young.”
“Your daughter?”
“With her nurse upstairs, she’ll be leaving soon now I’m back.” The man adds, before moving to put the milk back into his fridge.
“She doesn’t stay all day?” You ask, noticing Sherlock was scoping out the pictures on the fridge and the rest of the room without moving from his seat. It was eerie.
“Our nurse comes in in the mornings around 9am, spends a few hours with my daughter and then she leaves just after lunchtime. I’m usually home from work by then you see.”
“Has this nurse been working with you for a long time?” Sherlock asks, before taking another sip of his coffee. You reach to get your trusty notebook, sensing that now would be a good time to start writing.
“Oh yes. She was working with my step son Mark, but since my poor girl Ellie… Well …”
“Working’ with him” Sherlock asks again, emphasising the word working in an odd way. Mr Ferguson sighs, and sits down on one of the kitchen stools opposite you.
“He’s disabled, lost the ability to walk after he was ill as a child.”
“That’s terrible.” You say honestly, and you feel Sherlock eye you curiously from behind his coffee cup.
“Yes, but he’s a lovely boy; quiet, studious and very intellectual.”
“Does Mark have an interest in science, Mr Ferguson?” Sherlock asks suddenly, and you wonder why he’s suddenly changed the conversation.
“No, not that I know of. Although he is very keen on history …”
Suddenly, a phone rings from another room in the house and Mr Ferguson looks flustered for a few seconds before walking towards the door and excusing himself.
“What are you thinking?” You ask Sherlock quietly, trying not to listen to the conversation your client was having in the other room.
“You can talk to the daughter, alone.” The detective says ominously, before pulling off his jacket and rolling up the sleeves to his buttoned shirt. That’s his ‘I need to be comfy I’m going to be messing around with stuff’ outfit you realise, and try not to smirk.
“You know what’s going on don’t you?” You ask suddenly, realisation hitting you like a ton of bricks. “That’s why you took the case so suddenly. What …”
“I have a few ideas. I need to look around the house, and you need to talk to the daughter.” Sherlock doesn’t even wait for Mr Ferguson to return before he starts to open kitchen cupboards and pull out certain boxes.
“What do you want me to ask her?” You say, standing from the table and quietly pushing the stool against the breakfast bar.
“Nothing.” Sherlock replies, his back facing you. “Just keep her company.”
“Hello.” You say sitting down next to the young teenage girl. You introduce yourself, waiting for the girl to do the same. When she doesn’t though, you sigh, and watch as she begins to draw things on a piece of paper on the carpet in front of her. “Your Dad came to get me and my friend Sherlock Holmes, he’s worried about you. That must be nice, having someone who cares about you.” You continue with a smile, but Ellie doesn’t even look up. “I don’t have a Dad you see. So I don’t know what that’s like.”
“It’s nice” A tiny voice replies, and it takes all your willpower not to punch the air in triumph.
“I can imagine, although he’s also worried about your baby brother …”
“Me too”
“What?” You were definitely not expecting that.
Silence again, the young girl just continues to draw circles on the piece of paper in front of her “Ellie, why are you worried about your brother?”
You turn to look at a stunned Mr Ferguson who stands in the doorway to his daughter’s bedroom.
“We need to talk …” Is all he says, before he walks down the stairs, gesturing you to follow.
“I haven’t been completely honest with you Mr Holmes.” Sherlock doesn’t say anything, just continues standing in the living room with his arms crossed over his chest. To your surprise the man is covered in what looks like flour and other weird things from the kitchen. You wondered what on Earth he was doing. “My wife wants me to put my daughter into some sort of home, or hospital …”
“What happened?” Sherlock asks, and you turn to frown at him, confused.
Mr Ferguson just sighs, looking exhausted before rubbing his hands together.
“Every night for the past few weeks, my daughter manages to get into my son’s nursery. We are woken up by him crying, or screaming more like it. Every time we go into the room, she is always doing the same thing. Sucking on the baby’s’ neck.”
“What?!” You say horrified, but Sherlock just looks scientifically curious.
“It’s the same every night” Mr Ferguson says, and he looks so exhausted in that moment, you wonder why you hadn’t noticed him looking tired before.
“Why the secrecy?”
“I had hoped you would be able to help my daughter Mr Holmes. Without the need of any more charlatans who call themselves medical professionals. My daughter has been pushed and prodded since she was a baby. The last thing she needs now is to be treated like a zoo exhibit. Or with disgust …” He adds glancing at you, and you feel slightly guilt for being so horrified earlier.
“So she doesn’t think she’s a vampire …” You say, trying to understand.
“Of course she does, why else would she …”
“Mr Ferguson, when is your wife due to be home?” Sherlock interrupts, looking at the watch on his wrist.
“In about an hour, why?”
“I think we all need to have a conversation.” The detective says, before sitting down next to you on the sofa.
“She spoke to you?” Mrs Ferguson gasps, looking over to her husband who nods an assurance.
“Yes.” You reply, and you wonder how long it had actually been since they last heard there daughter speak.
“Well, what did she say?” Mrs Ferguson continues, looking over at you with a excited expression, and you shift around on the sofa uncomfortably.
“Not much, just a few words in response to things I asked her.”
“How is your youngest son?” Sherlock asks from his spot next to you, and the mood drops instantly.
“He’s … not well.” Mrs Ferguson replies, before looking down at her lap.
“He’s showing odd symptoms, but the Nurse checked him over. He’s not ill or anything.” Mr Ferguson adds, grasping his wife’s hand.
“When did your son start showing symptoms?” Sherlock asks, although the way he says it makes you think he already knows the answer.
“Three weeks ago, when the kids all got off from school.”
“And your daughter, when did she start to enter his bedroom in the night, and …”
“Attack him.” Mrs Ferguson hisses, and you can’t help but wince. “A few days after that. Ever since she’s been obsessed with anything vampire.”
“What did the doctor say about your son’s condition?” Sherlock asks casually.
Mr and Mrs Ferguson eye each other for a few seconds, a look passing between them that makes Sherlock lean forward in his chair and scowl.
“We haven’t taken him to a doctor.” Mr Ferguson says after a while, and he shift sin his chair, appearing uncomfortable. You can’t blame him, the way Sherlock was looking at them made even you feel uncomfortable.
“Your son …”
“Our son is distressed Mr Holmes, which is understandable given the circumstances.” Mrs Ferguson hisses back, and her husband rubs her hand reassuringly.
“He barely eats, doesn’t sleep and cries constantly. These are completely normal symptoms for a child who is distressed …”
Sherlock takes a deep breath then, and you don’t know why, but your heart begins pounding madly. He turns towards the couple, holding his hands up under his chin and closing his eyes before he speaks.
“Take your son to the nearest GP and ask to give him a blood test immediately …” The man says calmly, and Mrs Ferguson sobs and puts a hand over her face. Mr Ferguson just looks frozen, in complete shock.
“Sherlock …” You warn, watching as the man sits back in his chair and looks softly at the couple. This isn’t acting though you realise, this is the real Sherlock.
“It will be alright, if we act quickly.” He says softly, helping the woman stand and watching as she walks to the doorway to collect her son. “Mr Ferguson you can go with her, we will handle things here.”
Mr Ferguson nods, looking numb, before following his wife from the room. You hear Ellie and her Nurse upstairs, and wonder when the other son will be arriving home.
“What’s going on Sherlock?” You ask as the man paces up and down the room by the fireplace, appearing to be conflicted and worried. It makes you feel uneasy.
“I need you to talk to Ellie again. Get her to tell the truth”
“What truth?” You ask with a frown, but rising from your chair anyway.
“That she is trying to save her brother’s life” Sherlock says simply, before marching back into the kitchen.
Now you were utterly confused. So the baby was ill, apparently Ellie was trying to help and …
Realisation hits you like a blow to the head. Although you think, that may be a stupid analogy after your last case. You race up the stairs to Ellie with a smile on your face. She’s not trying to hurt him you realise; she’s trying to help him.
You watch as Sherlock walks to each cupboard in the kitchen with a determined expression etched onto his face. Strange noises are beginning to descend from upstairs, and you swear you could hear things being thrown around. Part of you wants to go back upstairs, after all, it was you who set her off.
“Maybe I should …”
“No.” Sherlock replies, before you even had chance to finish your sentence.
You sigh “She was fine a minute ago, and then I mentioned her parents taking her brother to the hospital …”
“I’m sure that would be a good explanation as to her sudden change in mood.” The detective says, finally appearing to have collected what he wanted from the cupboards, as he now stands before you and begins to roll up his sleeves. “She didn’t talk to you?”
“No.” You hear the nurse beginning to raise her voice, and the banging and crashing becomes even louder. “She’s upset.” Sherlock actually rolls his eyes at your comment, and you resist the urge to make a comment about his insensitivity.
“Understandable, given the circumstances.”
“What’s wrong with her Sherlock?” You didn’t want to explicitly ask Mr Ferguson, or even the nurse, but you were beginning to become worried that maybe you and Sherlock were not going to be enough to help Ellie.
“You just said, she’s upset …”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” Sherlock stops, before sighing heavily. It was getting close to midnight, and you had been travelling and then working all day. Even the great Sherlock Holmes gets tired you think, resisting the urge to yawn yourself. “There’s nothing wrong with her. But …”
“Yes?” You prompt. Sherlock stands up a little bit straighter, before suddenly ripping open a packet that was in front of him. The sudden act nearly makes you jump, and you wonder why the detective had suddenly becoming so … angry.
“Bipolar 2 disorder, selective mutism and some form of autism. But that’s just my diagnosis.”
He says it so quickly that you have to replay the words over in your head, just to be sure that you heard him correctly. So Mr Ferguson was wrong you think; poor Ellie really does need a doctor. Sherlock though, doesn’t seem to agree, as he is still working away busily.
Suddenly, a ringtone sounds, and you pat around in your pocket for a few seconds, before you realise that the sound is not coming from you. Sherlock quickly reaches over the back of the chair where his coat is resting, and pulls out his expensive but often abused phone.
“Mr Ferguson.” He answers, not even looking at the name on the screen “Yes everything is alright here. Did you get the results? Ok …” The man frowns as he listens to the client, before a smile creeps onto his face “Excellent.” Suddenly, you hear Mr Fergusons voice becomes louder, and Sherlock looks chastened. You try to hide your smirk; obviously the detective had chosen his words poorly. “No of course, not excellent …”
You try to listen to the other side of the conversation, but only manage to hear muffled words and the occasional sound that seems to be someone blowing there noise. Judging by the disgusted look on Sherlock’s face, that is exactly what Mr Ferguson was doing. After a few minutes, the conversation stops and the detective places his phone back into his pocket.
“What did he say?” You ask, after it becomes apparent that Sherlock was not going to tell you automatically.
“The baby boy is going to be fine.”
“Oh thank god.” You say, letting out a relieved breath. “What was wrong with him?
“Ricin”
You frown, not having a clue what that meant. “What’s that?” Sherlock doesn’t look worried or even surprised at the diagnosis, so you hope that is a good sign.
“A very deadly poison. It was used by assassins during the cold war. Nasty little poison, and virtually impossible to detect.”
“But how … how … “ You stammer, and Sherlock stops his activities to scowl at you.
“If you’re going to be doing this with me you’re going to need to expand your vocabulary.”
“How did the Ricin get into his system?” You say, deliberately speaking in an exaggerated British accent that makes the man roll his eyes. He’s being doing that a lot lately you realise, and mentally high five yourself for managing to exasperate the man on more than one occasion.
“Good, now you’re asking the right questions.”
“You know don’t you.”
“Yes.”
“Ok, so we know that Ellie was trying to help her baby brother, so she knew he was being poisoned.”
You stop, frowning to yourself. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, obviously wanting you to get to the point without his assistant.
“Yes, go on.”
“So she must have seen someone poison him here, as she doesn’t leave the house and only sees her baby brother at home …” You trail off, waiting for Sherlock to correct you. Amazingly however, he doesn’t.
“Excellent go on.”
“Well, the Nurse could have access to chemicals, but …”
“But …” The detective prompts. You sit up straighter, clearing your throat and attempt to make yourself look more professional. The posture works you think, as some ideas begin to course through your brain.
“She is with Ellie all the time whilst she is here. Ellie wanted to help her brother, so if she knew her nurse was poisoning him, she would have done something. Acted up around her, tried to stop her, but she hasn’t done anything like that. The nurse is the only person in this house that Ellie seems to really like.”
“Excluding you.” Sherlock says, and you note with some surprise that he doesn’t seem annoyed or even bothered by that. In fact he seems, pleased.
“Me?”
“She talked to you, shows that she is comfortable around you. And there must be some degree of affection there.”
“Huh, that’s sweet.” You smile to yourself.
“Concentrate …” Sherlock chastens in his deep monotone, and you clear your throat awkwardly.
“Right, sorry” You rub your temple, trying to ease the ache that was beginning to grow. You hadn’t taken any painkillers today, and were sure John was going to have something to say about that when you got home. “So she knew he was being poisoned, but couldn’t stop it happening. She could only try and help him afterward …”
“Exactly.”
“Ok, that’s it. I’m lost.”
“You’re not lost, you just need more information.”
“Enlighten me then.”
“Ricin is a deadly poison, but it is not hard to come by.”
“Really?”
You had never heard of the poison, and wondered if it was in something you had yourself. A morbid part of your brain thought it may come in useful, and the other part was horrified at your train of thought and wondered if you had spent too long in the company of Sherlock Holmes.
“It’s found in most kitchens in fact. Chocolate, castor oil, castor beans, sweets …” As Sherlock lists off each of the food, he glances down to where the item sits on the table. “These brands in particular contain high amounts of the substance. In high quantities and regularly administered, Ricin poison can be fatal within four days. Obviously someone had been feeding the child a mixture of these things, judging by the random quantities not in the packets …”
You realise then what Sherlock had been doing in the kitchen. Weighing each item and trying to figure out how much had been used. So now all you needed to know was who would have been so brainless or uncaring enough to feed a child a mixture of random foods …
“Mark” You say quietly, realising dawning on you.
“He has been feeding his baby brother small quantities of chocolate and cakes that he has been making in his cookery classes. Most adults would know not to feed to infant these ingredients, but the boy seemed to be overconfident in his cookery skills.” Yes, you think to yourself, Sherlock Holmes definitely had a dark sense of humour “Slowly, he has been poisoning his baby brother.”
“On purpose?” You ask horrified.
“No, I don’t think so.”
Some more sounds descend from upstairs, and you remember that you and Sherlock are not alone in the house.
“But what about Ellie?” You ask, looking directly above yourself towards the room in which the teenager was currently in.
“She knew this, but obviously the children agreed to keep it a secret from the adults, in fear that they would get in trouble. Ellie saw her brother becoming ill, and knew of a way to help.”
“She tried to suck the poison out.” It was common knowledge that that’s what you should do if ever poisoned, but most people understand that it was referring to a dart, bite or sting. Not being fed something.
“Obviously it didn’t work, it’s impossible. But she wasn’t trying to extract the poison, she was trying to communicate what was happening with her brother. She thought her parents would understand, but as usual, they completely missed it.”
“You sound like you’re speaking from personal experience.” You say, but Sherlock seems to ignore the comment. Instead he just crosses his arms over his chest, turning from vulnerable human to robotic detective in an instant.
“Her father linked her behaviour to her fascination of vampires, and assumed that she was mimicking them. If they had tried to understand what she was trying to do …”
“YES!”
A loud voice screams from the doorway, and you and Sherlock turn in unison to see an ecstatic Ellie jumping up and down and clapping her hands together. You smile when you see her, and she continues to laugh to herself. Behind her you spot her nurse, looking extremely confused, but at the same time you can see a small smile on her face.
“I’m sorry Mr Holmes; she heard you talking and wanted to come downstairs.” The nurse says, linking her arm with Ellie and walking her towards the table.
“It’s not a problem, Miss …”
“My names Melinda, Mr Holmes, and you know Ellie …” The nurse smiles fondly at the teenager, so sits in a stool near you and Sherlock. She looks thrilled, and you can’t blame her.
“Hello again.” You say, sitting down next to her and smiling when she reaches out and holds your hand.
“Brother?” She says shyly, sounding much like she did when you had first met her. You smile reassuringly, before giving her hand a quick squeeze.
“He’s ok, and will be very happy to know that his big sister was looking out for him.”
Before you even have time to realise you is happening, the girl leaps from her seat and throws her arms around you, nearly knocking you to the floor. You laugh, before reciprocating the hug and trying not to topple over as you do so. You hear Sherlock begin talking to the nurse, walking over towards her and explaining what had happened. Melinda however, hardly seems to be paying attention to him, and is instead watching you and Ellie with a huge smile on her face.
Mr and Mrs Ferguson arrive back at their home with their baby son around 2am. Their daughter Ellie had gone to bed the hour prior, with the promise from yourself that you will play Monopoly with her another time. You definitely meant it as well, with the look on Sherlock’s face when the girl bankrupted him being enough to guarantee another visit.
After the couple had put their son to bed and said goodnight to Ellie’s nurse, they came to sit in the living room with yourself and Sherlock. You were more worried about what the detective was going to say than how they were going to take it.
“Our son?” Mr Ferguson face begins to grow pale, and you almost make a mad dash to the kitchen to get him some water.
“Yes, we believe that Mark has been feeding his baby brother foods that contain high levels of Ricin.”
“How could this happen!” Mrs Ferguson exclaims, and you wince involuntarily at the raised voice. “If it’s just food …”
“That is meant to be consumed by adults and older children with a much higher metabolism.” Sherlock continues, and the couple pass a look between them.
“We don’t think Mark did anything on purpose.” You put in, keeping your voice deliberately quiet. “His cookery class obviously taught him how to make certain things with Castor Oil, and he went a bit overboard …”
Mrs Ferguson glares at you furiously, but luckily you are saved from being pounced on when Sherlock speaks again.
“Obviously this wasn’t a deliberate attempt to poison his brother.”
“This is our fault, we should have kept an eye on him! On them both!”
Neither you or Sherlock argue any differently to Mrs Fergusons statement. After all, a little time with their son and they would have seen what was going on. Not to mention talking to their daughter …
“Yes well, we should be heading out.” Sherlock says calmly, standing up and you follow suit. “I suggest that you lock away any food items containing Castor, as that is where your son managed to get the Ricin.”
Mr Ferguson stands up, and shakes Sherlock’s hand vigorously. “Thank you Mr Holmes. Not only have you saved my son, but my daughter as well!”
You wait for Sherlock to comment, but he doesn’t, just reciprocates the handshake quickly before moving and collecting his duffle bag and your backpack where it rested next to him on the sofa.
The Ferguson’s walk you to the door, with the promise of substantial payment and that they will keep a close eye on their family. You bid the two a farewell, before walking out with Sherlock and hoping that the man will want to find somewhere to sleep as much as you do.
“B&B? There is a fantastic little one down the road apparently …” The detective says casually, and you manage to refrain from hugging him in the middle of the street.
It had been a long day and a strange case, but you had enjoyed seeing Sherlock work. It wasn’t a murder, or even a missing person. It was an issue around a family, not of international importance, but Sherlock still managed to help them. And more than that, Sherlock had helped them. The man who usually works for governments and rich clients had travelled all the way to Sussex to help a confused teenager and a baby boy. Huh, you think as Sherlock walks over to the desk of the B&B to check you in, the man does have a heart, even if he argues otherwise.
You arrive back in London the next evening. After the dramatic events of the case, and the fact that you hadn’t travelled for a long time, you were exhausted. Sherlock on the other hand was positively giddy.
“I need to see Lestrade.” He says simply as you both sat in the back of a taxi heading to Baker Street from the train station.
“Ok.” You reply, wondering how much sleep, if any, you were going to get tonight.
“You can stay at Baker Street. Won’t be needed …” The man trails off.
You smile to yourself at the statement, thinking that that will be as close to ‘have a night in and get some rest’ as you were going to get from the detective.
“You don’t mind that I’m going to be alone?”
“Of course not, why would I care. Just …”
“Don’t touch the cultures in the fridge. I know.” You recite, sounding very much like an annoyed teenager.
“Well, I was going to say don’t eat the cultures in the fridge. But you’ve already done that …”
You glare at Sherlock Holmes, and the detective actually looks amused. Of course, you think, the onetime Sherlock develops a sense of humour is when you nearly manage to poison yourself. Typical …
You stand stock still, listening intently for any voices. Sherlock wouldn’t be back so soon, and Mrs Hudson would have announced herself. It could be John, you think, but you doubt the man would just walk into the living room without saying anything. You were living with Sherlock Holmes, you remind yourself. The man had enemies, you knew that well.
In that moment you suddenly hear a small bang, as if someone had dropped something on the floor. You wait, listening for the sound of someone cursing, or apologising to you, but nothing. So, it is an intruder...
You look around the small bathroom for something, anything you could use as some sort of weapon. The toilet brush? No you think, that would just amuse an intruder more than frighten them. The nail scissors? Perfect, you think as you reach into the medicine cabinet and pull them out as quietly as possible. You nearly drop them in shock when you spot a box of condoms next to the toothpaste, but quickly decide not to dwell on that too much.
Another noise comes from the living room, and this time you recognise that someone is moving things around on the desk. That settles it immediately you decide. Mrs Hudson doesn’t touch any of Sherlock’s paperwork, John wouldn’t be so nosy whilst his friend was away, and Sherlock’s other friends like Molly or Lestrade were both working today. This was an intruder who was looking for something. That couldn't be good.
You creep out of the bathroom as quietly as you can, leaving the door open in case you need to bolt back in. A quick glance in the living room doesn’t show anyone, but you still hear some noises. You walk through the kitchen slowly, pausing for a moment to think about choosing a better weapon, before the rummaging noises stop suddenly, and you freeze. Your back is facing the kitchen, and you are barely in the living room. You don’t see anyone, but swore you could hear …
“Evening.”
A smooth British voice comes from behind you, startling you. You turn around quickly, holding up your small scissors as if they could defend you from anything. Only to be greeted with a tired yet slightly amused looking Holmes.
“Mycroft …” You sigh, relieved.
The man looks down at your hands, and you follow his gaze to the tiny silver scissors. Embarrassed you blush, and quickly move to hide them behind your back.
“I see living with my dear brother does in fact teach one something.” Mycroft murmurs, before walking over to Sherlock’s desk and resuming his rummaging. You notice that the paperwork doesn’t look like it has been moved, but then again; this is Mycroft you are dealing with.
“You scared me.” You say simply, putting your weapon of choice into your baggy shorts pocket and trying to pretend you didn’t just threaten one of the most powerful men in Britain with a pair of nail scissors.
“So I gathered.” Mycroft says with his back to you, and you hear the amusement in his voice.
“I didn’t know you had a key.” Mycroft turns then, raising his eyebrow in a way that is eerily similar to his younger brother. “Of course, never mind …” You say, shaking your head and still standing awkwardly halfway in the living room and kitchen.
“And where is Sherlock? I didn’t think he would leave you here alone …”
“I’m not going to steal anything” You regret the words as soon as they come out of your mouth. Mycroft turns smoothly, placing his umbrella on the floor and using it almost like a walking stick.
“I was referring to the incident that occurred on your previous case.” The man replies and you frown, which of course highlights exactly what Mycroft was referring to. You try not to wince as your head wound throbs.
“How do you know about that?” You ask, although again you wondered why you bothered. Mycroft knew everything. “Right, never mind.” You walk towards the kitchen, intent on putting the kettle on. You had never seen Mycroft eat or drink, but he was a British gentleman. Surely he drank tea. “He’s at Scotland Yard, talking to Lestrade I think. Tea?”
“Please.” Mycroft walks over to Sherlock’s chair, and places himself into it gracefully. You hoped you weren’t going to spill or slurp your tea …
“He should be back soon.” You say, trying to fill the silence that had descended over the flat. The kettle finishes boiling, and you begin to sort the tea.
“And how are you dealing with being Sherlock’s new John Watson?”
“I’m enjoying it.” You reply earnestly, not encouraging Mycroft’s sarcasm. “Your brother is brilliant at what he does.”
“Any newspaper could tell you that my dear.”
“No, it’s different seeing him up close. Actually seeing him work. It’s awesome.” You place down a cup of tea and hot water next to Mycroft on the table, as well as a small pot of milk and the sugar bowl. Mrs Hudson would be proud you think. You sit opposite Mycroft in John’s chair, and are surprised when you look up to notice that the man was staring at you intently. “What?”
“How long do you think you will be staying at Baker Street?”
You gulp, feeling slightly unnerved by the man’s sudden change of mood.
“I don’t know.”
“Have you and Sherlock spoken about this arrangement? Properly I mean.”
You shift around in the chair uncomfortably, Mycroft still gazing at you, waiting for an answer.
“No.” You say quietly, before reaching over and picking up your tea.
“And what are you going to do after he asks you to leave, which he will …”
The man trails off. You can’t tell if this is him asking you because he is concerned, worried or just interested. He is giving nothing away, and not for the first time, you feel like you are seeing working Mycroft. Dangerous Mycroft.
“Is this an interrogation?” You ask quietly, suddenly feeling the urge to run into the bathroom and lock yourself in like you had originally planned.
“No.” The man says, sounding much like his normal self. He leans back in his chair, and suddenly looks extremely bored. “If it was, you would know about it.”
Your eyes widen at the statement, but Mycroft doesn’t even look at you. He just twirls his umbrella that was resting on the floor, appearing fed up and like this whole conversation was beneath him. You wait for him to speak again, but when he doesn’t you sit forward, attempting to look serious. Well as serious as you could be whilst wearing men’s shorts and an ACDC t-shirt that was older than you were.
“I like your brother Mycroft, and I like helping him.” It is completely true, and you would think obvious, but you can’t help but feel surprised at the way that Mycroft suddenly smiles, and shoots up out of his chair.
“Thank you for the tea. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other soon.” The man says before sweeping out of the room and marching loudly down the stairs.
Mr Hudson had mentioned exactly 6 times in the 5 days you had been at 221B Baker Street, that the fact that an intelligent grown man like Sherlock Holmes couldn’t cook his own dinner was ridiculous. And yet here she was on a Wednesday evening, bent over the stove in the kitchen making spaghetti. Which judging by the smell that was radiating into the living room where you sat, was going to be delicious.
She had come up an hour prior with a bag of shopping, and tutted when you told her that Sherlock had gone out and you had no idea when he was going to be back. You had your trusty mobile that the detective had given you when you had first met, so were waiting for a text that would either say ‘on my way back’ or ‘come and help me do something ridiculously tiring’. Your money was on the latter.
You were still finding it difficult to get used to living at Baker Street. Not only were you staying somewhere with your own bedroom, and a kitchen that contained food (edible food thanks to Mrs Hudson) who were living with the famous detective. A man that when you had first met used to recognise you from the smell and had kindly informed you that he would of course find your next of kin should you die or become injured. That is of course, unless he forgets. Now Sherlock Holmes was taking you on his cases, trusting you to stay in his flat unsupervised, and had even insisted that he teach you his skills. He had also asked to teach you how to play some games, but you assumed that that idea was now out the window. What with the Cluedo board literally been thrown out the window.
Some loud steps on the stair case pull you out of your daydream, and a cheerful Sherlock steps into the kitchen to greet Mrs Hudson. After teasing her about food poisoning, which you no longer found funny at all, he came into the living room and all but threw himself into his chair.
“You’re back.” You say as a greeting, sitting up on the sofa across the room and rubbing your eyes. You had almost fell asleep …
“You’re stating the obvious.” Sherlock replies in his typical monotone voice. He pauses for a second, before suddenly rolling his eyes, and looking at you in exasperation. “What did Mycroft want?”
“How …” You stammer, wondering what on earth Sherlock had seen to make him suddenly realise that his brother had visited. After all, Mycroft had meticulously placed back everything on the table after he had moved it.
“So, what did he want?” Sherlock asks again, clearly frustrated at being bothered by his big brother.
“Honestly …” You say, looking over at the where his tea still sat on the table, completely untouched. So that’s who he knew, you think. Sherlock widens his eyes, waiting for you to respond “I have no idea.” You reply, just as Mrs Hudson announces that dinner is served.
Sherlock shoots up from his seat and dashes to the kitchen and you suddenly feel very … domestic. Mrs Hudson tells you to hurry, as Sherlock will have devoured everything if you don’t move. Laughing, you stand and make your way to the kitchen, collecting Mycroft’s cold tea as you do.