Locked (16 page)

“You’d be amazed how fast you can get a group of high schoolers to scatter when you’re in a suit and you shout
FBI
.”

Anger swells in my chest. This man’s unconscious brother is slung over his shoulder and his tone is as cool and clinical as if he were ordering a prescription at the pharmacy. “They hurt him. We have to take him to the hospital.”

“If we take him to the hospital, there will be questions.” Mycroft knocks aside a case of empty beer bottles with his foot and opens the door. The cool night air rushes in. “If Sherlock and I share anything, it’s a hatred of stupid questions. He’s not badly hurt. He most likely passed out because they gave him a stronger dose of whatever they gave you.”

“How did you know—?”

“My brother doesn’t engage in drinking. If he had drunk anything, it would have been a small amount, which would only have done this to him if it had been drugged. Judging by recent information I’ve received, most people at your school are now convinced he’s a killer. I presume this was some childish form of revenge. And, of course, they would have needed to drug him. He is not easy to overpower.”

“You’re like…a second Sherlock.” I don’t mean to say it out loud, but everything’s still hazy enough that I can’t tell what comes out and what doesn’t.

Mycroft smiles as we reach his car, the same sleek black one. He opens the door, lays Sherlock in the back seat, and turns to me.

“I’m a better Sherlock.”

“I heard you tell him just this morning, every time you asked if he was okay.”

|||

(written on the back of a grocery list that ends with You NEED to go SHOPPING, Sherlock.)

Third hypothesis: She genuinely cares about me.

Evidence for: Stated that she likes me, all of me. (Though: only dimly remember this. Could be wrong.) Cleaned my locker. Refused to break up with me. Fell asleep next to my bed, apparently (woke up this morning and she was on the floor).

Evidence against: I am me.

Evidence against is compelling. Must seek further confirmation of third hypothesis before I
hope
before I take it as true.

Was drugged last night, clearly. Passed out at some point and woke up in own bed. Black eye. No idea what happened. Mycroft’s car in driveway. Likely he brought me home. Tedious.

Will go downstairs and find out. First: cover up Irene.

She looks cold.

|||

I wake up with my cheek pressed to a wooden floor.

I groan before I open my eyes. I’ve never been so stiff. And
hungover
…dear sweet mother of God. I’m going to tell Sherlock…

Sherlock.

I meant to stay up all night and keep an eye on him. I must have fallen asleep.

I leap up, a blanket I don’t remember putting on sliding off my back. I’m in his room. And his bed is empty. Nothing but a dried spot of blood on the pillow where his temple had pressed into the fabric.

Ignoring my pounding headache and every part of me that’s aching, I run down the stairs. I hear him before I see him:

“No, Mycroft, I’m afraid I refuse.”

I round the corner. A freshly clothed Sherlock is sitting on a couch that I’ve never seen before, a shiny leather one. Mycroft is seated at the other end of the couch like an overgrown spider, a cup of coffee in his hand.

But I can’t take my eyes off Sherlock.

“Morning, Irene,” he says. “You’re awake.”

“Are you…” My throat feels like sandpaper. “Are you okay?”

“What? Yes, of course,” he says distractedly. His face looks better than I expected. There’s a small bandage just under his hairline, and bruises blacken his cheekbone and eye. But his eyes are as vivid as ever. I’m so glad to see them open.

“Make yourself some tea,” he says. “Your voice sounds like a hacksaw.”

“I’ve never known you to order someone to drink anything for their own health, baby brother.” Mycroft takes a delicate sip of coffee, but his eyes are on me like hypodermic needles.

Sherlock is a block of ice. “You’ve never known me at all, Mycroft.”

The tension between them is humming. I ignore it and move closer to Sherlock. “You’re really okay.”

“Apart from the fact that my brother has ordered this piece of furniture that flagrantly fails to match my current décor, yes.”

“You don’t have any décor,” Mycroft notes.

Sherlock glowers. “Absence is my décor.”

My head is still several steps behind the rest of me. “When I found you last night…”

“You found me?” Sherlock’s voice sharpens. “Apparently, Mycroft, you lie as easily as you annoy me.”

“I was the
effective
person who found you.”

“You can continue to be effective and walk effectively out my front door.”

“I paid for the house. Legally, it’s my front door.”

Sherlock snorts.

“Should I go?” I ask.

“Stay,” Sherlock orders just as Mycroft says, “Yes, I’m sure you know where
my
front door is.”

I unfold my lawn chair, which has been tossed disparagingly in a corner, and sit in it.

“I have some potentially unfortunate news for you, Irene,” says Mycroft. “Unfortunate depending on whether or not you view my brother as a sane person should, which I don’t think you do. For everyone else in this town, it’s surely fortunate. We are moving.”

Everything slows and stills.

Moving.

“I have fortunate news for you, Irene,” Sherlock snarls. “I am not, in fact, moving.”

“I have unfortunate news for
you
, my brother.” Mycroft looks around for a coffee table, sighs, and places his empty mug on the floor. “You are currently my dependent and if I move, you move.”

“Then you’re not moving either. Happy tidings all around.”

I’m still stuck on one word. Moving. Moving away. As in packing up and going somewhere distant. Where I might never see him again. I catch Sherlock’s eye and something in my expression must surprise him, because his mouth tightens minutely in the way that it only does when he’s caught off guard. “I’m not going anywhere, Irene.”

It takes me a minute to realize that Mycroft is turning his needle gaze to me and to Sherlock, and then back again. “I see,” he says softly.

I take a step forward, and then another, mostly to break Mycroft’s stare. Then I’m next to Sherlock and my hand sort of moves on its own—my thumb brushes the bruise on his cheekbone.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask quietly.

He stiffens, his eyes not leaving my face. I take my hand back quickly. I must have said something wrong.

“You’ve found yourself a pet, Sherlock. How quaint.”

“Leave, Mycroft,” Sherlock says through gritted teeth. “Now.”

“Not your usual clever response. Though this isn’t your usual anything, is it?”

I can’t quite follow what’s happening, but I can tell that something significant passes between the two of them. Mycroft’s eyes are narrowed, analyzing. Sherlock is as cold as a gust of wind.

“We’re moving, Sherlock.” The older Holmes leans back, tracing the pattern of the leather on the armrest with his forefinger. “Admittedly it’s impressive that you managed to turn the entire town against you this quickly, but I always swore to myself I would relocate you before someone tried to kill you. This time I appear to be too late.”

“Nobody tried to kill me,” Sherlock’s voice is like a knife. “Someone hit me in the face. Hardly a murder attempt.”

I make a skeptical noise in the back of my throat. Sherlock throws me a look that says
not helping
.

“Someone
drugged
you and then
several people
hit you in the face for a considerable amount of time.” Mycroft smooths the front of his tie. “You could have died.”

“At the moment, I’m regretting that I didn’t.” Sherlock picks savagely at the edge of the armrest. “I can’t go. I have a murder to solve.”

“Solve it quickly, then. Because I will be making the arrangements today.”

I’ve never seen Sherlock so angry. His entire body is taut with it, his eyes even scarier than they’d been when he’d confronted August in the hallway. He gets up, and for a second I’m sure he’s going to punch Mycroft, but instead he strides toward the stairs.

“Come on, Irene.”

And then he’s gone. The door upstairs slams.

“So dramatic, my little brother.” Mycroft uncrosses his arms. Where Sherlock has always reminded me of something intelligent and elegant, like a panther or a raven, Mycroft moves like a snake or a centipede. “May I have a moment outside, Irene?”

He’s not really asking. He’s telling. I glance once toward the stairs before following him out.

On the front porch, he lights a cigarette.

“You smoke?” I ask, moving surreptitiously to block his view of the melted shoe on the ground.

“Where do you think Sherlock picked it up?”

My phone buzzes.

SH:
I don’t know what possessed you to sleep on my floor.

SH:
I have a perfectly good guest bedroom.

Mycroft glances down at the screen. He has a widow’s peak too. His is obvious—his dark hair is slicked back, highlighting it. “You have disappointed me, Irene Adler.”

“I have?” As much as I want not to care about the opinion of Sherlock’s bizarre older brother, Mycroft seems like a person it might be dangerous to disappoint.

Buzz.

SH:
If Mycroft says that it’s his room, tell him he has to sleep it in at least once first.

Mycroft flicks ash onto the porch. “I thought I told you to call me if Sherlock did anything extreme.”

“Everything Sherlock does is extreme.” I had genuinely forgotten his request.

“I more meant anything that could put him in danger.”

“Everything he does puts him in—”

“He really is rubbing off on you.” For a second, his voice loses its medicinal smoothness and crackles with anger. “You’re almost as irritating as he is.”

I don’t reply. It’s a warmer day, and the sun bakes my shoulders. I’m itching to run back inside and follow Sherlock upstairs. Anything to escape the helicopter beacon that is Mycroft’s stare.

SH:
If Mycroft says that he’s worried I’ll kill him in his sleep, tell him his concerns are warranted.

“I have something important to discuss with you,” Mycroft says. “Take a walk with me and show me the neighborhood.”

“You care about the neighborhood?”

“I care that my brother doesn’t eavesdrop.”

The upstairs window is slightly open. I clear my throat. Going anywhere with Mycroft feels like stepping into piranha-infested waters, but I want to know what he has to say. Maybe I can convince him not to move. “Yeah, okay.”

We walk a short distance down the street. Panadero is long empty stretch of road, with just my and Sherlock’s houses at the end. There are always ugly development projects alongside it, which end up half-abandoned when the contractors run out of money. I shove my hands in my pockets. “There’s really not a lot of neighborhood.”

“As you previously guessed, I’m rather not interested in the neighborhood.”

“Then what are you interested in?” I ask bravely. “I’m not very interesting.”

“I beg to differ,” he says. “My brother only likes interesting things. Sit.”

He’s pointing at half-dilapidated bench under a streetlight, weeds tangling up from cracks in the pavement beneath it. I sit. He follows suit, pulling another cigarette from his breast pocket.

SH:
If he’s taking you out to breakfast, don’t drink the coffee. He’s poisoned it.

Mycroft smokes nearly half the cigarette before he speaks, the ash falling onto the ground where the breeze scatters it. “You’re in love with my brother.”

Did I imagine that? I’m still a little woozy. The drugs must still be in my system—but then I look at Mycroft and Mycroft is looking back and he said it, he really said it. I close my eyes against a flash of dizziness. “No, I’m not.”

“Don’t lie if you’re not good at it.”

“I’m not in love with him.”

“You are.” He taps his cigarette against the edge of the bench. “Or you’re nearly there. You said it yourself.”

“I didn’t say anything like that,” I whisper.

“Yes, you did. I heard you tell him just this morning, every time you asked if he was okay. It’s so glaringly obvious only my brother could miss it.”

I stand up.

“Sit.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Sit down,” he says.

I sit.

“Good girl.” He stares out at the abandoned development projects, frozen in a half-crumpled state across the road. “It’s rather an ugly street, isn’t it?”

“What do you want from me?” My chest is tight.

“I don’t want anything
from
you. I want something
for
you. Happiness, namely. And you’re not going to get it from my brother.”

SH:
Did he see the shoe?

“Sherlock is incapable of love,” says Mycroft. “He’s not a human being. He looks like one, but he’s a machine. A computer. He calculates things but doesn’t feel them. He’ll keep you around as long as he finds you to be a suitable distraction, but he’ll inevitably break your heart—not because he doesn’t understand how they work, he knows how hearts work. But because he doesn’t have one himself.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He gives a startled smile. “And you think you know him better than I do, having known him for a month and a half.”

“Yeah, I think I do.” I grit my teeth to keep my voice from betraying my anger.

“Clearly not, if this is your response.”

“I mean, I know what he’s like. I know who he is. I know he’s not—the easiest. But I accept that. I’m not going to just—” I stop. “I’m talking about friendship. We’re just friends.”

A cat walks across the road, glances back at us, and disappears into one of the development projects. Mycroft’s eyes track its progress. “My brother doesn’t have
just
friends. It’s not possible to be friends with Sherlock.”

“You’re wrong, then. Because he’s my friend.”

SH:
Respond or I will send the Coast Guard out after you.