Locked (2 page)

“Hello, Irene Adler.” A slow, mysterious, British-accented drawl.

I peek over the rosebush. The street’s still late-night empty, but the dog won’t shut up. Why do people get dogs? “I’m a bit busy and it’s also midnight, so if whoever this is could call back later—”

“I’m afraid this is urgent, Irene.”

“Urgent?”

“An urgent apology.”

“What kind of apology is urgent past midnight?”

“The kind that not many people get,” comes the voice. “My name is Mycroft Holmes. I believe you met my younger brother today.”

I draw my knees up to my chest and touch my scratched cheek. Blood. Something else to explain to Mom in the morning. “Sort of. I mean, yeah.”

“And I understand you delivered to him a casserole in a very intimate manner.”

I wince. This
Mycroft Holmes
—seriously, what baby names book had their parents been using—isn’t really apologizing. He wants
me
to apologize. “I know. It was an accident…well, no, it wasn’t. I wrote an apology letter. I was going to bring it over tomorrow.”

He laughs. A laugh like a villain in a spy movie. “No, no, no. The casserole was one of the better reactions people have had to my brother. And it did look delicious. Such a waste. My palate is much more distinguished than that of Sherlock’s shirt.”

Crazy. They’re both crazy.

“What I’m trying to communicate to you, dear neighbor, is that you have no reason to apologize at all. Very much the opposite. I would like to apologize on my brother’s behalf. In fact I had
him
write an apology letter, which he will be bringing by tomorrow morning.”

“He doesn’t seem like the apology letter type.” The bush is poking me in the arm. At least the dog has stopped yapping.

“He’s not. Pray forgive him. He’s been cooped up in the car for two days and he’s gone quite mad. Which isn’t to say he’s not always quite mad, because he is. I do hope you’ll get used to it.”

“I wasn’t planning on spending enough time around him to get used to it.”

“But neighbors must be friends.” I can practically hear shark’s teeth on the other end.

“Right…sorry, but why are you calling me at midnight?”

“Just out of curiosity. My brother got the insomnia wrong.” There’s a brief silence. “I can hear that you’re outside. Your cat got out, perhaps?”

I hang up automatically. My heart’s beating in a way that I’m quickly associating with the Holmes family. The Holmes tachycardia. Scourge of hospitals everywhere.

Why is Sherlock’s brother dealing with this and not his parents?

I get up, plucking thorns from my palms, and quietly vow to myself that I will have as little as possible to do with Sherlock Holmes.

It’s twenty-three minutes past midnight when I reach 18 Rottleby Road. The building is one of those picket fence houses, the number huge next to the door to distinguish itself from its twins to either side of it. I pick my way across a dew-dusted lawn in need of a mow. There’s a wooden trellis on the back wall of the house, looped with dying tomato vines, and I’m light enough to climb it—I’ve lost weight since the accident. The roof is slanted, and I have to wedge myself behind the chimney to keep from slipping. Not a real chimney. Just for appearances. Appearances are so important.

They hide what you really are.

I don’t know how the Ares thing started. It just did. The locker in the science wing, the beat-up one that nobody uses, is where people leave the notes. The notes asking for help with their problems, their mysteries. And I’m the one who helps them. It helps me.

The sky is full of stars.

But then Sherlock darts back into my mind, Carol accompanying him—and Carol always brings the dull pain, so dull it dampens everything, blurs all the colors, puts me to sleep. The only way I can wake myself back up is risk. I edge out from behind the chimney, fighting gravity, wedging my heels against the roof tiles so I’m about to fall, but not quite.

Much better.

There’s a muted scratching sound from the other side of the roof and then I’m really awake. Of course. The burglar’s trying to get in through the skylight. I have to see who it is before they see me, but it’s dark, and the burglar who doesn’t take anything has also chosen to wear black.

I duck back behind the chimney. The burglar’s still on the other side of the roof. But getting closer. The scratching, louder. I hold my breath, savoring the fear and the thrill, the rough tiles beneath my palms. We could struggle. Fall off the roof. The intruder could have a gun. He could shoot me in the head.

The noises stop right on the other side of the chimney. Then there’s only the sound of someone else breathing in the night.

And a voice.

“Stargazing, then. Not insomnia. Rather cliché. Though doing it on someone else’s roof, that’s a bit less so.”

A deep, dark, accented voice.

“Sherlock?” I gasp.

“You remembered my name. I’m flattered. Most people need a minimum of three reminders before they bother storing relevant information.”

“It’s kind of a memorable name,” I whisper before catching myself. I glance over my shoulder. The silhouette is too tall to not be him. He’s on the roof with me. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Following you,” comes the voice from behind the chimney. “I got the insomnia wrong. I’m never wrong. Had to find out what it really was. Mycroft thought secret boyfriend, but you’re obviously not seeing anyone. Two days since your last shower, at least. I thought stargazing. Typical teen cliché. Everyone thinks staring at the echoes of light from balls of gas makes them an intellectual.”

“You followed me?” I hiss into the darkness. “Because I told you I don’t have insomnia?”

“And to acknowledge that my intelligence occasionally gets the better of me and I may have been too…blunt.”

“What intelligence? You looked all that stuff up.” We’re speaking in whispers, back to back. I’m not sure which is weirder—this conversation, or the fact that we’re having it in the middle of the night, on someone else’s roof.

“As if I’d waste my time cataloging trivia like that.” Sherlock slips out from behind the chimney, facing me. Moonlight casts little shadows beneath every angle of his face. Under the stars, he looks like an alien. A really attractive alien. “I deduced it.”

I fight the urge to grab him. He’s balancing on his heels on the slanted rooftop like gravity is the least of his concerns. Maybe it is. Maybe he really is an alien and he has an anti-gravity belt. And he failed Human Conversations 101 in Alien School. “Deduced?”

“Circles under your eyes. Not sleeping. Your hair, your unwashed face, and the prescription in your back pocket all told me about your depression.”

Somewhere behind us, there’s a noise. “Sherlock.”

“You’re wearing a ring around your neck. Class ring, too large for your finger, but a woman’s. Class of 2010—too young for a mother, bit old for a girlfriend, most likely sister. She wouldn’t have given it to you, strange gift, she’d have bought you a normal necklace. You inherited it. Chain’s not scratched or discolored. Less than a year old.”

“Sherlock…”

“There’s a scar on your left temple where you hit the window, white enough that’s it recent but not so recent it isn’t healed. You part your hair to hide it, you don’t want to see it in the mirror. It’s connected to a traumatic event. You also alternate between unconsciously rubbing that area of your forehead and your neck when you’re upset—muscles tense from anxiety, neck aches, leftover from whiplash. Car accident.”

“
Sherlock
.”

“Oh, let me finish, I’m nearly there anyway. Bumper sticker on your mother’s car. Saw it when we pulled in.
My youngest is an honors student.
Youngest. She made a point of being prouder of you than of her. Her bedroom in your house is on the bottom floor, can tell because the shades are drawn, bit strange, it’s the middle of the day. The room is exactly as it was when she died and your mother doesn’t outsiders to see. Cartoon stickers on the window, faded. The bedroom of a child who’d grown up. Not you, you wouldn’t put stickers on your window, you’re habitually neat with your possessions—clothes unflattering but clean, they’ve been folded. Cigarette butts under the window too. Old ones. She was a smoker. Your mother hated it. Every mother does.”

Jesus Christ.

“Sherlock, that was incredible, but—”

“It was, wasn’t it?”

“
But
.” I separate my brain into two halves: the one reverberating with shock at Sherlock’s bizarre brand of magic, and the one paying attention to the figure creeping over the back fence. “They’re here.”

Sherlock whips around, eyes following the burglar, who hops the fence and moves toward the back of the house.

“Interesting,” he says.

I fumble with my phone—need a picture—as the burglar begins to scale the same wooden trellis that I’d used to get on the roof. It creaks under all the weight.

“Not stargazing, then.”

“Quiet.”

The burglar gets close enough so that I can see it’s a man, though his face is still in shadow—a man balancing with his arms out. He’s heading for the skylight, so focused he hasn’t noticed us. The skylight is just above the chimney, moonlight glinting off the glass. I hold my finger above my phone’s camera button.

And then it rings.

This time, it doesn’t shriek. It screams. How could I have not muted it, how how how—but it’s too late.
BLOCKED NUMBER
flashes across the screen just before the burglar freezes, spots us, and scuttles back toward the trellis.

“You were waiting for him,” notes Sherlock.

I wish I could say I do it because I want to help whoever wrote me that letter. I wish I could say I do it for the right reasons. But I don’t. I do it because I want to be awake.

I dive out from behind the chimney, ignoring gravity, and leap toward the burglar, making a swipe for his sleeve. I miss by miles. My balance is gone. I crash to the tiles, bruising my elbow, skidding, rolling right off the edge of the roof, getting a last-minute grip on the gutter.

Still holding on today, then.

A hand closes on my wrist. “This roof isn’t high enough for you to break your neck. Twenty feet at most. If that was some sort of suicide attempt, the best you can hope for is a sprained wrist or broken elbow.”

Then Sherlock pulls. I didn’t realize how strong he was. The litheness hides muscle. He hooks his foot on the gutter to keep from sliding and drags me back up onto the roof without making a sound.

I twist to look for the burglar, but he’s gone. Light bleeds out behind us. Someone’s turned on the kitchen light.

This time, I’m the one who grabs Sherlock’s hand, yanking him toward the trellis. Together we scramble down, racing across the lawn and hurtling over the fence just as the front door opens.

Once on the street, I run. I’m half-laughing, half-panting, sprinting with sweat blinding me. These are the only moments that matter. When my blood is fire and memories of Carol are so far away.

Eventually, when I’m sure we’ve turned enough corners that the cops won’t find us even if they come, I glance beside me. Sherlock is standing there, as cool and unruffled as if he’d just woken up from a nap.

My chest is burning. I bend over, panting. “Sorry. That was supposed to have gone better.”

“Things can’t always go the way we expect.” He smiles for the first time. It changes his whole face. “You were supposed to be boring.”

“Did you learn to drive by playing Mario Kart?”

|||

(scribbled on the back of a Transport 4 You Moving Services receipt)

Subject said “They’re here” implies expectation of intruder’s arrival. Subject expressed alarm at lights turning on, meaning no personal relationship with inhabitants. Said “they’re”, indicating lack of knowledge of intruder’s gender, meaning unfamiliar with intruder. Why lie in wait for an intruder at someone else’s homer? How did she anticipate his appearance? Mycroft and I both wrong. Unusual circumstance. Will investigate further tomorrow.

Spoke to me with relative tolerance, despite everything. Why? Hates me. (People do.) Obvious from casserole attack. Yet was almost friendly. Unusual circumstance. Will investigate further tomorrow.

Displayed clear lack of regard for herself when trying to catch intruder. Near fall from roof—easily preventable. Possible death wish? Connected to depression? Will investigate further tomorrow.

Town = small, hellish. School tomorrow. Hate school. Levels of stupidity there are unchartable. Inevitably boring. Inevitably disastrous. Fifth high school I’ve been to. Previous four were all the same. Must hope this Irene anomaly proves to be at least a temporary distraction.

|||

I open my eyes and immediately regret it.

My elbow’s sore from hitting the roof. My back’s sore from the chimney bricks. My heart’s sore, sore in the way it is every morning when the alarm goes off and the sunlight around my curtains becomes too bright to ignore. Another day.

Carol, still dead.

What’s the point?

I let the alarm ring horribly for two more minutes before hitting it and sliding back under the covers. Then I wake up a little more. Something’s different today. Right. The new neighbor.

Sherlock.

Every morning, I try to come up with a good enough reason to get out of bed.
Today they’re having chicken pot pie for school lunch. Today it’s not raining
. But today I’ll be witnessing the catastrophic event of Sherlock Holmes walking through the front doors of Aspen High. Fire and gasoline. It’s worth getting up just to see the explosion.

While brushing my teeth, I stare at myself in the mirror, lifting my hair slightly. The scar.

Hidden. Twisted and puckered, like the metal of the car frame after it came to a rest at the bottom of the hill. I used to enjoy looking at myself in the mirror, sometimes. Catch me in the right light and I was worth looking at. Not anymore.

Your hair, your unwashed face…

But maybe today I’ll make an effort.

When I get downstairs, breakfast is on the table and Mom’s already on her way out the door. She doesn’t like being around me now. All the grief in me. “The new neighbor brought a letter by for you,” she calls, and then before I can say
what letter
or
come back
or
did you talk to him, isn’t he strange
, she’s gone.