Locked (6 page)

“And your parents are…fine with this.”

“Our parents are fine with anything and everything as long as they’re a good distance from us.” He smiles. Not the hurt cover-up smile of someone abandoned. The ironic smile of someone who doesn’t care. “Mycroft’s my legal guardian, you know.”

Oh. Right. “Well, he’s doing a shit job.”

“I don’t need a guardian and he knows that as well as I do.” Sherlock picks up another cigarette.

I knock it out of his hand. One more thing on the floor won’t hurt this house. “As far as I can tell, you’ve had a million of those today and you’re not having any more.”

He glowers at me. “I saved your life and now you won’t even let me have a cigarette?”

“Your millionth cigarette,” I correct, rubbing my forehead. “And we’re unpacking.”

“
You’re
unpacking. Godspeed.”

But after ten minutes of watching me wince as I tear boxes open with my sore wrist, Sherlock finally kneels beside me. Together, it only takes us a couple hours of quiet work. It’s almost relaxing. The Holmes brothers don’t have many possessions.

I lift an instrument out of a box filled with towels. “Mycroft plays the violin?”

Sherlock coughs. “Not Mycroft.”

“You? Really?”

“Shut up.” He snatches it away, but he doesn’t toss it in a corner like he’d done with everything else. He lays it carefully on the floor.

And then there’s only the cardboard boxes to crush and put aside for recycling. I ignore the slight ache in my wrist. “See? That didn’t take long. Knew it wouldn’t, with the two of working.”

“No you didn’t. You didn’t know it would be the two of us,” he says.

I’m already becoming familiar with the slight line that appears between Sherlock’s eyebrows when he’s annoyed. I straighten and stretch, wiping sweat off my forehead. I feel better. Even if there still isn’t any furniture, at least there aren’t boxes sitting forlornly everywhere. “Did too. You wouldn’t let someone with a sore wrist unpack all your stuff for you. You’re not a heartless bastard.”

“How flattering.”

“I said you’re not, didn’t I?”

“All evidence to the contrary.”

I remember the handshake. “Not all
evidence.”

There’s a brief silence. Right. I’m standing in a house alone with Sherlock Holmes, with no more activity to occupy us. The silence is suddenly awkward. “So, uh…I’m starving.”

He says nothing, his brow still furrowed.

“At this point you’re basically supposed to ask if I want anything to eat,” I prompt.

He waves in the direction of the kitchen. “Go find something yourself, if you’re so invested. Your ancestors were hunter-gatherers.”

There’s nothing in the kitchen. No toaster. No fruit bowl. No dishes in the sink. The fridge isn’t even plugged in. When I open the cupboard, a bug scuttles out of sight. “Sherlock! You don’t have any food.”

“Your observations are getting even more astute. I must be rubbing off on you,” he calls out from the living room.

“It’s kind of hard to hunt or gather when there’s nothing to hunt or gather,” I call back. “Unless you think I’m gonna go cannibal and hunt you.”

“You’re likely descended from cannibals as well.”

“Sherlock,” I say. “What have you been eating?”

“I don’t eat when I’m investigating. Interferes with brain function.”

“What have you been…investigating?”

“You.”

I start to ask for more details, think better of it, pick up the phone, and order a pizza.

“You’re breaking up with your alter ego, are you? I should have brought my violin.”

|||

(written on a piece of cardboard torn from a box)

Subject said “Not all evidence.” Clear attempt at joke. I don’t miss evidence. Subject is not first to call me a heartless bastard. (Won’t be the last.) Is the first to say I’m not one. Possibly affected by a head injury that the doctors missed.

Will make an attempt to keep subject from harm. If she succeeds in dying, will doubtless “feel” guilty. Tedious.

Odd situation overall. Never been voluntarily visited before. Never had someone order me a pizza before. Never spent time with someone before with no apparent agenda on either end. Subject seemed determined to “chat” despite previous assertation that I do not. Oddly: didn’t mind. Have always minded. Why do I not mind? Should cease this attachment before it becomes significant. But then, it won’t. (They never do.) Not that I want it to.

Am clearly going insane from boredom. Obvious. Why else would I care whether or not a completely ordinary girl wants to walk in front of a car?

Well. Not ordinary. Some are born with high tolerances to alcohol, drugs. Perhaps subject was born with high tolerance for me. But she’ll reach her threshold eventually. (People do.)

Just received email notification. Interesting: Irene’s name in subject heading. Must check.

…

Important note to self:

Under NO circumstances allow Irene to attend school tomorrow.

|||

I’m used to my morning fight with myself.

Get up.

No.

Why not?

No reason to.

You’ll miss school.

I don’t care.

You do care.

But this morning, it doesn’t happen. I’m dressed and in the bathroom almost before I realize it. I backtrack. What’s different about today? I get to see Sherlock, but that can’t be it. That would be stupid.

I barely know him.

Why is he the first thing that’s made me want to get out of bed in months?

I glance at my phone. Yesterday, we’d exchanged numbers. It’s good to have your neighbor’s number. In case of an emergency. Yeah. It’s practical.

“How’s your wrist?” calls Mom from downstairs.

“Fine today,” I call back. We rarely have a conversation that doesn’t occur over opposite ends of the stairs.

“All right, then. I’m going to work. Breakfast’s on the table.”

Five minutes later, I’m munching cereal and thinking of things I know about Sherlock Holmes:

1: He and his brother don’t get along.

2: He and his entire family don’t get along, apparently.

3: He takes terrible care of himself. The smoking, the forgetting to eat.

4: He’s not actually a heartless bastard.

5: In theory.

I’m halfway out the door—would it be polite to ask Sherlock if he wants to

walk to school together?—when my phone beeps.

SH:
Irene. Come quickly.

The message blinks at me. Should I ignore it? If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late.

SH:
Very important.

SH:
I need you.

My heart skips oddly. Sherlock doesn’t seem the type to ask for help. What if he really did catch the house on fire? I’m used to having morbid fantasies about myself, but somehow they’re sharper, more real, when they’re about him.

I drop my backpack on the front steps and sprint across the road. When I reach his house, I don’t knock. I bang. “Sherlock? What’s wrong?”

The door opens and he’s standing there, not on fire. I try to control the weird rush of concern I hadn’t expected at all. “Are you okay? You texted me.”

He reaches out and hauls me inside so fast my head spins. “Yes, fine. So glad you could make it. Do come in.”

Is it my imagination, or does he look frazzled? His hair is slightly more unruly than usual. Leave it to this guy to express emotions through his hair. “What do you mean come in? We have to go to school.”

“Haven’t you heard? School’s canceled. Gas leak.” He pulls me down his weird barren hallway until I break free.

“But that’s not true. They send out a schoolwide email when they cancel.” I pull up my school email on my phone and wave it in his face. “See? Nothing.”

He snatches the phone and studies it. There it is—a flash of relief crosses his expression. Searching for emotion in Sherlock’s face is like birdwatching. Ah, yes, the rare relief-bird.

“You’re right. Nothing,” he mutters. “Might as well skip school anyway, though, at this point. Retain a few extra brain cells. Care for any leftover pizza? Look, I’m offering you food and everything.”

I stop in the middle of the hallway. “Are you nervous about school?”

“What?” he asks like I’ve just accused him of stabbing someone in the chest and he’s a normal person who’d be offended by that. “Why are you smiling?”

“I’m usually the one saying
what
.”

“You say it when you don’t understand something intelligent I’ve said. I say it when I don’t understand why you’ve said something ludicrous. There’s a world of difference.”

Oookay. “I just thought, you know, maybe you don’t want to go to school because you’re worried about it. It’s stressful, transferring schools. But don’t worry, I’ll—”

“If I was going to waste time worrying about something, it would be something of much larger consequence than
school
,” he says with so much disgust that I abandon my theory.

“Then what is it?” We’re in the kitchen now. I select an empty cardboard box as a makeshift trash can and sweep most of the empty cigarette packs into it. “I’m not skipping school. I have a perfect record.”

“I’ll break into the record office and change it.” He’s pacing, back and forth. “No one will ever know.”

I set down the cardboard box. “Sherlock, this is a weird question considering you’re obviously already insane, but have you gone crazy?”

“Possibly, but that’s unrelated.” He takes one of the remaining cigarette packs and drops it in the box. I know something up if he’s helping me clean. “I thought we could spend today getting to know each other. Like you suggested at our first meeting. We could…” He shudders. “Chat.”

“You’re obviously lying. You just grimaced your way through that.”

“I grimace my way through everything.”

“Touché,” I say. “I’m going to be late. Goodbye.”

He seizes my non-sore wrist. “You shouldn’t go in today. There’s a new variant of bird flu running rampant among students—”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m an excellent liar. You’re just a hard person to lie to,” he says irritably. “Come with me and I’ll show you why you can’t go to school today.”

He’s acting so out of character that my curiosity outweighs my desire to get to school on time. If I need to, I can run. I follow Sherlock into the living room, which is still empty but for a stack of cardboard in the corner and a few miscellaneous items strewn on the floor.

“Take a seat,” he says.

“You don’t have any chairs.”

“You’re just determined to be difficult, aren’t you?” Sherlock’s laptop, a Dell, is plugged into the wall. He reaches for it, but something makes him hesitate.

“Just show me already.” I sit cross-legged and open the lid myself. It’s not password protected, and Sherlock’s email account flashes onscreen.

“Hang on,” I say. “That’s my name.”

I scroll down.

“Hang on…”

Oh my God.

“And that’s the—rest of you, too.” He slams the laptop shut so quickly it almost takes off my fingers. But I would gladly trade my fingers to scrub the contents of that screen from Sherlock’s memory. Possibly my whole arm. Possibly my whole body.

“I would make some sort of joke about you moonlighting as a porn star being another reason you don’t sleep, but judging by your pallor I’m guessing that wouldn’t be the best course of action.”

I barely hear him. All I can see is that picture, burned into my eyelids. The picture of me. The one I’d sent to Ethan’s anonymous girlfriend. The picture of me wearing basically nothing. Except someone had taken some serious Photoshop skills to it and now it’s a me who really
is
wearing nothing.

“That’s not…” Breathing wasn’t this hard five minutes ago, was it? “That’s not my…”

“I know,” he says quickly. “Slight blurring around the edge of—yes. Obviously Photoshopped.”

“Not obvious to someone who isn’t you,” I choke.

“Not much is obvious to people who aren’t me.”

“How did they know it was me?” This can’t be happening. How is this happening. “My head isn’t in it, but the subject heading in the email said it was me.”

“Whoever it is has decent powers of observation. There’s a distinctive birthmark on your shoulder. They’ve included a comparative photo from your Facebook page.”

Dear sweet baby Jesus. “Yes, let’s complement their fantastic powers of observation. Thank God it was only sent to you.”

Now it’s his turn to shift uncomfortably.

“Sherlock, tell me it was only sent to you.”

“Just me,” he says.

“Thank—”

“And the rest of the school.”

This is the apocalypse. This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but with a fake naked picture. A numbness spreads over me. I know how this works. The photo will follow me for the rest of the year. It’s probably already in the porn folders of half the guys at school. It’s probably already uploaded to ten billion creepy websites. Mom will find out. Every college I’ve applied to will find out. My future
grandchildren
will find out.

Sherlock clears his throat. “A very talented Photoshopper. The rest of the body doesn’t look touched at all.”

“Oh please yes, let’s also complement their stunning Photoshop skills. Why don’t you hire them as your personal assistant?”

“It might be better to have a personal assistant who respects privacy.” He slides his laptop away from me, across the floor, like if it’s farther away I’ll feel better. “They must have had access to your phone at some point.”

“No, they didn’t. She. It’s a she.” I bury my face in my knees. I am so astronomically screwed. “It was for an Ares thing. Ethan Thomas’s girlfriend, who wanted to see if he’d cheat on her. Surprise—he would.”

“You actually did that one?”

I just shrug.

He rubs the back of his head. “No, this is good. We know who we’re looking for. We just have to find out who this Ethan person’s girlfriend is—or was, most likely, considering recent events. If he won’t tell us, we’ve still got plenty to go on. Good Photoshop skills, one of your Facebook friends—”