Vague Shadows

“You didn’t sleep well,” said a voice half an inch away from my ear. I gave a start and knocked into the counter, dropping my spatula. Sherlock grabbed it before it hit the tile and stood up, holding it out to me.

Giving him an irritable look, I snatched it back and turned my attention to the sizzling bacon. Sherlock leaned against the counter, staring at me with his unnerving sea-green eyes. I glanced up.

“Not really, no,” I told him, flipping the slices over and then wiping my hands on the dishtowel. I elbowed him out of my way and pulled open the fridge, looking for the eggs. I ignored the disembodied arms piled on one of the shelves; I’d stopped asking questions about these things long ago.

“It was a bad dream,” Sherlock continued, and I gave an irritable sigh, not in the mood to talk about this. “Your father, I’m presuming, seeing as you’re biting your lip again. This was a different dream, though. Something new about it.”

I tensed up my shoulders just a bit, and Sherlock noticed. His eyebrows perked up just a bit.

“I’m poisoning your eggs if you don’t shut up,” I threatened, only half-kidding. Sherlock leaned in a bit closer, and I looked up at him. Our eyes seemed to burn into each other as he analyzed my facial expression.

“Usually he doesn’t reach the gun,” he murmured; my jaw tightened slightly.

“Sherlock,” I warned. His lip twitched, the next words on the tip of his tongue. I was on the verge of smacking him with the spatula when I heard shuffling coming down the stairs.

“Morning Laicee, Sherlock,” John mumbled, making his way into the kitchen. The tension broke between Sherlock and I; he leaned back against the counter and I began to scoop the food onto the plates.

“This time, he did,” Sherlock mused.

“I swear it, I’m poisoning you,” I informed him, brandishing a fork in his direction as he sauntered into the living room. “I know where you keep the arsenic.”

“Cyanide’s much faster,” Sherlock informed me, and I glowered at the back of his head as I slid the plate over to John. “Third cupboard, second shelf.”

I grumbled to myself as I prepared John’s coffee for him.

“I’d ask you how your morning was going,” John began, trailing off with a bemused smile. I gave him a look as I handed the mug to him.

“One of these days,” I sighed, grabbing Sherlock’s plate and drink. John just smiled as he took a sip of coffee.

Sherlock had already planted himself in his usual chair, fingers pressed together in front of his face. He flicked his eyes up at me as I came up to him, handing down his plate.

“You look a mess,” he informed me, taking his plate. I had to strongly resist the urge to throw his tea into his face.

“And you look like the backside of a mule, but you don’t hear me complaining.”

I heard John splutter on his coffee; Sherlock’s lip twitched.

“You’re mad at me,” he stated as I began to walk away. I glanced over my shoulder and gave him a look.

“I’m not mad,” I told him, jogging down the stairs before he could reply.

I pushed open the door to my room and shut it softly, making for the bathroom. I only had an hour before school, and thanks to Sherlock keeping me up late last night I hadn’t showered before bed.

I grabbed some clean clothes and then shut myself in the bathroom, starting up the shower. I cleaned myself off quickly, not wanting to be late to class again. Once I was acceptable, I got out and toweled off, pulling on a pair of jeans and a faded t-shirt.

“You’re upset, then,” Sherlock said from my desk as I stepped out of the bathroom. I just barely managed to stifle a scream as I gave another start, jumping back into the doorframe. I winced, rubbing my hip resentfully as I glared at Sherlock.

“The door was locked for a reason,” I informed him, tossing my pajamas onto my bed as I passed by him.

“Irrelevant,” he said dismissively, turning around in the seat to watch me as I brushed out my hair. I met his gaze in my mirror, and sighed.

“I’m not upset with you,” I promised. “Irritated, maybe, but you always irritate me so that’s nothing new.”

“So you’re upset about something else,” Sherlock said; before I could defend myself, he launched into his explanation. “If you weren’t upset, you would have said so blatantly. But you specified your denial towards myself only, meaning that there’s something outside of myself upsetting you.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” I murmured, shaking out my brunette curls in hopes they’d dry faster. I snagged my backpack and headed for the door. Sherlock stood and began to follow me.

“It’s not John,” he muttered, more to himself than me. “A person in your classes, perhaps? You have anxiety about leaving for school.”

I ignored him the best I could, saying a quick hello to Ms. Hudson as I headed up to Sherlock’s flat, still being followed by his mumbling self.

“Or perhaps a problem with a professor,” he mused. I frowned as I pushed open the door. “A love affair, perhaps?”

“Sherlock!” I snarled, whirling around to glare at him. This time John gave a start, choking on a piece of bacon. He looked up incredulously at Sherlock.

“You were supposed to be at the store!” he accused; I grabbed an apple off the counter and grabbed a bottled water.

“I’ve got much more trivial things to handle,” Sherlock dismissed, still staring at me. I knew he had a hard time deciphering me sometimes. I’d grown very good at hiding certain things from him, and it drove him crazy. “Laicee’s upset, and I don’t know why.”

“I can imagine,” John muttered, sharing a look with me. I gave him a smile.

“I’ll be back later, keep him from blowing anything up, would you?”

“No promises,” John sighed as Sherlock settled himself in his chair to think. I took a bite of my apple as I traipsed out of the flat and onto the streets of London. The air was crisp, but the walk wasn’t too bad. I always enjoyed a little time to myself.

I’d been living with Ms. Hudson for going on three years, working as her live-in housekeeper. My job had been pretty mundane, seeing as I was the only other tenant and she preferred to clean her own room. Life was calm until Sherlock and John moved in a little more than a year ago.

Immediately, my world had gone up in a wave of confusion, frustration, and endless, busy nights dedicated to Sherlock’s cases. They preferred to keep me out of the work, saying it was dangerous, but more often than not I was needed to help the two of them with their experiments, and Sherlock said he liked having me sit in on the discussions.

But, thanks to that, I rarely got any sleep, and when I did it was disturbed by recurring nightmares. Having Sherlock’s interrogation instances all the time like that did nothing to help my frustration, so more often than not I arrived to school frazzled and moody.

I really only had a couple of good friends I talked to willingly. Most other people didn’t take the time with me, and those that did mostly found out they didn’t like me. I wasn’t a regular high school junior. I had a different life than them, and they couldn’t accept that.

Jeanette and Riley, my only two friends here, were waiting for me by the doors. I gave them both a tired smile, and Jeanette gave me a comforting hug.

“Sherlock again?” Riley asked, and I rolled my eyes as the three of us fell into step, headed for class.

“It always is,” I sighed, and he gave me an apologetic look. My life was chaos, and there was almost always one person to blame:

Sherlock Holmes.