Painting Murders - (A Sherlock fanfic)

A favour of crime

Okay so there is a deduction in this chapter - it's either bearable or an utter fail. I'm really sorry in advance. Let me know what you think though as I am always open to comments!

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"No way!" I spat again, still walking briskly down the path. I could hear Sherlock's light footsteps perusing me accompanied by John's heavier footfalls. I looked over my shoulder to see Sherlock's expression hadn't changed although his eyes had narrowed slightly.

"Forget it." I said throwing my arms in a wild gesture, stopping to turn around and face him, "Go away!"

I began to walk away again, but slower this time. I was curious as to how far Sherlock would go to get my help. If he insisted on following me then I could probably take the hint that whatever he was going to ask of me was really important.

I listened to John who was bounding to keep up with us, "Sherlock? Sherlock! You never said anything about criminals and paroles."

I stopped abruptly and turned around to point out, "I'm not a criminal."

I was quite annoyed that Sherlock had used the term to describe me.

John arced an eyebrow at me.

"Well it's true!" I protested, waving my hands in grand gestures, "I never made the courts. In fact it's not even a proper parole, it's more like: 'if-I-do-anything-bad-again-then-I'm-in-trouble'." I explained, trying to sound casual about it. I was shaking on the inside; I hadn't ever wanted to think about all this again, never mind trying to explain it to a stranger.

"But that said; I still won't help." I said firmly, nodding my head as if to reinforce my words.

Sherlock stood back, his eyes twinkling menicingly. Then he sighed, taking a step forwards.

"There's a thick aroma of alcohol around you but none on your breath, so your dad's back on the booze, probably experiencing depression. But your not letting it show.

You've patched up your jumper three, no - four times to stop school inquiring about your home life." He paused to point at me when I started to protest.

"There's a small amount writing on the back of your hand;the same word over and over but different variations of the spelling. It's written in a ball point biro - judging by the ink and thickness of the lines. It's faded though, so it's probably from some time ago. Natrually it could be from where you've tried to help someone but your friends at school can use computers to check their spellings, so it's more likely from where you've helped out your dad. He's been scribbling another book idea and you've been assisting him. So you're trying to keep your lives on track."

He paused as I pinched my lips together, fiddling with the cuff of my jumper and trying to cover up the writing on my hand too little to late.

Even though my unease was obvious, Sherlock continued regardless.

"But you're pick pocketing. John fell victim to that. You don't take much though so that shows you aren't comfortable with the idea of stealing but you need some financial support to get by. Now we can get to the good stuff." He paused again as I snorted, leaning up against the wall whilst trying to remain composed but dreading what else he could pick out and uncover. I felt exposed.

"You've attended school nearly everyday now for several weeks but you're bored in class. It's obvious from the marks on your hands and face that you've been sat with your head in your hands or on the desk. You have scattered dots of ink on your palm from where you've tapped your pen against it impatiently, it's a distraction; something you do when you're bored. So if you find school so tedious, why have you attended everyday for several weeks now? Most likely it's to prevent Social Sevices coming to investigate," He stopped abruptly to look at me as if I were a curious specimen under his microscope. He made an expression to show that something had just dawned on him - an idea. A theory.

"Maybe you're using school as a distraction from your addiction."

At the mention of this my blood turned to ice, frosting up my veins painfully and making my heart work extra hard with every struggling beat.

I looked at John fearfully, not wanting him to know. I didn't want the world to know about me; my past.

"There's an intermittent tremor in your fingers where they should be tapping on a keyboard, the slight longing gaze when you walk past a screen and the tired look to your eyes from straining to avoid any usage or form of computer. You're just desperate to tap away on some keys, just for a moment."

We all stood in silence.

Sherlock was right. Of course he was right.

I shoved my hands in my pockets; fingers trembling slightly. I couldn't work out if it was from withdrawal or fear.

Sherlock always amazed me with his deductions. They were so accurate and precise, so logical; he could pick you apart and tell you things even you yourself hadn't noticed. In this instance though I wasn't very happy about being on the receiving end.

"So you're a computer geek?" John said before snorting. "Here was me thinking you were a heroin addict." Then he turned away from me completely and glared at Sherlock, "What the bloody hell are we doing here?"

"Hacker, John, she's a hacker." Sherlock corrected dismissively while gesturing to me absently.

I realised that it was pointless protesting and hiding away so just rolled my eyes defeatedly.

"Yeah, I am."

John turned his eyes to the sky and groaned which made me wonder how often he was pulled into situations like this.

I decided to try and explain it to him, thinking that might help: "I was a hacker, but I've been forbidden from using computers. If I'm found with any electronic device apart from my iPod, I'm to be marched straight off to court for prosecution." I paused to look critically at Sherlock, "Your big brother made sure of that." I watched John to see if he was following.

"You shouldn't have got yourself caught then, should you?" Sherlock answered flatly with a mild shrug.

I sighed again and thought of the favour he'd asked of me. The one that would mean breaking my 'parole'.

Maybe it was worth one last shot. It had taken them a long time to find me last time, one little job wouldn't hurt, would it?

It was Sherlock though, which meant anything could happen. The trouble was that I was more apprehensive about Mycroft Homes rather than his little brother. It was Mycroft who had threatened me; Mycroft who had put me on a kind of parole.

What would happen to dad if I were to take a chance and it ended badly?

I screwed up my face, "This favour," I regretfully began, watching Sherlock's face the whole time.

"I'll help but on one condition," I insisted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Go on."

"I can walk away at any time. No negotiations, I just leave. Honestly Sherlock, I'll just walk away and that will be the end of it. Forever."

I got a small nod.

"Fill me in then." I sighed, not believing what I was doing. It was true what they said: curiosity was a dangerous thing.