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The flat wasn’t huge, but there was still room for Steph to chase after Rosie as she chased after Biscuit. Rosie’s dog was getting older but still maintained enough energy to elude them as they attempted to get Steph’s shoe back. So intent were they on their giggling pursuit that they barreled into the kitchen and nearly into the old wooden table upon which Mr. Holmes had spread his scientific paraphernalia.
Steadying his microscope, Mr. Holmes raised his head from his work and turned slightly on his stool, pinning his daughter with an icy-eyed glare as Biscuit barked shrilly and doubled back to see why his human wasn’t giving chase any more. The dog clearly was not intimidated by him. Nor did Rosie seem to mind the silent admonishment.
Steph, who had heard some fairly hair-raising (and, she thought, unbelievable) stories from Rosie about her Pop, froze in place. This was her first sleepover at the Watson-Holmes household and suddenly she was gripped with dismay…maybe her mum was right and she wasn’t ready for her first night away from home, even though everyone else her age had been having sleepovers for years. Twelve years old felt very grown up until you were faced with a man who had, school rumour had it, risen from the dead.
“Sorry, Pop,” Rosie sighed airily, once the lecture was over. “I know we forgot lab safety, but we were having fun.”
“So was I, until you interrupted me and endangered my Prior,” he stroked the microscope almost lovingly.
“What are you studying?” Rosie asked curiously, approaching for a better look. Steph hung back at the edge of the kitchen, wondering why anyone would have a lab in their home.
“A cross-section of a syphilitic brain.”
“Ooh,” Rosie clutched at his arm and smiled sweetly, “May I look, pleeeease?”
A brain! Zombies ate brains…and came back from the dead. Steph’s fingers dug into the wood of the door frame as she fought a shiver. No, no surely he wasn’t a zombie. They shambled and groaned and had dead eyes. They didn’t talk or drink tea or explain in detail to their daughter the stages of an untreated case of syphilis and the effects on the brain and other organs. Steph felt a bit ill listening to the very enthusiastic discussion taking place next to the table where they were presumably going to eat their pizza later. The other kids at school thought Rosie was a bit weird, because she played the cello and had a purple belt in karate, and wore a lot of black, and she had shaved half her hair off when her friend Alex was being bullied over his hair (and his pink trainers, but that was something she didn’t quite understand and no one would offer an explanation). Now here she was peering through the microscope at a gross brain and asking questions.
Deciding she would definitely not be missed for a minute, Steph slunk into the gloomy lounge and perched gingerly on the sofa. It looked clean, but who knew what kind of completely disgusting germs were crawling on the furniture if they kept brains in the house? She determinedly didn’t look at the cow skull with a pair of crookedly placed headphones on the wall, nor at the (very human looking) skull on the mantel, which—when she had a quick look-don’t look look at it—was right next to an open utility knife. Her dad had special locks on all the cupboards, and kept his tools in the shed, just so she and her little brother Harry couldn’t get into mischief; but here in this very weird flat there didn’t seem to be any rules. Except for don’t run. And don’t bother Mr. Holmes when he’s working.
Keeping a weather eye on the skull on the mantel, Steph pulled her mobile from the back pocket of her jeans and did a Google search: how do you know if someone is a zombie? While her phone loaded—the WiFi was a bit spotty—Steph thought that maybe her older brother Simon wasn’t too horrible and useless after all. After a lot of begging, he had finally bypassed the parental controls on her phone and so she could actually find out proper answers to things. Not just the baby answers her parents gave her when she asked for explanations. Like why Rosie had two dads but no mum. Steph knew about gay people, lots of kids had gay dads or mums, but except for the ones who were adopted, most of them had another parent somewhere.
Rosie didn’t talk about her mum, had just mentioned once that she was dead. Steph tried asking her mum but she snapped at her not to bother Rosie with it and for heaven’s sake not to go asking Doctor Watson. As if Steph would be that nosy. Honestly, it was like they thought she was an idiot. Later that night she’d actually caught a bit of a conversation between her parents, something about Mrs. Watson and how “tragic” the whole thing was, and a bit mysterious too. Not surprising, her mum had fretted, considering what that madman gets up to.
“John assures me it’s safe for Stephanie to come ‘round,” her dad had said.
Suddenly, washed in a cold wave of horror at the new implications, Steph recalled what else he had said: “He’s got Sherlock under control.”
He’s got Sherlock under control? Under control? Safe?
“Steph, helloooo…earth to Stephanie?”
She jumped a little, and then giggled nervously. Rosie was regarding her, head to one side, one eyebrow raised questioningly. “Oh. Hey.”
“Is your mum checking in on you?” At Steph’s confusion, she nodded at her phone, “Did she text to make sure you’re eating your greens and not playing with fire?”
Blushing hard, Steph shoved her phone in her pocket; suddenly she felt silly. Mr. Holmes wasn’t a zombie. Zombies weren’t real. And if Rosie thought she had thought her Pop was a zombie, she would probably be mad. No one wanted to make Rosie Watson mad; she was the only girl in year eight who wasn’t afraid of any of the boys. And Steph felt cool by association. No matter how weird Rosie was, she was also undeniably cool…if only because she didn’t seem to care what anyone thought.
Just to be safe though...she wouldn’t delete her search results.
******
“Sherlock?” Rosie’s Dad, Doctor Watson, raised his voice, “Love, you going to have some pizza?”
A grunt from the direction of the kitchen was his only answer, and he laughed and held out the box invitingly, “Girls? Do you two want to finish this off? If I recall being twelve correctly, I was always hungry.”
They snatched the last few pieces and settled back on the sofa to finish watching the last of The Nightmare Before Christmas. Steph wasn’t sure why, but she had felt a lot more relaxed ever since Doctor Watson came home from his shift at the clinic. Even though he had silver hair and wore jumpers and smiled a lot, he seemed very reassuring, as if he could handle anything. Maybe Mr. Holmes wasn’t a zombie, but he was still strange and Steph didn’t like his cold eyes. She didn’t see how Rosie could call him Pop and ruffle his curls and hang on his back as he pointed out icky bits of things on slides.
Even though it had been hours, he was still in the kitchen, fiddling about with experiments and muttering to himself. Rosie and her Dad both seemed used to it, even when a frustrated, “Damn!” floated in from the kitchen. Doctor Watson had made his partner a cup of tea but it had grown cold, untouched at his side. Offers of pizza had been met with silence or grunts. Steph was just glad they didn’t have to sit at the kitchen table near the brains and eat. Her mum wouldn’t let them eat on the sofa at home, and she’d be horrified if she saw Steph draped over the furniture, eating pizza and on her third soda. Doctor Watson had just winked when Rosie brought the latest round of drinks out, even though Steph was fairly positive her mum had given him a litany of instructions (even longer than the ones she had received) on what was and was not allowed.
His leniency hadn’t extended to what they were allowed to watch, however, and Rosie’s scowl hadn’t faded for quite a while. Steph could actually see a bit of resemblance between her and her Pop. Honestly, she didn’t mind watching The Nightmare Before Christmas, as her parents—well, her mum—hadn’t allowed her to watch it, so this was her first time seeing it. She even joined in singing with Rosie after a few choruses.
“Must you listen to that twaddle?”
The other two ignored the irritable shout, so Steph did her best to do the same. When the movie was over Rosie begged and pleaded for them to be able to watch something properly scary since it was just a few days until Halloween. Firm denials were her only answer, so they decided on Corpse Bride and Rosie demanded popcorn as recompense.
“Aren’t you full yet?” Doctor Watson asked in amusement, nonetheless rising to fulfill the request. As the opening credits played, Steph heard murmurs and then a silence fell in the kitchen, aside from the pop of the corn in the microwave.
“They’re probably in there eating each other’s faces.”
“What?” Steph asked in horror, head whipping back around to stare at Rosie in shock. All she could think of was the uneasy suspicions of earlier.
Her friend nodded toward the kitchen, “They’re always kissing. It’s kind of cute, but mostly just gross. They do it all the time.”
Oh. Kissing. Pulling the blanket from the back of the sofa around her, Steph buried her hot cheeks in the soft wool. Mr. Holmes wasn’t the undead. She was being silly.
******
“That girl is very silly,” Sherlock complained, snapping off the light to the en suite and turning with a huff to close the door that led into the bedroom upon John reminding him that they had a guest in the house who might enter the loo through the hall door. “I hope Rosie doesn’t invite her over again.”
“Stephanie is a very nice girl, and she isn’t any sillier than your average twelve year old girl.”
“She’s average alright. Boring.”
John sighed, “Sherlock, she’s an adolescent girl, she isn’t a criminal mastermind. Boring doesn’t come into it. You’re going to have to accept Rosie having friends to stay.”
Sherlock pouted brooded, sliding into bed and automatically sliding his arm under John’s torso, rolling so his boyfriend was the little spoon. Tucking his chin in the crook of John’s neck, Sherlock grumbled, “Alex is an intelligent child, and quiet. He should be sufficient company for her.”
“They’re very close,” John agreed, using that placating tone that he thought Sherlock hadn’t detected. “But he isn’t her only friend, and we can’t deny her time with other girls her age. It’s normal behaviour, Sherlock.”
“Watson is neither average nor normal, John.” He squeezed his arm around John’s middle, “And you know I mean that in the most complimentary manner. It only stands to reason that she have extraordinary friends.”
“Don’t misjudge Stephanie just because she’s a bit silly and timid. And stands to reason with that mother of hers. My God, the woman gave me a list of instructions, rules and emergency contact numbers as long as my arm! But despite that, Stephanie is bright, and a talented artist, and furthermore she’s a good friend for Rosie to have. You know I love our girl just as she is, but she needs to form friendships with other types of people, particularly other girls, as she gets older. You don’t want her to be an outcast, do you?”
A rather distressing memory from his adolescence slipped through, and Sherlock sighed, reaching over John to turn of the lamp. “No. I don’t want that.” They lay quietly for a minute, and then he slowly let his hand drift down John’s chest.
“Sherlock, no.”
“No? That’s not what you were saying last night.”
“Last night we didn’t have a highly strung, over-protected, sugar-addled child entrusted to our responsibility by a barrister’s semi-hysterical wife.”
Sherlock groaned, pressing against the lovely solid warmth of John’s smaller frame, “But John…”
“…you are not playing fair.” John took his hand and moved it back up to safer territory. “Besides, we’ve got to remain vigilant in case those two try to stay up too late, giggling and talking and making prank calls or whatever it is girls do at sleepovers.”
Snorting, Sherlock rolled onto his back, “I guarantee you with absolute accuracy that at this very moment they are on Rosie’s phone, watching one of the forbidden movies you denied them.”
“Oh Christ, you’re probably right.” John shifted in the bed, and then moved, turning to face Sherlock. “In that case…we have two hours safely to ourselves…” His predatory smile was practically visible in the dark of the room.
******
In the end John was forced to go upstairs twice before the girls submitted to going to bed. The second time he’d brought Rosie’s mobile down with him and climbed into bed with a groan, muttering about being too old for two twelve year old going on thirty-something girls. Sherlock absconded from responsibility by feigning sleep, intending on waiting until John had drifted off before he returned to the kitchen and his experiment.
Unbidden, genuine sleep had claimed him until the early hours, when he woke suddenly. After a trip to the loo, he stumbled into the kitchen to down a glass of water and hunt about for a snack. He was quite hungry and wished he had let John set aside some pizza for him. A search through the fridge revealed leftover pate, and he scooped some out with his fingers, shoving aside the plate of brain slices covered in cling film.
Sucking a bit of chicken mousse off of his finger, Sherlock groaned in pleasure, wondering what else they had to eat. He dropped the plate in shock when a piercing scream rent the quiet of the flat. Swinging around, he beheld the pyjama-clad form of Steph.
“Zombie!” She shrieked, and turned and pelted up the stairs, whimpering and gibbering. Sherlock blinked in bemusement, letting the fridge door swing shut, even as he heard John shouting as he ran from their room, and the confused barking of Biscuit, and the patter of Rosie’s feet on the stairs from the upper floor.
John flipped on the hallway light as he passed, Rosie skidding in behind him. “What’s going on?” Both father and daughter demanded almost as one, wearing matching scowls. Rosie had never looked more like John than at that moment, small hands balled into fists, blonde hair on end and one of her father’s tatty old jumpers on over her nightie.
“I don’t know!” Sherlock snapped. “I was enjoying a midnight snack when suddenly that idiot child screamed her head off and dashed upstairs.”
“You probably scared her,” John huffed in annoyance, and disappeared up the stairs.
“Why were you standing in the dark eating chicken livers?” Rosie asked, grinning at him.
“How did you know what I was eating?”
“Oh please, I’m not Dad. For one, I could smell them. Besides, you’ve still got a bit on your face.” She stood on tiptoe and wiped at his mouth with her thumb. Sherlock submitted meekly manfully to her ministrations.
“Excellent deduction, Watson. Should we, er, go make sure your friend is alright?”
“Probably should do,” she agreed, a bright smile flitting across her face. He smirked at her and she giggled and took the stairs two at a time.
******
Steph had never been so embarrassed in her life. Doctor Watson was being very nice, but that almost made it worse. She kept her head buried under the covers, not wanting him to see her humiliated tears. With the light on and Doctor Watson looking so unruffled, of course the idea that Mr. Holmes was a zombie was clearly stupid. But coming upon him in the dark, hunched over a plate of brains and groaning as he ate something squishy and pink, she had…panicked.
“Stephanie,” Doctor Watson said, sounding too calm, “Would you please come out from under the blankets and tell me what the problem is?” He cleared his throat, “Or would you feel safer with a woman present? I could fetch Mrs. Hudson.” A muttered, “I’m sure she’s awake after that barney.”
“Steph?” Rosie’s curious voice entered the room, and after a moment the bed dipped as she sat next to her, “You alright?”
Steph sat up, keeping her hot face turned away, “Um, yeah. I’m…I’m sorry…I just got…um, startled.”
“I’m sorry if I startled you,” a deep voice rumbled after a pained silence was followed by a flurry of silent gestures she half glimpsed from the corner of her eye. Steph really, really didn’t want to look at him, but…
He was standing in the doorway, a severe look on his face, eyes icier than ever. At the moment Rosie’s other father didn’t look one bit like a zombie. If anything he looked like a vampire.
“Um, that’s okay,” she said timidly, looking at her lap. “Sorry I screamed and woke everyone.”
“Bad dream?” Doctor Watson asked briskly, apparently willing to ignore the fact that she had been awake.
“Just…nothing.”
“Steph, what is it?” Rosie asked, looking as if nothing had ever scared her in her life.
“It’s stupid,” she answered, feeling the heat suffuse her cheeks again. “I’m—sorry. I’m fine now.”
Doctor Watson seemed puzzled, “Are you sure?”
“Really,” Steph said, eyes prickling with tears. She was so embarrassed, and they all thought she was a baby, and right now she wanted to be home so badly that a sob caught in her throat. “I’m sorry I’m so dumb.”
“It’s not dumb to be scared,” Doctor Watson said firmly, even as Rosie hugged her with one arm. Mr. Holmes didn’t quite look as if he agreed, but he also didn’t look like a man who was going to eat her brains either, so that was good.
“Was it the movie?” Rosie whispered, “I’m sorry, we shouldn’t have watched it.”
“No,” Steph shook her head, “It’s fine.”
“You’ve been scared of me all night,” Mr. Holmes suddenly announced, eyes hypnotic as a snake as he studied her. “There is something particular about me that worried you.” His head tilted, “You said zombie.”
“No,” Steph said desperately, even as Doctor Watson said, “Sherlock…” in a warning tone.
“Pop, don’t deduce her,” Rosie scolded, “She’s already upset.”
“It’s stupid,” Steph hedged.
“Undoubtedly,” he asserted. “But until you tell us, we cannot reassure you.”
“Christ, Sherlock,” Doctor Watson sighed, and sat down as if he had run out of energy. Steph was suddenly aware of how late it was, and had to fight back a yawn.
“If you face your fears they have no power over you.”
“I was going to do research,” Steph admitted, face red, “but then it seemed so dumb.”
He nodded in approval, and she felt a tiny swell of pride. “Research is always an excellent step. Will you show us what you were looking up?”
After a bit of coaxing, she finally unplugged her mobile and pulled up her search results. They peered at her phone.
Doctor Watson looked as if he wanted to laugh, and Rosie did giggle. Mr. Holmes pursed his lips and regarded her screen critically. “Google is a beginner’s step, but given your age it is understandable. Might I ask why you suspected me to be one of the undead?”
It came out haltingly. The skulls—“but that’s Billy!” Rosie exclaimed, as if that explained it all—the rumours about him having died and come back to life, the groaning and grunting and the brains. Rosie giggled again, curling a hand over her mouth, and Doctor Watson stood up suddenly and went to study the calendar on the wall as if he had never seen one before. Humiliation complete, Steph dropped her gaze to her socks. Everything sounded so flimsy and silly and unbelievable when she said it out loud.
“I can’t fault your logic,” was Mr. Holmes’ surprising response. Steph looked up quickly, and was struck by the half smile on his lips. He looked altogether more approachable. “On the surface of it, the facts do seem damning.”
“I know zombies aren’t real,” Steph denied, feeling much more certain of this fact under the bright overhead light and in a room full of people. “But…”
“Given the evidence you had to go on, it wasn’t entirely unreasonable. For a twelve year old girl.”
“Sherlock.”
“I mean, excellent deduction, er, Steph. Well…done.”
“Better.”
“Sorry for laughing,” Rosie said apologetically, after Doctor Watson had seen them settled, and Mr. Holmes had winked at them both and pretended to shamble from the room with stiff arms and a sonorous groan that drew giggles from both of them.
Steph snuggled into the bed. They had started out the night with Rosie charitably giving up her bed to her guest and taking a sleeping roll on the floor, but it was late and cold and now they were huddled in the bed together, bumping skinny knees and elbows as they settled in. “It’s alright…I guess it was funny.” She shivered, though, remembering him standing there with those brains.
“So does that mean you don’t want to stay the night again?” Rosie sounded wistful, and it warmed Steph’s heart.
“You mean…you don’t mind? Even though I thought your Pop was a zombie?”
Rosie shrugged, yawning, “It was a good theory…brains, groaning, skulls, reanimation…” she yawned again, wider, “Besides, I had fun. Didn’t you?”
“I did,” Steph agreed, heart swelling happily, former fears already fading. “We have to make sure my mum doesn’t find out about the brains or the skull though…she’d never let me come back.”
******
“That was very…sweet.” John remarked, closing the bedroom door. “See? She’s not a bad kid, just a bit sheltered.” He rubbed his eyes, looking exhausted. Sherlock hoped the girls would remain quiet the rest of the night; John was always more agreeable company when he’d had his rest.
“She’s an idiot,” Sherlock retorted, flopping onto the bed. He grumpily, allowed, “However, at least she had a theory, with evidence, no matter how misinterpreted and erroneous, to support it. And she was attempting research.”
“So you’ll behave yourself if she comes back?”
“I suppose.”
“God…we should go to sleep. With our luck those girls will probably be up at eight, demanding breakfast.”
“Let Mrs. Hudson feed them.”
“She’s not, as she’s so fond of informing us, our housekeeper.”
They lay in silence for a few minutes, sleep tugging at both of them. “John?”
“Hmm?”
He rolled closer, hand slipping over John’s pyjama bottoms, “I want to eat your—”
“Shuddup, idiot.” John’s voice was rough with laughter as he pinned him to the mattress. “No terrible zombie come-ons or you can sleep on the sofa.”
“I thought we had to go to sleep,” Sherlock said breathlessly, a few minutes later.
John raised his head, “You’re going to be responsible now?”
“God, no.”
“That’s what I thought.”