Orphan on Baker Street

Eighth: Stitch

"You got pretty lucky with that violin," Sherlock remarks as he moves his bishop. After a few minutes, we're already pretty far into the chess game - I've taken all of his pawns, and he's taken half of my pawns plus a knight.

"Found it in a dumpster," I say, "not to brag." We smirk at each other.

"You wouldn't brag," he says, keeping his eyes steady on the chess board. I decide to do the same. "Like very few people, you think bragging is a waste of time."

"Do you feel that way?"

"Yes," Sherlock responds simply. I slide my queen around and steal his bishop. When I glance up to him, his eyes glint slightly. He's up to something, and I don't think I'm going to like it.

"So," I start, sliding one of my pawns up one, "what got you into law enforcement?"

"Technically, I'm not in law enforcement," he says, pushing his castle up to steal my queen. I roll my eyes. "I'm a consulting detective."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning," he says giddily, setting my queen down beside my knight on his side of the table triumphantly, "the police consult with me to solve their crimes because they aren't good enough to figure it out themselves."

"They're good enough," I point out. "Just not skilled enough." As Sherlock looks up to glare at me, I use my bishop to check him. "Check," I exclaim, glancing to him.

"Check mate," he says, slamming his knight down in a different position on the board. Sherlock stands and walks away into the kitchen.

"Did I say something?" I ask exasperatedly.

"Yes," he replies simply, pulling orange juice from the fridge.

"Um, Sherlock," John speaks up, glancing over his shoulder. "It wasn't the cousin. Michael's uncle is a therapist who commonly dealt with addicts. He was common with addicts because he was also their dealer." My eyes widen slightly as I look over to John.

"That's crazy," I say softly.

"No," Sherlock says, waltzing over to us. "Crazy is not knowing you have cancer."

"What?" I say abruptly. Something in my stomach makes me feel like he was referring to someone or something.

"John," Sherlock starts up again, "I need a name and location of Michael's uncle. Text it to Lestrade, but tell him not to delve into it. We need to get inside there for ourselves."

"Alright," John says calmly. "Michael's uncle, Gerald Watkins, works from his home at 152 Grover Lane."

"Wonderful," Sherlock says happily. He tips a shot glass of orange juice back into his mouth. Quickly, he sets it onto the kitchen table - not even bothering to put the orange juice back into the fridge, might I add - and snatches his coat from the coat rack.

"Mickey," he says suddenly. I jump up from my chair, feeling excited for seemingly no reason. "I think you need to talk to a therapist about your alcoholism." He sends me a quick wink as he takes his scarf in his hand.

"But I only admitted to it yesterday, uncle," I say, playing along.

"Which is why we must face it head-on today! There's nothing like now," he says happily, holding the door open for me.

"Wait," he says, breaking character suddenly. "Do you have any clothes that make you look like an alcoholic?"

"I don't have any clothes at all," I say with a head tilt.

"You can go to the clothes store down the street. I'll pick us up some drinks from the cafe next to it. Give me maybe 20 minutes, and we'll meet up between the buildings. Deal?"

"Deal," I say happily. Then we rush off down the stairs, not bothering with closing the flat door behind us, and prance out onto Baker Street. Sherlock locks the door to 221B behind him before walking off down the sidewalk. I stumble over my own feet trying to keep up with his long strides.

"Is 20 minutes enough for you to get some things together?" he asks, rummaging through his coat pocket.

"Yeah. I know my size and what an alcoholic looks like. This should be easy," I say, somewhat breathless, as we walk up to the clothes store.

"Good. Take this," he says, holding out a wad of cash. I smirk and take it. We nod to each other before going our separate ways.

Quickly, I walk into the clothes store. The lady behind the register greets me kindly, and I give her a friendly smile and wave. Then I rush off to one side of the store. I grab a pair of camo pants that are a size too big, a belt, and quite a few crop tops and tees. Once I think I've gotten what I need, I walk up to the counter.

"Did you find everything alright?" the lady asks, ringing up the clothes.

"Yes. Thank you," I say politely, glancing around. My eyes land on a satchel on a clearance shelf not too far away. "Excuse me a moment," I say, walking quickly over to it. When I pick up the bag, I realize the material's nylon. It has the head of Stitch from Lilo & Stitch on it. It's perfect; that was my favorite show when I was younger. With a grin, I walk back over to the counter.

"Could you ring this up along with the others, please?"

"Sure," the lady says politely. Then she pokes some things into the register and tells me my total. I hand over the money with about 10 pounds left over, and walk from the store with two bags. Sherlock smiles over at me, then at the bags in my hands.

"Wonderful," he says. "The lady's room is in the back of the cafe. Change in one of the stalls." Sherlock holds the door open for me. I nod my thanks and enter.

When I get to the lady's room, there's no one in there. I change quickly in one of the stalls and stuff my old clothes - and unused new clothes - into the Stitch bag.

Sherlock sips from a to-go cup when he looks to me. He gives me a small smile, hands me my coffee, and walks out. I follow after him.

"Where are we going?" I ask once I've caught up to him.

"152 Grover Lane," he says simply, holding a free hand out into the street. A cab pulls to a stop right beside us.