"I can't believe I let you talk me into it." Sherlock sighed from his side of the ten-by-ten holding cell.

"I didn't talk you into anything, Holmes. I just told you what I was doing." Was all James Moriarty replied.

"Same thing."

And it was. James had a way of thinking, a way with words. Every time he proposed something, created a new puzzle, Sherlock could not help but fall into the tartarus depths of temptation. His best friend was very much aware of that and often took advantage of his . . . weakness. That was how they got into this situation.

That was how they got into all of their situations.

Or, at least, that was how Sherlock ended up in those situations. He was sure that James would go off on his own if it pleased him. If it fit with how he envisioned it.

"I'm never going to hear the end of this." Sherlock chuckled while remembering what they did to get there.

His mother was going to have a field day with this one. He just knew as soon as she walked through the doors and bailed him out of holding she was going to have the look. The look where her eyebrows were slightly raised as her eyes took sight of him down her nose. Of course, the look would not be complete without her saying something about his perfect brother, her golden child, Mycroft, and how Sherlock needed to be more like him. Mycroft used the look as well.

"You could sneeze and you would never hear the end of it." James joined in with his own laugh.

Sherlock scoffed.

James was right, and he hated it.

"This was the last time I'm participating in any of your ideas."

"You said that last time."

"But this time I mean it."

This time, it was James' turn to scoff.

James could not be right this time, Sherlock did not want him to be. They ended up in a holding cell this time around, and while Sherlock did not sweat with guilt with this punishment, he did not jump for joy either. He did not care for it. Period. It was an inconvenience. All of the dominoes that fell after it, the waiting, the look, and the community service, were all inconveniences. They lulled his mind or scratched at it in a way that was not pleasant.

He did suppose that they deserved it; they did after all end up burning down the old barn house.

But still . . .

It had been in the name of science!

. . . And that of a spooked cat and a poorly placed firework . . . with a faulty trigger.

Another sigh left his lips.

*****

"Excuse me, officer!" Sherlock called to the woman in uniform that was walking past the holding cell, "Have either of our parents arrived yet? When do you think we will be released?"

The officer paused mid-step and turned to him. She took in his antsy posture that he tried to cover by holding onto the cell bars. Her eyes briefly flicked to James, who fell asleep on the bench behind him.

"Both of your parents have arrived, however, you will be in holding until we sort out all the evidence." She stated before walking away.

"What evidence?" Sherlock called out to her, "A burnt down barn?"

"A body." She replied without looking back.

She disappeared through a door that led to somewhere else in the building.

*****

A body.

The officer's words floated around in his head, rotating themselves in every angle Sherlock could think of.

An old body.

A newly dead body.

A murdered body.

A forgotten body.

They continued on and on and on.

How did the body get there?

When did the body get there?

Whose body was it?

The barn was abandoned. He knew that because that was where James and he tested out their theories of both prank ideas and curiosity origins. They had both been inside the barn many times in order to grab whatever scraps they could use for their recent endeavors. What they definitely did not find on any occasion was a body out in the open.

He looked over at James. Though still resting on the bench, he was now awake and watching Sherlock walking end-to-end of their cell.

Waiting for Sherlock to tell him why he was walking end-to-end of their cell.

"They found a body." Sherlock finally stated.

James' eyebrows rose slightly before he mumbled, "Interesting."

"Interesting?" Sherlock sputtered in reply.

James shrugged.

"I don't know why you're worried about it. It's not like you did anything."

"I'm not worried, I'm baffled. How did we not know there was a dead body there?"

Sherlock paused when he felt something snag at his mind.

Was the body dead before or after the firework burnt down the barn?

Could we have accidentally killed someone?

Now, he was much more than worried.

*****

"I swear you need to be on something." James groaned.

"Do not!"

"Do so, Sherlock. You've barely held still for a moment since the officer told you about the body."

It was true, but he could not help it. His mind itched and he could not figure out how to soothe it.

Sherlock stopped his pacing and leaned up against the cell bars in hopes of feigning some sense of calm. He knew his efforts would not pass James' knowing eye, he was his best friend after all, but he hoped it would help settle himself. It was one of those fake-it-til-you-make-it situations. It was not doing much good as his mind still paced back-and-forth, but he was willing to wait and see if his thoughts caught up with his body.

They had been in their cell for most of the night and Sherlock was convinced that the police were going to hold them as long as they were able to. That was until he was proved otherwise. Entering from the door she had disappeared from earlier was the officer that had informed him of the body.

"Holmes, Moriarty, you are being released due to the pending investigation surrounding the discovery of a John Doe at the crime scene."

The officer released them from their cell and led them through the door she had used to come into the room. From there they were sent through the process of release and were notified on what was to come next.

"Try not to stray too far in case you both are needed for further questioning."

Then they were released to their parents. Sherlock made his way to his parents while James took his time.

Sherlock's mother stood there with the look on her face while his father was a few steps away taking a phone call. They were both dressed like any other rich, upper class, middle aged couple would be. The same could be said for James' parents, though they also wore the look of worry on their faces.

That was something, other than James' mind, that Sherlock held with fascination. To have a family that cared for one another and not one that cared how the other made them look. To not be ignored or given the look.

That would be baffling.

Sherlock paused.

"I don't know why you're worried about it. It's not like you did anything."

That is what James had said.

You . . .

Sherlock looked back to his best friend only to see that James was already staring at him, watching as the pieces all fell into place. The itch in his mind now relieved.

Though the spooked cat must have been a coincidence, the placement of the firework and the faulty trigger was not. They had, after all, been cooked up and assembled by James himself. He would never miscalculate. It would be impossible for his brain to even consider it . . . unless the miscalculation fit with how he envisioned his plan.

James had a hand in the murder of the man found at the site.

That very realization sent a chill through his body, but he did what James was waiting for him to do. What he was willing to do.

He nodded.

He let his friend know that he would keep his secret. That was, what many would believe to be, the problem with friendship. The willingness to take the knowledge of wrongdoings, tethered souls to your very own grave while yours was sent to a place of eternal suffering. The willingness to fall over the edge of the cliff with them so they would not be alone.

Sherlock turned away from his friend and made the rest of the way to his parents.

*****

"Here." His mother stated as she handed him an envelope once they made it to their town car.

His father was still on the phone.

The insignia about and the return address revealed it to be from Baker Hall.

He knew immediately that his parents were planning on sending him to boarding school. With a sigh, he opened the letter.

After skimming over the school's welcoming paragraph and mission statement, he came across his room assignment along with his roommate.

Room: 221B
Roommate: John Watson

His mind flashed to James and what he did. Sherlock could not help but remember a quote from Benjamin Franklin.

Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.

Though best friends, maybe time away from James would be for the best.