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the door, his hand slick on the doorknob.

CHAPTER 8
THE FIRST NOTE

    S HERLOCK H OLMES HAD FILLED THE DORM room with fog in an apparent attempt to brew a cup of tea. Upon entering, James hacked his way through the mist.
    â€œIt’s like you took a shower in here! Ever heard of opening a window?”
    â€œThat’s a rhetorical question, I presume. I rather enjoy an atmosphere reminiscent of London. Good for the lungs, you know!”
    James threw open the window with a flourish. “Well, this is Connecticut, so get used to it! Steam enough in the summer to press your shirt.You’ll just have to wait.”
    â€œOr you can learn to enjoy a good cuppa.”
    â€œCup of what?”
    â€œNo, it’s one word: cuppa. It means ‘cup of tea.’”
    â€œThen why not just say ‘cup of tea’?” James was exasperated. “Why can’t you Brits just say what you mean?”
    Sherlock harrumphed indignantly. “Yanks,” he exclaimed derisively.
    â€œWhat’s this?” James held up a red envelope with his name on it, gleaned from his desktop.
    â€œA red envelope.”
    â€œWhere did the red envelope come from?” he said, petulantly.
    â€œYour desk. It was there when I arrived following the assembly.”
    James turned it over in his hand. “Looks like a valentine.”
    â€œI wouldn’t count on it. From your sister, perhaps? I would also remind you that given the absence of mobile phones, notes and letters are our only means to communicate. I assume we will all be using these methods quite a bit.”
    â€œI hate the phone rule. So stupid.”
    â€œIt’s intended to level the playing field,” Sherlock said, “and reduce distractions. Hating it won’t change it. Acceptance puts the mind at ease.”
    James glanced hotly, encouraging Sherlock to shut up. He tore open the envelope and read:
    Aloft in the middle of the seven ribs you will find it, but only by night.
    The message had been printed from a computer, or possibly typed using a typewriter. James turned it over and over, rereading it each time.
    â€œThe love note you anticipated?”
    â€œMind your own business.”
    â€œSomething involving the missing Bible perhaps.” Sherlock sounded so sure of himself.
    â€œHow . . . Shut up! I said it’s none of your business.”
    â€œHey, Jamie, hey, Lock.” I waved my arms to dispense the fog. “Mind if I leave the door open? It’s like a sauna in here.” I realized immediately that I’d interrupted a strained conversation or discussion. The tension between my brother and his roommate was thicker than the mist.
    â€œJust what I was telling him,” James said, quickly stuffing the card and red envelope into his back pocket. “You two know each other? What’s that, a nickname?”
    â€œWe do, and it is,” I answered. “Sherlock introduced himself at dinner two nights ago.You wouldn’t have noticed,” I said, putting as much sting into it as I could. “We became instant friends, didn’t we, Lock? The nickname just kind of happened.”
    â€œI like it,” James said. “Lock. Not bad.”
    â€œMy name is Sherlock Holmes. I don’t respond well to nicknames—from either of you—but if you’re going to insist, since your brother’s middle name is Keynes, he could be called—”
    â€œDon’t go there!” James declared.
    â€œWhere?” Sherlock said, goading him.
    â€œLock and Key?” I said. Both boys groaned. I grinned. “Adorable. And as for your snooty demand of no nicknames, I nickname everybody, don’t I, Jamie? And Lock it is. Don’t ask me why, but it suits you.”
    Sherlock huffed and returned to his job at hand: studying a campus map included with the orientation folder.
    â€œDid you even know we had a family Bible?” I asked James.
    â€œFirst I’ve heard of