"I am not given to outbursts of brotherly compassion… You know what happened to the other one." - Mycroft Holmes
Chapter One
John Watson sat at the desk, intently typing up a synopsis of his latest case with his good friend Sherlock Holmes. The very one that was, at that moment, playing a sorrowful tune on his violin. The song was familiar to John, as were most of Sherlock's mannerisms at this point in their friendship. He knew what this song meant and whom it was played in memory of.
"D'you miss her?" He asked, his eyes not leaving the screen ahead of him.
There was no change in Sherlock's expression, no indication that he had even heard the inquiry except that the tune immediately changed to Ave Maria. He gave no response but continued to play as he walked about the room. Once he stopped in front of the window, the playing halted and he cursed.
John looked up from his laptop in confusion, "Sorry?" Seeing the expression on the Sherlock's face, he scrambled toward the window to see the sight for himself. There was a woman standing on the pavement, she was biting her lip and scanning her surroundings. However that was all John could read on the lady's features as her eyes were covered by large sunglasses and her face was framed by a headscarf. It was obvious, even to him, that she was hoping to escape notice.
Sherlock turned toward the door to the apartment and scanned the room with his eyes. He looked near frantic, John had never seen him so taken-aback. He had learned long ago that it was simply not possible to catch the man off guard, but today he had been proven very wrong.
"Sher-" he began to repeat.
"John, where is your hand pistol?" Sherlock inquired as he checked the contents of the bookshelves.
John followed behind him helplessly, "Who is she?"
"Who is who?"
"The woman, Sherlock." He replied impatiently, "The woman outside."
The man shook his head and searched the drawers of the desk, "A woman I am not prepared to deal with."
"You? Not prepared?" The shock in his friend's voice was evident and sprinkled with condescension.
"Where the bloody hell is it?" Sherlock groaned.
"Where the bloody hell is what?" These words were soft, they did not come from John but from the woman now standing in the doorway of the apartment. After a second of silence from the two men, she took off her sunglasses, pulled back her scarf to reveal her hair, and tried again. Her voice stronger this time, "Where the bloody hell is what?"
John examined the woman: her hair was black and flowed in waves just past her shoulder. Her eyes were a pale green, nearly identical to Sherlock's. In fact her hair was rather similar as well but her face was much plumper, she must have been 10 years their junior. But he was not one for speculation.
He could hear Sherlock swallow and he realized that the stubborn man would not be speaking. He took it upon himself. His throat cleared, "Sorry, we're being quite rude aren't we?" He reached his hand out for a shake, "I'm John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes."
The woman took John's hand and shook it warmly, "My dear Watson, I've heard so much about you." Her smile fell a bit, "Do I sense a domestic?"
A skeptic chuckle came from John, "'My dear Watson…'" He looked to Sherlock and furrowed his eyebrows, he was not given a reply. "No, not at all."
"Not with him, with your wife. The newborn baby is causing a bit of friction between lovers, isn't it?" She shook her head, "They always do, you'll get through it. Don't forget to spend time on yourself."
"I'm-" a confused sigh came from the man and he placed his hand on the back of his neck. "I'm sorry have we met?"
"No." She replied and got close to Sherlock. "Sherlock, won't you introduce me?" When met with silence she laughed, "He hasn't changed a bit, won't even introduce his own sister."