Sherlock Holmes had found himself completely entangled in Irene Adler's web.
The cab journey from Battersea to Baker Street had given him time to reflect on what he had heard, and indeed, what he had not at all expected to see. It took someone exceptional to shock the world's only consulting detective. It took someone even better to deceive him.
He threw a note at the cabbie, muttering something about 'keeping the change'. Pushing open the door to Baker Street, it became immediately clear that something was wrong: his den had been corrupted. The scuff marks on the wall, the discarded cleaning products and the traces of pink nail varnish gave the story a narrative. All of a sudden, Sherlock had to act - the woman was no longer clouding his vision.
The wooden hills were conquered in just a few brisk paces. Up on spotting his curly locks, Mrs Hudson broke the silence. "Sherlock, Oh Sherlock" she sniffled.
Even the shaking frame of his landlady did not cause his icy exterior to melt.
"Don't snivel, Mrs Hudson, it'll do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet." He now addressed the rest of his audience, looking at Neilson in particular. "What a tender world that would b-"
"There's nothing in the bedroom either." the voice, caked in nonchalance, revealed itself before it's owner did.
It takes someone exceptional to shock the world's only consulting detective. Sherlock whipped his head around, for a moment forgetting that he had a potential fight on his hands. Confusion struck him, widening his eyes and leaving him in suspended animation, his jaw dropped like a cartoon character.
It was this rare expression that greeted Faylinn Holmes as she strolled in to the living room. It was a pleasant surprise - one that in another time or place, she would have savoured or possibly taken a souvenir photograph of. The youngest Holmes allowed a smirk to flirt on her lips, before resuming the professional, bland expression she had been accustomed to. Neilson nodded in response to her search results.
Her brother too, had regained some composure and threw her a questioning, somewhat disproving look. The siblings had a wavelength of their own and were immediately tuned in to each other's movements.
She perched on the arm of the sofa, ready to watch the scene unfold. It was at this point that Sherlock returned to his standoff, resigned to the fact that he would have to turn his back on the unexpected arrival. She could wait. For now.
Aware that everyone else was too busy cleaning up the aftermath of her brother's created crime scene, Faylinn ascended the stairs with undetected ease. She carefully selected her seat, choosing a step part way up the seventeen on offer in 221 Baker Street - here she would wait for Sherlock to return. But as the blue lights dissipated and the sirens whizzed and faded in to the London night, it became apparent that the awaited arrival had chosen the back door.
When he did finally make an appearance - coat billowing out to the side like a cape in the wind - he was greeted by a scene that he assumed had been deleted for good. The same girl, folded to squeeze on to two steps, had her back turned on the banister with her head propped up by her hands. All childlike optimism was depleted, however, replaced by a hardened, world-wise armour. His reunion began with a sharp stare and a raise of an eyebrow. It was hard to know where to begin...
Both seemed to wait for the other to initiate a conversation. The task landed with the elder of the two.
"What the bloody hell was that about?" Interaction over the past few years had come few and far between, making pleasantries or comments about the weather positively unnecessary. The Holmes family had never much cared for niceties anyway.
"I suppose I could ask you the same thing."
He snorted, ignoring her comment."You just waltz in to my living room and expect not to be confronted about it? What happened?"
"Nothing happened. Are you telling me I can't come back without a reason?" Faylinn snapped. Sherlock looked at her disapprovingly. Her reply was too quick, too defensive for his liking. He picked this up, seizing it and running with it.
"You could. But you wouldn't. Anyway, you left in a rush. No time to freshen up after the flight- it's not like you to not to be wearing makeup. You haven't even been debriefed. Now from what I believe, the security service isn't slacking that badly s-"
"Sherlock. I haven't been debriefed because the man you threw -repeatedly threw out of a second storey window was in fact the man charged with the responsibility of debriefing me." Her words were calm, but as a revolt of anger bubbled over, she ended up being significantly louder than originally intended.
Sherlock's lips moulded in to the rounded shape of an 'o' as he contemplated this statement. He had numerous questions surrounding this unexplained alliance with the Americans, but was not yet willing to leave his previous train of thought...
"Don't even get me started on those dark circles under your eyes. You haven't slept for three, no four days, but it's not as if you haven't had the time; you could have slept for hours on the plane as I presume you were flying business class? So something's been keeping you awake, something on your mind."
"Sherlock."
"No doubt that it's the very same thing that's caused you to lose your appetite. You clearly haven't eaten for days either. Plus there are creases in those clothes that have the potential to make Mycroft physically ill." he sniggered at this, before pulling his features back in to the traditional almost scowl. "Bolivia hasn't been treating you well then, sister dear?"
Almost immediately, he knew he had hit a nerve; she shuffled in her seat, not gracing him with the privilege of eye contact. Having said that, the detective was more than used to people becoming agitated as he spoke.
"I did not come here to be deduced."
"Then why, may I ask, have you come? To beat up my landlady, perhaps? I have to admit, it is a rather poor revenge strategy. I would expect better from you, I really would." Again, his own comments were his downfall, as they triggered a laugh that made a successful bid for freedom. He allowed it to last for longer than good etiquette allowed, running his palm through his inky curls as he chuckled.
In response, Faylinn widened her eyes, boring and drilling even further in to her brother's skull. Did he really think this was a laughing matter? Sherlock's sense of humour had always been notoriously twisted, but this really wasn't the time. She raised her voice, cutting in to the now dying snickers and reinstating the considerably more adult conversation that she had hoped for.
"You can't possibly think that this was my 'strategy', can you? Attacking old ladies isn't my idea of fun, you know." she said, spitting out the syllables as if they were leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.
Her comment killed off the already weak conversation. A silence blanketed them, punctuated only by the ticking of the clock in the hall. It was at this point that Faylinn paused to notice the domesticity of it all - the Christmas lights tracing the mantelpiece upstairs, the tinsel framing the mirror and the freshly washed bedding had not escaped her notice. This allowed a seed of doubt to be planted within the woman's mind. It now seemed appropriate to question just how well she knew her big brother.
"You er... You never answered my question. What happened?" he asked, attempting to sound softer than before. Perhaps he knew that he had overstepped the mark.
"You can deduce. I think you already know." Again, she was blunt. It was inevitable that landing in England would bring on an onslaught of questions, but Sherlock was not the ideal, or indeed the expected interrogator. It was more of a role she had envisaged Mycroft taking on.
"Don't be absurd. How could I possibly deduce the events of the last two years?"
Mocking surprise, the younger Holmes searched her surroundings, perhaps looking for someone to confirm that her ears were not deceiving her. Was... Was that the Sherlock Holmes admitting that he is not intellectually capable of something? Surely not. He, meanwhile, stood as an onlooker to the ironic performance, seemingly allowing Faylinn her turn in the spotlight before he waded in once more.
"It happens to be a perfectly reasonable question to ask. In fact, I assume it will be one that you will be confronted with many more times in the next 24 hours. Mycroft in particular will be itching to hear about your antics, don't you think?"
Faylinn rolled her eyes. "You say that as if he won't already know about them." The blatant espionage from Mycroft had come to be a uniting factor for the two youngest siblings; it was almost impossible to ignore (no matter how many times Sherlock had rewired or shot at the cameras he had sniffed out) so had to be embraced. After years of trying and failing, rebelling against the omniscient civil servant now seemed futile.
"Listen, you came here, meaning I get to ask the questions first."
"I highly doubt that the answers would be of any interest to you." she replied dismissively.
Finally weary of her position, she stood up, now having to look down to look her brother in the eye. Despite this indication that his visitor intended to leave, Sherlock stood as a partition. He seemed intent on getting the answers he craved.
"How could you possibly know without hearing the questions? " He let her settle on her feet. "For example, one of my many enquiries surrounds a certain advisor at GCHQ. I'd be interested to hear about your correspondence with him." With this, Faylinn visibly seethed - her fingers subconsciously formed fists as she let out a deep breath to restrain herself.
"My personal affairs are especially none of your business." she spat. Pushing past the wall of black wool tweed, she made a grab for the handle of her handbag. Without so much as a glance back, she pulled open the door.
Agreeing to come to Baker Street had been a mistake.
Thank you so much for reading! Hopefully chapter 2 will be uploaded tomorrow...
