Author's Note: So. It's been a hot minute, hasn't it? Life has this way of just ruining plans and what not. But! I am trying to make a comeback, and this story has been waiting for years to get some exposure!
To avoid any hassle or being called out, this will be a disclaimer for this whole story. I do not own any of the show's characters and any deviation from the storyline is my own invention. There may be some slight OOC action, but it can't be helped if my story has a much longer past than what is actually written. I do not make any monetary gain from this, as this is purely for my own amusement (and hopefully, yours).
Oh! P.S. This in no way means I'm not going back to the Supernatural fic. I am simply making a mark on here again, and - let's be honest - the Holmes are not exactly the waiting patiently type. ;)
The brunette waited for the door to open, a scarf loosely wrapped around her throat as she stomped her feet to get the snow off. When the hinges finally moved, she allowed a smile to adorn her face. "Oh, darling!" an older woman greeted, opening the door wider to allow her inside. "Oh, Lee, it's been far too long."
"How are you, Mrs. Hudson?" the brunette asked, embracing the woman and placing a kiss on her temple. "Is he in?"
"Yes, yes," she replied after pulling away from the hug to secure the door. "He is in one of his moods. Please do tell me you're here to prevent further bullets from damaging my walls."
Westley laughed, removing her scarf and enveloping it around her right forearm. "I will take care of it. May I come by to your room later this evening for tea?"
The smile on Mrs. Hudson's face brightened. "Of course, dear! You are always welcome." Westley returned the smile and started up the stairs. Her features were stoic by the time she reached the entrance to her brother's flat.
Sherlock was well aware of her arrival, she knew, and she took a deep breath before opening the door. Like she imagined, he stood in the middle of the living area, hands clasped behind his back. "Westley," he greeted, not a muscle of his making any indication of movement. She knew better though.
The instant her foot crossed the threshold, he uncoiled and a fist launched itself towards her chin. He always started this way and she immediately deflected it with the scarf-wrapped arm, spinning to find herself facing his back, if only for a split second. Sherlock's grin provoked one of her own as they sparred into the living room, jumping over the furniture and catching objects they tipped over. Yet their limbs never stopped attacking each other as they pivoted into the kitchen, fists and kicks flying towards each other, barely grazing their clothing.
They circled around, returning into the living room and before it registered, they were grappling on the floor. Westley's lithe body had the advantage for a few moments, her legs contorting around Sherlock's neck as he managed to get her arm in a lock. They heaved, pausing and examining their predicament. "Well," Sherlock gasped, the grin still on his face. "You have not lost your touch."
"Neither have you, old man," Westley retorted, her giggling cut short by his hyperextending her arm. He earned less air as a punishment, his already deep breathing turning into wheezing. "Great welcome party."
"The best, as always," her brother managed to gasp, slowly applying more pressure to her already stretched muscle. She gritted her teeth, momentarily loosening her hold on his neck before clamping down, although with less strength. He relaxed his own vice grip, if only enough to provide some relief. "What are you doing back?" Before she could respond, the sound of footsteps caused them both to freeze.
"What the hell?" a voice called. The siblings looked at each other and both tapped out, their limbs falling apart as each lay in their spot, trying to catch their breath. Westley craned her neck to find a blond at the entrance, shopping bags hanging from his arms. "What the bloody hell?"
Sherlock and Westley sat up slowly, the brother rubbing his neck while the sister rotated her arm at the shoulder. "John, I do not believe you've had the pleasure of meeting my sister," Sherlock said nonchalantly. The detective stood, offering Westley a hand. She gripped his fingers and rose to her feet, wiping at her jeans and coat after releasing his hand. "Westley, this is my roommate. And friend. John Watson."
Westley raised an eyebrow at her brother as she removed her leather coat along with the scarf on her arm, tossing them onto the recliner. "A friend," she mused, a twitch at her lips. She turned her attention to John now. "Since when are you friends with military?" John blinked, looking between the two. "As a matter of fact, since when do you have a need for roommates?" Sherlock waved a hand at her, turning his back to them and picking up his violin. "Westley Holmes," she said, rolling her eyes at her brother and turning her full attention to John now. "He never speaks about me to anyone, don't worry. Only a handful of individuals know of the consulting detective's sister, the majority being family. Let me help you with that." Westley took half of the grocery bags from the still stunned John and weaved her way towards the kitchen.
"When did you plan on telling me this?" she heard John confront Sherlock. "I thought I was, as you said, your friend."
"It was irrelevant to anything having to do with myself or our work," Sherlock replied, his fingers nimbly pressing at the violin strings as his other hand guided the bow. "Now it is relevant and now you know. I fail to see the problem here."
John threw his hands in the air, a scowl on his features as he turned and headed to the kitchen. "I apologize for the scene," Westley said, already starting on putting away the groceries. "It's a tradition of ours, sparring upon meeting each other after long periods. A little sibling rivalry, in that area, so to speak." She gave John a bright smile. "Now, army doctor, correct? Afghanistan or Iraq?"
The man's mouth dropped open. "How – I don't even have a limp anymore!" he said, throwing his hands in the air once again.
"The state of this apartment is a vast improvement compared to his other holes. If I ventured a climb upstairs, I'm sure it would support my point. Military. Dusty cane," she continued, jutting her chin towards the side of the fireplace where the mentioned item rested. She grabbed the bags he had brought in and began placing the items where they belong. "You rubbed at your leg once, like an old habit, which means you must've suffered an injury. Did Sherlock help you figure out it was psychosomatic?" she asked, inspecting each empty bag before folding them up and stuffing them in a drawer. "You've still got a hint of your tan, so either Afghan or Iraq. Doctor because the only way you could get into Sherlock's good graces and remain for so long is if you were not only a good roommate, but a good partner. He hates the medical examiners that work with Lestrade, especially Anderson, so it was an easy leap from there."
"Yes. God another," he sighed, his fingers working on his knotted forehead. "And Afghanistan. And now that we're in the personal business questions, may I ask how it's possible I've never seen you before?"
"Travels," Westley said, opening the fridge again and studying intently before pulling out ingredients. "Hungry?" John blinked before giving a tentative nod. "Sherlock?"
A flourish of music was his answer and she smiled, pulling out extra. "I haven't seen you once, though," John continued, resting a hand on his hip and the other still massaging his forehead. "And I've met Mycroft. He never mentioned you either. Do you live out of London?"
Westley turned to the cabinets now, pulling out bowls, a whisk, a round cookie-cutter, a baking tray, and muffin tins. "Ah, well, that's a bit of a difficult question," she said, waving at the air. "I just never can seem to stay put in one place for long. So my home is everywhere, so to speak." She smiled at him again, setting herself to mixing flour, salt and butter. "Sherlock always lets me stay when I visit home for more than a week. Living with my parents isn't exactly conducive to the way of life that I am accustomed to."
John remained standing at his spot for a few moments before pulling out a chair and taking a seat. "How long will you be visiting, exactly?" he asked, trying to keep an amicable tone.
"Don't worry, I'll be taking Sherlock's room," she said with a cluck of her tongue and a wink. At this, a loud twang was heard the living room was heard. "Do not act surprised, Sherlock," Westley called out. "You barely even sleep."
"But it is my room," her brother said, materializing in the kitchen entrance. "My belongings are in there."
Westley rolled her eyes before focusing her attention back on the food. "John, would you please get me some cold water?" she asked, turning her back to them to turn on the oven. "Sherlock, cut strips," she said, placing a roll of baking parchment on the table. "And are you saying you will be leaving your baby sister to sleep on a couch? A recliner at that?" she asked, a hurt expression on her face. "You insinuate this as I stand over this meal I'm preparing for you with all the undying love and adoration of a younger sibling?"
There was a twitch under Sherlock's left eye before he quietly sat down and began cutting strips of paper, dabbing them with butter as he went, and placing them in the muffin tin. John watched the interchange with wide eyes as Westley extended hand out towards him. He snapped out of it, handing her the requested water. The sister felt his eyes on her as she worked the water into the batter. "Now, I understand you are still running your little detective act," Westley continued as she studied the batter, satisfied with the consistency, wrapped it in clingfilm, and tossed it into the fridge. "I will not interrupt unless you invite me in, of course. And if Mr. Watson accepts as well."
Her hands grabbed a bowl and emptied half a bag of breadcrumbs in it, along with sausage meat, bacon, ground mace, pepper, sage, and a pinch of salt. "If I am not invited, I will find other ways to entertain myself, of that I am sure," she mused as she blended the ingredients together by hand. She lifted the bowl, examining the mixture before nodding and heading to the sink to wash her hands. "I do request, as always, to not be questioned as to my whereabouts or activities."
"Should we be worried?" John asked Sherlock, earning a raised eyebrow from Westley. "I mean, I am sure you can take care of yourself. I was witness of that," he said, clearing his throat afterwards. "Yet, you make it sound… dangerous."
"You are aware who my brothers are," she said, a sly grin on her features. "While they pursue activities that benefit the community, a majority of my activities are… more for pleasure than moral victories."
"Westley," Sherlock snapped, his eyes sharp on her.
The brunette rolled her eyes. "All right, I am making it just a smidge melodramatic, aren't I?" she said, grinning as she cracked two eggs into a bowl and whisked them. "Then again, I learned that from you, dear brother." She turned to John. "My activities do not involve politics or crimes, Mr. Watson."
"John, please," he interrupted, taking his seat again as he watched Sherlock place the last strip of baking parchment into the muffin tin.
Westley checked her watch before pulling out the shortcrust pastry dough. "Right," she said after she rolled it in her hands. "I love stories, John," she continued, drawing a cabinet open and pulling out a rolling pin. "Titillating tales."
"Female follies," Sherlock muttered under his breath, earning himself a smack on the arm with the rolling pin. "You know I am right."
"Men are just as gossipy as women, darling brother," she said, wagging the rolling pin at him before setting to the task of spreading the dough. "My thrill is in the chase," she said, her eyes sparkling. "While my brothers work to solve problems, I work on exposing them to the public. It's a buzz, honestly, untangling the lies from the truth, following the breadcrumb clues. There have been times I've crossed paths with my brothers and we've found our ways to come to civil agreements, so to speak."
John offered her the cookie cutter before she said a thing, and she flashed him another full smile of hers. "That is why I travel. Yes, there are a lot of great stories here in London, but oh, what you can discover in other places!" Sherlock began taking the cut out pastries and placing them in the muffin tin, John helping him after a few seconds. "It is the reason why I cannot stay in one place."
She shooed their hands away, sliding the muffin tin close to herself. She placed the last of the circles into the muffin tip, grabbing a handful of breadcrumbs and filling the bottom of each tin with them. "You might have read some of my work, even. I am aware you have a blog yourself," she said off-handedly, grabbing the meat mixture and stuffing it in each tin. "You understand the art of creating the perfect story, the skill of portraying the right tone, selecting the perfect word to describe a detail, a particular act. The writing aspect has plenty of challenges, but it can get a bit dull at times. I don't care much about the telling part as Sherlock does. The time spent telling can be spent doing instead."
Westley brushed egg over some of the circle pastries, patting it down over the filling, pinching the edges to close them up properly. "I have never seen the name Holmes in any newspaper, journal, or blog online," John said, his eyes scrounged together. "I am sure I would've caught that."
"Oh, I use my grandmother's name, on my mother's side. A tipping of the hat, so to speak, to my role model," Westley replied, brushing the top of each pastry with egg and sprinkling sesame seeds over them. Afterwards, she inspected each muffin tin individually before standing straight with a satisfied nod. She picked it up and twirled, opening the oven and placing the tin carefully in the center before shutting the oven door. "Allison Archer was her name. Feisty woman. Father insists I am more her daughter than my mother's," she laughed with a shrug.
"Allison Archer? The acclaimed international journalist Allison Archer?" John stated in a flat tone, though his eyes were wide. "But there's a picture! A redheaded, green-eyed woman, if I recall. Who is that?"
"Oh, that's me alright. Just… with a few adjustments. And seeing how there are many people who prefer I keep some secrets," Westley trailed off with a giggle as she piled up the used dishes and placed them in the sink. "It keeps the real me under the radar, so to speak. I plan on taking a vacation for now. Do some exploring for my own fun, rather than for the journals."
"Please," John said, standing from his seat and grabbing her shoulders, pulling her away from the sink. "Allow me. You're already cooking for us." Westley smiled and turned to Sherlock.
"He's a keeper," she said to her brother.
"I'm not gay," John immediately added.
Westley gave him a curious look. "I didn't think it," she replied, before taking a seat opposite of Sherlock. "Bring me up to speed." Her brother grumbled and rose from his own chair, practically stomping back to the living room and picking up his violin, playing a violent tune. "Ah, right. I forgot Mrs. Hudson stated he was in his moods." Westley turned in her seat, watching John finish the last of the dishes. "How would you like to accompany me for a stroll, John? It has been quite a while since I have been home and with this chill, I miss the coffee down at Speedy's something terrible. It would go brilliantly with the pork pies."
John looked towards Sherlock to find the detective in his chair, eyes set on his sister. "Will he –" he started, before shaking his head. "You know what? Sure. Why not? I still have my coat on." Westley rose, walking into the living area and snatching up her coat and scarf. She circled her brother, studying him before leaning down and giving him a peck on the check. John's eyebrow rose when Sherlock didn't move.
"Please keep an eye on the oven. Do not touch it, though," she warned, her eyes darkening for a moment before she looked up at the army doctor with clear, blue eyes and a charming smile.
The pair walked down the stairs, John behind her. "Mrs. Hudson! Pork pies are in the oven! I'll be stepping out quickly to bring us some coffee," Westley cried out before opening the door and striding out into the cold air. She took a deep breath, shivered, and then turned to John as he closed the door. "I picked the worst time to come back, I swear." She gave him a grin before they started down the block.
The man gave her a forced smile and walked beside her, his head bent slightly. "You seem to be able to handle Sherlock quite well," he started, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. "I've never, well, it's a bloody shock to me, to be honest." Westley laughed, her head tipping back slightly. John's eyes feasted on the sight, a strange flip of the stomach causing him to look away.
"I'm the baby. I'm the only girl. And we are only a year apart, so we were very close as children, unlike Mycroft," she explained, rubbing her hands together before pulling on her scarf to tighten it around her neck. "We each know what makes us tick, so to speak. So, I try not to push his buttons and he tries not to push mine. It's quite a simple arrangement. Mycroft isn't too great with us. He worries too much, with his position and all."
Westley gave a shrug. "But, he listens to you. He actually listens," John insisted, shaking his head and giving a choked out laugh. "I have never in all my days of knowing him, seen anything like it."
"He seems quite fond of you and your opinion, John," she said, feeling the snow bite through her shoes. "I have never known Sherlock to have a friend. I've never known anyone that would put up with Sherlock willingly! You are clearly someone special to stick with my brother this long."
It was John's turn to shrug now. "We manage," he finally replied as the shop came into view.
They entered the cafe and placed an order to go, standing beside each other as they waited. Moments later, the duo stepped out of the restaurant, swapping stories of their travels. Neither noticed the way their bodies gravitated towards each other and their arms brushed every couple of yards. "And that may be my favourite thing about India." Westley noticed John's creased forehead as they reached the flat's front door. "What are you trying to figure out?" she asked, pausing at the porch. John looked up at her, blinking.
"Ah, well," he stuttered, his free hand rubbing at his neck. "You and Sherlock are alike, in a lot of ways," he started, shuffling his weight from one leg to the other. "Yet, here we are." He made a motion with his hand between them. "Having an actual conversation. That doesn't involve murder. Like normal people. Don't get me wrong, I do talk to Sherlock. But, well, our conversations revolve around whatever case we are on, if we have any. Or arguments about his lack of social skills."
Again, a laugh made its way out of Westley's lips as she placed a hand on John's arm. "That is because I like people, unlike Sherlock. I find personality is as intricate as intellect. And I don't think everyone is a blithering idiot, which means I am willing to interact with them. Daily." She turned to the door and pushed it open, holding it wide for John to get through.
Once inside, she locked it behind them and went up the flight of stairs with the army doctor close behind her. Sherlock stood with a fencing sword in hand, jabbing at an invisible opponent. "Down," Westley called out as she and the army doctor walked in. "Ah! Great, you heard me," the sister smiled when she found Mrs. Hudson at the kitchen table. "I got you your favourite," she added, grabbing a lidded cup and placing it before the old woman.
Westley rounded the table and headed to the oven, pulling out the muffin tray. She covered the baking tray with parchment and gently pulled out each pot pie, spacing them out on the tray. Using the last of the whisked egg, she brushed the pot pies all around and after making sure not a spot was left dry, placed the pot pies back in the oven. "It is so nice having you around again, Lee," Mrs. Hudson said, clasping the woman's hands in hers as Westley took a seat beside her. "Each time I see you, you've grown more beautiful."
The brunette blushed, squeezing Mrs. Hudson's fingers gently. "Now, don't go on flattering me. There is only room for Sherlock's ego in this flat," she teased, earning a huff from her brother. The ding of the oven paused the women's talk and John helped Westley with plates to set the pies on.
"Alright. Come on, Sherlock," Westley called as she set plates on the table, along with a bowl of piccalilli. She took her seat next to Mrs. Hudson while Sherlock and John took the places across from them. "You first, Mrs. Hudson."
The four of them had a lovely dinner, though Sherlock remained silent aside from the occasional grunt and fact correction. "Right then," Mrs. Hudson said, dabbing at the corner of her mouths with a napkin. "I must be off. Lee, dear, please take the time to visit me tomorrow, will you? It's so nice to finally have another feminine touch here."
The young woman laughed softly. "I don't know how much femininity I can bring to the flat," Westley said, standing as Mrs. Hudson did. "But, I will visit you tomorrow for tea."
The youngest Holmes walked the landlady to the door, kissing her cheek goodbye, before walking back into the kitchen. "I have terrible jet lag," she said, stifling a yawn. "I'll be retiring to my room now."
"My bedroom," Sherlock muttered, crossing his arms suddenly.
"Right. Your bedroom that is mine now. Ta, dears." Westley flashed them both a smile before pivoting. "Ah, don't forget to clean up," she added, waving a finger over her shoulder. "Good night."