Hello, hello, hellooooo...

So this is um... Well my fic about BBC Sherlock. Just a reminder that I don't own the series (of course) and that english is not my first language, so if there are any mistakes, well feel free to tell me, and I'll correct them!

Also, if you don't like what I write, or the storyline I imagined... It's not necessary to insult my work via reviews. Just close you internet browser.

Enjoy :)

'You might want to take these headphones off, miss, you're missing the view.'

I open my eyes. The man seating across from me in the wagon is smiling rather kindly. I smirk quietly, and close my eyes again.

'I'm good, thanks. I've already seen how it looks.'

I can't see him, but he doesn't add anything else. Good. I literally loath small talk. And people really tend to use small talk when they're alone facing a weird-looking kid in a train. I don't get why: if you ask me, I don't look like a person who's good at social interactions. I guess it's hereditary. Or so they told me back at school. School. I sigh loudly, and try to focus on the music that comes through my purple headphones.

Dooooon't you forgeeeet abouuuuut meeee

Don't, don't, don't, dooooooon't you forgeeeeeet abouuuuuut meeeee

Ugh. Simple Minds. Nice. Listening to music always calms me down a bit. I mean, it's not that I'm an aggressive person, but... I just can't bear pointless, annoying things. Like school, for instance. With teachers and all. People who think they're better than you because they're the ones having a diploma. Ha ha. Jerks. And I won't even mention the students – oh God, the students – who literally represent what the world would've been if monkeys had taken over the power. Although the average 15-year-old kid isn't quite as intelligent as Caesar in Planet of the Apes.

'Dear passengers, we'll be arriving in Paddington Station in a few minutes. Don't forget your belongings, and please get ready to exit on the left side, thank you.'

I open my eyes again. My fellow traveler is looking breathlessly at the window, like if London was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. His jaw is half opened, and his eyes are bewildered. I find myself smiling. He's funny. Some people are funny. Innocent people with big baby blue eyes are funny. He's looking at the city of my nightmares like a six-year-old would look at a particularly big ice cream. I like the way he acts, how childish he's behaving. He's not pretending to be a responsible adult, looking carelessly at the view because there are more important things, like work and everything, no. He's... Natural. And that's something missing in our society. Hypocrites are kings, truth is overrated.

The man notices my glare, and he suddenly looks at his feet.

'Sorry. You must find me a little ridiculous, don't you?'

'Why would I?'

'It's just... It's my first time in London, ever. I-I've never left my old village, and now here I am, in the capital of England, where I've just been offered a job... It seems so huge, for a boy from the countryside, you see! So forgive me, if I'm being a little ecstatic.'

'No it's... It's fine, actually. I understand. I was like you when I first came here.'

He smiles gently at me. He looks quite young – twenty-two or so, judging by his short beard and the almost undetectable trace of acne on his forehead – and his accent indicates me that he must also have travelled all the way from Wales to come here. Though he is a bit chubby, he has the skin-tan of someone who's been living in the countryside, breathing fresh air all his life, and the healthiness of a beloved kid, raised among a very caring family. Lucky man.

'Um... It's not your first time here, then.'

'No. But I don't know London really well.'

'So you don't live here, do you?'

'I guess you could say that I'm from the countryside as well.'

'Oh. And... Are you coming here on holidays, if-if you don't mind my asking...?'

Hmm. I stare at his bright eyes. He's not talking for nothing. He's actually interested in my answer. I decide that I like him, and I start explaining.

'No, not exactly. I'm here to see an old...'

How should I even call him? He's no more family to me than this man is.

'… An old acquaintance.'

'Oh. You... You're rather serious for a person of your age.'

'No, I just don't see the point in giggling for anything that happens to me, because – believe me – it's not always as funny as it might look.'

'Ah. I see.'

No you don't, I want to say out loud. I don't, of course, because he's done nothing to upset me. So I just give him a nice look, and stand up to get my suitcase, because the train has slowed down. The man does the same, and after hesitating, he even helps me out with my luggage. He's one of a kind, for sure. We both walk towards the left exit doors, and wait for the train to stop moving completely. I notice that his fingers are nervously scratching the top of his suitcase. I look up to his face: he's biting his lower lip, and his eyebrows are frowned.

'Is something bothering you?'

'What?'

'You look rather stressed out. And besides, you've got sweat on your forehead.'

His hand immediately reaches out for his forehead. It's not true, of course, but it's easier than telling him how I noticed his anxiety.

'Ah! Um – no it's nothing.'

'Is it?'

'Uh... I guess I'm afraid I'll get lost in London's streets, but you know, it um... It's silly, really, I mean I've got my map and all... But I can't find the street where my hotel is.'

'Wait.'

I take his so-called map from his hands. It's all wrecked and torn, but I manage to decipher a few street names: Montague Street, Torrington Square... The Senate House? I sigh, and look back at the man. Poor thing.

'This is rubbish.'

'Wh-'

'No, seriously, you only have the Bloomsbury district on this thing. Where did you get it?'

'I uh, I took it from an ad in a newspaper... I though...'

'Well you think wrong. Tell you what. As soon as you get out of that train, run to the nearest shop and buy a real London map, okay?'

I gently pat his shoulder while giving him his map back. He looks a bit confused. After he thanks me, I put my headphones on again. I'm getting tired of this. But when he turns towards me, I realise that it's not finished yet.

'Hang on.'

I remove my headphones. Please, please no.

'You said you weren't from London, how come you know these locations so well?'

Oh bravo. Well done, me.

'I just happen to know which streets are in Bloomsbury.'

'Oh do you?'

'As a matter of fact, yes. And I don't think it's any of your business.'

'Why did you lie to me?'

'Never said I was from London.'

'I know, but you mentioned that you didn't know the city.'

'I don't, I'm just interested in maps! Why do you care, you don't know me, do you?'

'You've got a little Londoner accent.'

'I was born there, and raised by Londoners, doesn't mean I'm one.'

'Where did you grow up then?'

'It's none of your business! For God's sake, why do people talk that much!? I w-'

I suddenly stop talking. He's grinning. From ear to ear. Well, this is strange. My blood runs cold, and I almost yell at him when I ask:

'What?'

'Nothing. I just made you talk about yourself for one full minute or so. I bet that's the longest anyone's ever got, uh?'

I remain silent. What, in the name of God, is this man doing? An awkward minute passes. Finally, the train stops. The man picks his luggage up, and opens the door. While taking a deep breath, he starts laughing lightly.

'London pollution, here I come! A bit different from my old place, but it'll do.'

'Who the hell are you?'

'My name's Gary, but you don't really need to know that, do you? After all, it's none of your business.'

I chuckle. He's clever. Far more clever than the rest of the people on that train. We both step out of the wagon, and after he's helped me straightening my suitcase, he takes my hand and shakes it vigourously.

'Well, it's been nice to meet you, miss.'

'Pleasure was all mine, Gary.'

'You won't tell me your name, will you?'

I shook my head. He laughs again, and lets go of my hand.

'Til the next time, then. In case we meet on Capulet Avenue or whatever that street was...'

'Okay, I'll look for you on Montague Street.'

'Montague, that was it! Ugh, never figured out which one was Juliet's side anyway.'

Gary picks his suitcase up once again, waves his right hand softly, and walks towards the exit gate of the station. I smile. Oh, how delightful it is to realise that not everyone's a total idiot in this world. We could really use a few more Garys. His enthusiasm, his candour, the way he's looking forward to life... It's brilliant. Still smiling, I put my headphones back on my ears, and start walking out of Paddington Station. Because I've got something to do, too. And it's not as much fun as Gary's new life.

XXX

'Keep the change.'

The cabbie thanks me, and drives off the street I just arrived in. It's in the wealthiest part of London, and you can feel it. All the houses are big, white villas that just smell like money. They all have huge gardens, or terraces, or both. The numbers are written in gold numbers on the porch of each mansion, and it's the same for the names of the residents on each letterbox. I turn around to face the one that interests me: 38. 38 Eaton Square. I already nicknamed the place "Hell". Taking a deep breath, I walk towards the front door. I don't want to knock. I really don't. God only knows what he'll do or say to me. But he's my only chance. My only relative. We don't get along well, but if he kicks me out, I'll have to sleep on the streets or whatever. Worse, I could be forced to go back to my old school. I close my eyes. Okay. I'm ready.

I knock. Four times.

A few steps.

The door opens.

My heart is beating so very fast.

And here he is. Standing in front of me.

'Yes? If it's for charity, I've already given money to your colleagues earlier.'

'You've put on weight, haven't you?'

BAM. My words strike into his mind, and his eyes open wide. His thin, thin lips purse, and he starts to open his mouth... When he understands. I don't know what makes him realise who I am – probably the eyes, though – but I swear he does. He places his hands behind his back, and stares at me.

'You've grown up.'

'That's what children do, you know.'

'Don't start. What are you doing here?'

'Family visit.'

'We don't do family visits.'

'That's right, it's what normal people do. And we're not normal.'

'I thought you were in a boarding school, near Cardiff.'

'Exactly, I was.'

Silence. He still stares at me like if he's wondering if I'm real. If I may have grown up, he hasn't really changed. He lost a bit of his light brown hair, and he seems more tired than ever, but all in all he's the same. He's still wearing a very expansive suit – even if we're sunday evening, and that he's at home – and his eyes are as cold as ice. After a few minutes, he sighs lightly.

'Well, I guess you could come in.'

'Thanks, I thought you'd never ask.'

He lets me in without any reluctance. Though I find that weird, I assume it's because we haven't seen each other in a while. He leads me towards the living room, where a comforting fire is burning in the fireplace. I sit in a large vermilion sofa, but he remains on his feet, looking carelessly at the fire cracking. Suddenly, I feel a bit bad. I'm kind of intruding in his life right now, and though I thought that I didn't mind, I realise that it's quite awkward.

'So...'

'So. How's life?'

'Fine... Can you tell me what are you doing here?'

'Well, you just let me in.'

'Don't play the silly one. Why are you in London?'

'I told you. Family visit.'

'You never liked me.'

'False: we never liked each other.'

Silence again.

'Truth is... I needed some fresh air.'

'Oh, so you just came to the most polluted city in the country to breathe a little?'

'Call it what you want...'

He finally sits in a red couch, right in front of me. He cups his chin in his hands, and closes his eyes.

'Mycroft...'

Oh boy. Saying his name is so weird. Hearing it is even worse. He lifts his head a little, open his eyes and look into mine.

'You know why I'm here.'

'I'm afraid I do.'

'You're the only family I have left. You could show a little compassion.'

'I'm sorry for your mother, by the way.'

I nod quietly. Mum died from a lung cancer eleven months ago. All I got from Mycroft was a condolence card.

'He gave me a call, when she died. Said he could come over if I wanted to.'

'You liked him better than me.'

'Yes, but we're related just the same.'

'We shouldn't use this word. Related. It sounds wrong.'

'What do you want me to say then? We share the same blood 'cause our dad shagged my mum while he was married to yours?'

'Watch your language!'

'Watch yours! We're related, you, me, him, face it once and for all! And he accepted it just fine!'

'For God's sake, Calista, he is dead!'

Ouch. The word hurts. So does my name. No one calls me Calista anymore. It's too weird, too long, too... Foreign. Thanks to my Corsican mum, I have a name that nobody's willing to pronounce. People just say Cal, or Callie. But not him. He hates nicknames. He's too official for nicknames. He's too official for anything anyway.

He seems slightly deranged by my name, too. He exhales uncomfortably, and starts scratching one of the couch's grey cushions. I take a deep breath. Here we go.

'I perfectly got that, thank you. We receive newspapers in Wales too, you know.'

'Then why do you keep talking about him like if he was still there?'

'Because he is.'

'Stop it. Just stop. You can't just say things like that. He's dead and you know it, you just don't want him to be, because you can't bring yourself to believe that your childhood hero is now buried deep in the ground.'

I close my eyes. My hands start to shake a little, but I can manage to control them. My ADHD has never been a problem for me, and it's not going to start now.

'Shut up.'

'Oh well, you hate it when I'm right, don't you?'

'You're wrong.'

'For God's sake, just face it! He's dead, muerte, mort, kaput. Whatlanguage you want me to speak?!'

'So he's not here anymore, yeah?'

'Glad you finally got it.'

'He's dead, not breathing anymore, harmless.'

'That's exactly what I'm t...'

'Then how come you can't even say his name out loud?'

Mycroft's face slowly decomposes itself. Bingo. Before he can actually say anything, I slide off my sofa, and kneel in front of his. I can see on his face that he can feel it as well as I can. My hand reaches out for my hair, and I exhale deeply.

'Listen. The fact that you can't bring yourself to say it... It's not grief. No, it's fear. You're afraid,, because you know he's somewhere out there, that he fooled you, so you won't even pronounce his name, 'cause you don't want to hear how your voice calls him like if he was standing a few meters away. You're afraid of believing what you already know. All this... Coldness, it's not because you're sad, not because of your loss... You just don't want to believe, because it's not rational, is it? There are no proofs, no clues. But you feel it just as well as I do. But there's one difference between you and me: you're a coward, Mycroft Holmes.'

'You don't know what I think. Or feel.'

'Yes I do, you stupid, arrogant, stubborn dork! You might not like it, but we still share the same blood, and therefore the same way of... Thinking.'

'You should really work on your genetic knowledge.'

'Shut up, you know what I mean. It seems that it's hereditary, innit? We are – and always will be – weird, outcast, brainy people. I like to call it the Holmes gene.'

He snorts. Very classy. I know that he's not bothered about my little speech, but he seems quite impressed by me anyway. He sighs again, and scratches his hair.

'You... Are so much like him. Always looking to have the last word.'

'Told you. Genetic.'

'You know what? It's almost ten o'clock, and I don't think I can have any of your... Reflections until tomorrow.'

My heart starts beating slightly faster. Does he...?

'You mean I can stay?'

'Well, you took a train from Wales just to come here and tell me that our brother isn't quite as dead as he seems to be, I assume you're tired. I'll show you a spare room upstairs, if you promise not to thank me too much. You know I hate soppy people.'

'Do you know who you're talking to?'

He grins lightly. When we both stand up, I don't even say thank you. I just nod my head a little, and follow him upstairs. But when we arrive in front of a wooden door, he suddenly stops, and turns towards me.

'As for the cowardice, I believe I can show you that a name doesn't scare me as much as you seem to think...'

He looks over the banister, and smirks when he shouts at the empty house:

'Sherlock Holmes.'

There you go! :3 I hope it was worth it for now, I'm sorry that I Cal's character is still a bit vague, but I felt like I had to stop this chapter here. Don't ask me why...

Anyway, hope you enjoyed :)

XXX