Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, or any of the characters, blah blah blah

The other Holmes sibling

A black cab pulled up outside 221b Baker Street, and Sherlock jumped out quickly and hopped up to the front door, leaving a very grumpy John to pay the taxi driver.

'Ok Sherlock I'll pay again shall I? Just because you're on a case doesn't mean you have the right to ignore basic manners.'

'Oh for God's sakes John, stop whining like a teenage girl.'

'Right, well I'm not buying any more milk until you take the initiative and go to the shops yourself. I find it astonishing how you can deduce everything about a client by looking at their phone but a simple shopping trip … oh no, that's way too complicated for an intellect like yours.'

John handed the money to the driver, who sped off, looking relieved at getting away from the two men (not surprising really, since Sherlock had told him that his girlfriend was in fact cheating on him with his brother and that he bore all the hallmarks of a chronic stroke sufferer). Sherlock, who was just about to step inside turned and glared at John for insulting his intelligence.

'Says the man who had a row with a self-service checkout? Really John, you excel yourself with that hypocrisy.'

He began running up the stairs, coat billowing behind, with John following.

'Well at least I actually have the courage and decency to try. You won't go out to buy anything. I reckon you're secretly scared of cartons of milk.'

'Don't be absurd John. I just can't do with cluttering up my head with the bother of buying milk – important stuff will get forgotten. And there's so much useless stuff to think about when shopping- which brand of milk, do I want semi skimmed, skimmed or full fat, long life, fresh, organic … Why can't there just be one type? All the rest is just confusing and pointless.'

'Oh, so the Achilles heel of the great Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective extraordinaire, is milk? Moriarty shouldn't have bothered with his evil plan to get you to jump off St Bart's; he should have just taken a load of cartons of milk up to the roof and showed them to you. That would have done the trick. In fact, I might try that next time you try practising the violin at three in the morning …'

They had now reached the door to the flat, and Sherlock was just turning the key in the lock.

'Do shut up John, your inane babbling is liquidising my brain.'

The door swung open. But Sherlock didn't go into the fact. He was shocked and irritated when he heard the sound of the shower going. It hadn't been on when he left, and it couldn't have been Mrs Hudson because she was away for the weekend. Besides, she'd never use her key to their flat to get in and then have a shower – she'd go to Mrs Turner's flat if her shower had broken. This meant that there was an intruder. And it annoyed Sherlock that it had taken him getting into the flat to realise – he usually discovered these things before he got to the front door.

'Oh God Sherlock, did you leave the shower on? The water bill's going to be astronomical!'

Sherlock didn't bother correcting his friend's mistake; he was far too concerned with who was in their flat, and how they had been so clever to cover their tracks that he hadn't noticed them until now. And, more importantly, why were they having a shower? He stepped into the flat pensively, trying to deduce everything he could, and to his extreme surprise and annoyance, failing.

'So I'll just go and turn off the shower too shall I?'

Sherlock, deep in his mind palace, was oblivious to John's question. John, being used to this, stormed off in a huff to the bathroom, to switch off the shower. There was a short pause while John did this, and then some swearing (John's), coming from the bathroom. John walked out, red-faced and slammed the bathroom door.

'Sherlock, why is there a naked woman in our shower?'

'Well if she's having a shower, I'd hardly expect her to be clothed.'

John's face reddened even more.

'You know what I mean.'

'John, I believe we may be host to one of the world's greatest minds. This could be interesting.'

'Well then, what is she doing in our shower?'

'Washing herself, I'd expect. Isn't that what people normally do in showers?'

'Surely she has her own shower for that purpose. And anyway, how do you know she is so 'great'. You haven't even seen her.'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John's face acquired a beetroot tint.

'She managed to break in without leaving any trace-'

'Well apart from that tiny detail about her having a shower…'

Sherlock glared at him.

'I always notice a break in, long before I actually get into the flat. People, unbeknownst to them, leave traces where ever they go, clues. Through the angle of the door handle, scratches around keyholes, scuffs on the floor, I can tell. We're dealing with someone used to covering their tracks, someone very intelligent. She does it without even thinking about it – why bother covering your tracks when you break into someone's flat, and then do something as conspicuous as have a shower? She's our new client, and I believe she's on the run from something.'

John scowled, and went to sit in his chair. Unfortunately, he didn't notice its new occupant …

'Fucking hell!'

John jumped up suddenly. He had just sat on a slightly bedraggled German shepherd dog, which had been sleeping in his chair. It responded to this rude assault by barking aggressively and baring its numerous sharp teeth. Sherlock and John scrambled onto the desk, pressing their backs flat against the wall, while the dog launched itself at their feet.

'So not only are we are playing host to a very clever woman who is currently utilising our shower, but apparently also to her delinquent, rabid dog!'

'I think the dog's rage has something to do with you sitting on it John.'

The bathroom door opened, and a woman emerged from the steamy atmosphere in a fluffy white bathrobe, long dark curls dripping with water. She sauntered confidently into the room, as if she owned the flat herself, her piercing blue eyes taking in the spectacle of the two men pinned against the wall. John noted her pale skin and well defined cheekbones … in fact, she looked strikingly similar to Sherlock. Sherlock remained silent, and just looked stunned.

'WOULD YOU MIND CALLING YOUR BLOODY DOG OFF US?' screamed John.

The woman smirked – John had seen that smirk so many times before, but on the face of his best friend.

'Here Sheba.'

Her voice was quiet, but assertive. The dog instantly obeyed.

'Right, err, thank you,' Said John somewhat awkwardly, jumping down from the desk.

The woman just carried on staring at Sherlock. Sherlock looked genuinely shocked. For once in his life, he was lost for words.

'It's been a long time, brother mine.'

Sherlock's eyes got curiously shiny. If you didn't know him better, you'd say there were tears in his eyes. But Sherlock wasn't one for crying.

'Araminta …'

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