The Missing Holmes Girl

18th February 1996

A/N Just a thought that came to me a few days ago. Took me a while to post it. It's my fisrt ever published work online :) Be nice...

Cecelia Holmes was sitting on the worn leather sofa next to the fire, he golden hair turning into flames as the orange glow cast upon her, as if she was on fire, like fireflies had descended on her head and made home there. And her velvet emerald dress hem was trailing from the sofa to the floor, if someone walked in, they most likely would think that they'd walked into a late 19th Century film set. Her two older brothers were both reading books; one was sprawled out on the rug between the sofa and the fire, his shirt was messing and not fully tucked in and the creases from the day were starting to show; while the other was sat smartly in a leather chair. Her, herself was writing a play for her family to watch when her and her friends act it out on the front lawn in the summer. As she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear she looked at her brothers and wished that they got on more. They were always bickering and she hated to think that one day they would probably be protective over her when she bought a boyfriend home. She had to smile at the thought.

"What are you writing Cee? You're next masterpiece at only 14," her brother said, jokingly, pulling his mind from an Agatha Christie book and putting it open of the rug he was lying on.

"The play for this summer, I told you that yesterday, I know you don't forget things like that," Cecelia smiled, amused at her brother's ignorance, the other brother, who was sitting in the leather armchair for one, smiled and looked over his book and winked at his sister in approval "honestly Sherlock, I know you well enough to know that you have a great mind, don't try to make out your stupid," Cecelia let out one breathy laugh.

Sherlock smiled and stared into the fire and Cecelia saw his ice blue eyes burn, not with hate of humiliation, just pride that his sister was following in his footsteps. Another clever offspring for the Holmes family to put on the family tree, Cecelia tilted her head to the side

"How's the book?" she said, knowing the answer was going to be witty or just one word, she knew her brother well enough to know that he either made a show or just summed it up in one word.

"Rubbish," he replied, snapping the book shut; his brother scoffed from behind him

"Only because it's too complicated for you Sherlock," Mycroft said softly, his eyes never leaving the book in front of him "would you prefer a baby book, I'm sure there's one upstairs,"

Sherlock's head snapped round to his brother "You think it's funny Mycroft? That some books are too easy to guess the plot within 30 seconds for someone like me?" he said "why aren't you scoffing a cake downstairs in the kitchen, they're not all mysteriously missing at the moment?" he added, fuming, the jibe comment calming him down slightly.

Mycroft's book landed on Sherlock's head within a split second of the comment being made, followed by a howl of rage from Sherlock's lips and his form picking the book up from the floor and leaping on to his brother, repeatedly rapping it around the older boys head.

Cecelia was up with in seconds and tearing the wild, ferocious, dark haired brother from the one in the chair, who was looking shocked and was sporting a cut lip which was producing a bead of crimson rapidly.

"Enough!" she screamed as pushed her brother away from his older sibling "Sherlock! You should know better than provoke him! You know that you're not a child and you can't get away with things like that!"

Even though she was smaller than her brothers she had an overwhelming amount of power over both of them. Her 16 year old brother smirked at Mycroft evilly.

"This isn't over," he said before he left the library with a stony face for his sister.

"I never doubted it," Mycroft replied loudly back, dabbing the cut on his lip with his handkerchief as he heard his brothers' bedroom door slam loudly in reply.

Cecelia walked over to her brother, who was still sat down in the leather chair.

"Why provoke him like that?" she questioned her 20 year old brother who tutted impatiently while she shook her head in disgust "you know what he's going through at the moment, it's not easy being like him, you know that, and the idea you torment him about it is awful!"

Mycroft looked at his sister and looked at the fire uncomfortably, she was the one person he couldn't lie to, she knew him well enough to know when he wasn't telling the truth and there was something in her eyes that warned him not to even think of trying to deceive her.

"I'm his brother, why shouldn't I?" he said looking back at her "he deserved it anyway," he rolled his eyes as he thought of the jibe he'd made "he knows well enough not to talk about things like that, I wouldn't talk about his problem so publically,"

"Publically?" Cecelia shrieked in dismay, her hands reaching for the sky "we're family!"

Mycroft sighed loudly and got up from his chair, his height overwhelming her, as he was a full head or so above her, he looked down at his sister and straightened his suit jacket.

"I'll talk to him about it, I doubt he'll listen but I'll try, okay?" he asked softly

"I know he won't listen," she replied "but if you tell him then he has no excuse to say things like that and next time I'll be the one firing the book at his head,"

Mycroft sniggered at his sister's logic and cleverness, a smile of pride lingering on his lips.

"I'll see you tomorrow Mycroft," she said gently, completely different to a few seconds previous "make sure you get a good night sleep," she added with a soft smile.

Mycroft left the room with his book he was reading in his right hand and his pocket watch in his left as he glanced at it.

"Not too late Cee," he said in the doorway, tapping his pocket watch "Mother and Father will be home from tea soon and I know that they'll be rather worse for ware and I think it'd be better to be out of their eye line when they get home, especially when the alcohol they drink at the loathsome pub tastes like vinegar," he added sadly "I doubt they'll get upstairs if they turn up in the same state as last Saturday,"

Cecelia nodded and looked at Mycroft sympathetically.

"Of course," she said, smiling and turning back to the hearth where the fire was dying down and the embers were glowing dangerously, she picked up the play from the floor along with the discarded pen that had been strewn down in the panic of the brother's violence, once she stood upright she turned to the sofa and set them on the arm and then sat down and carried on writing, not noticing the time, she kept writing until a loud bang sounded from behind her, followed by a shrill shriek of captivated glee.

Cecelia jumped and looked at the time, it was half past midnight. She should have gone to her room by now.

Another loud outcry of laughter, drunken laughter, made Cecelia's skin crawl in fear, both her parents were drunk, that was dangerous. Cecelia looked at the red shards in the fire as the embers died down completely, one by one the red beads lost their florescence.

Two silhouettes appeared in the doorway, her mother and father, both drunk to kingdom come, swaggering in they both held onto wine bottles, both bottles were almost empty and as her mother came towards her the bitter smell of the alcohol drifted over her like a wave of water, Cecelia wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"What are you doing?" her father bellowed at her "what face is that?" he stuck his hand that wasn't holding the wine bottle and held her chin in front of his face, his stale breath wafting across at her, she tried not to look disgusted but unfortunately her father knew better and saw the look of contempt on her face. For that she earned herself a hard rap around the face with her father's hand. A few seconds after tears threatened to spill but she held them back, willing for her father to let her go to bed. Her parent's idly walked over to one another and her mother slung her arms around his neck and they pulled each other into a drunken kiss. Cecelia looked away in disgust and turned back towards the fire. A sound as if a plunger had been pulled from a toilet followed and the next thing Cecelia knew she had been struck round the head by a hand.

Once awoken, only but a few seconds later, slightly dizzy and confused Cecelia looked around. Her father was standing over her; her mother was passed out on the sofa, her face crumpled against the arm of the sofa. Returning her gaze to her father a rush of adrenaline waved over her like a bucket of cold water, his face looked livid.

He was more than drunk now. He was delirious.

"Do you think you're clever?" he said, his face crumpled up in detest

"Father-" Cecelia started but was cut off by a kick to the stomach, coughing, in pain; her body shook as she could take it no more, she willed herself to make as little noise as possible. She just wanted this all over.

"DON'T 'FATHER' ME!" her father yelled at her, not caring for the boys upstairs who were probably safer not knowing what was going on. For this she received another kick, to which she tucked her legs in and tried to tuck them under her chin but her legs were too short and she settled for them protecting her chest.

"You're drunk," she persisted, sobbing as tears leaked down her face and stained the expensive crimson carpet black. Her jeans were warm but they made no difference that the ice her father was beating into her. Eventually he stopped but did something far worse; he grabbed the wine bottle from the table beside the sofa and drank the dregs.

Cecelia could see what was about to happen, she pushed her palms into the floor behind her and pushed herself up, even though she knew couldn't get away.

Her father lifted the glass bottle above his head, a few drops of purpley-crimson dropped onto her face and as the green bottle hurtled towards her head she let out the most primal scream she could muster. Then all the warm glow of the library disappeared and was replaced by ebony darkness and silence. Cecelia Holmes had been brutally killed by her father who'd been heavily drunk while her mother was passed out on the sofa and her two older brothers slept soundly above her.

5 minutes previous

Sherlock was in his room, the door was open just a crack, enough to let a sliver of light enter his room. He sighed as he cursed his body for awakening him. For some reason he felt the need to go downstairs but dismissed the thought and considered it irrational. He turned over and closed his eyes.

Then he heard his sister's last scream.

His legs swung quickly out of his bed and he tore out of his bedroom, grabbing his blue silk dressing gown as he swept from his room, pulling it around him as he reached the top of the stairs.

5 minutes previously

Mycroft softly bubbled to the surface of consciousness, his eyes slowly opening and seeing the time. Half past midnight, he sighed and turned the light on next to his bed; he walked into his on suite and filled a glass with water, ice cold from the tap. He drank ¾ of the contents and poured the rest down the sink before softly padding back to bed where his warm sheets lay, just as he let them, he could hear shouting downstairs and he realised he never heard his sister come upstairs, he rushed from his room and was halfway down the staircase when a almighty howl of pain came from the library. Mycroft Holmes's blood ran as cold as the water he'd ran from the tap only seconds before.

Behind him a soft rippling sound could be heard as he realised his brother was closely in tow behind him. The made it to the library in time to see their father standing over a body, a young girl's body, their sister's body.

Sherlock let out a scream and ran to his sisters side, grabbing her head and shaking it from side to side, it achieved nothing but only drenching him in his sister's blood, it seeped into his silk kimono and as he tried to re-awaken his sister from the sleepy depths of death his brother appeared next to him, trying to do the same, trying to save his sister, but it was too late. She was most definitely dead. Her blood slowly dripping down from the gash in her head and merging with the carpet tainting it slightly darker, Mycroft pulled up her limp arm and checked for a pulse, nothing, tears cascaded down both his and his brothers face.

Pushing the hair from his face Sherlock knew he had wiped warm blood across his forehead.

Both brothers looked behind them at the same time to see their father passed out on the rug next to the dead fire, his hand clutching a cigarette that was closing in on burning his fingers. Neither of the boys moved the lit cigarette and knew that if it burned him it was only a small fraction on what he'd done to their sibling. Their eyes both mingled with hate Mycroft walked over to the phone and called 999.

"What service?" the operator asked

"Police, please, and an ambulance please, although I fear she's already gone," he choked at the end, trying to sound calm as he watched him brother weep over the form of their sister

"Okay, address?" the woman replied

"The Holmes's Estate," he said, impatience seeping into his voice

"Chichester?" the woman verified, they had a record of emergency service call out

"Yes, and hurry," Mycroft seethed into the phone before slamming down onto the stand.

He swiftly moved back to his brother, even though he didn't know what to do, he gently pulled Sherlock off the colding body that no longer housed the caring soul the brothers were so used. Sherlock was a huddled mess and as he cradled into his brothers arms and cried he knew what he wasn't going to do. He knew that without his sister there was no-one to stop the fighting and the bickering and the constant loss of humanity between the brothers. He knew that this would probably be the last time that he'd cry like this because sooner than later his humanity would up and leave if life was going to be this painful and Sherlock was sure he couldn't bare it….so he wept for the last time until the hospital paramedics rapped at the door, closely followed by the police who took away their father, who was only just coming round. Both brothers glared at their father in the most malevolence they could muster. They no longer hated their father; they both agreed that he didn't deserve to live. After what he put their mother through, an affair, Sherlock had found out when he was 12 and decided to tell the whole family at dinner, that really destroyed the atmosphere, and the family, from then on.

Police swarmed the house and took finger prints and took the bottle that had killed their sister and the paramedics told the boys that there was no hope at all of saving Cecelia, but both boys knew that already and only Mycroft cried now, each tear being wiped away as soon as it made its presence known on the older boys face. Sherlock on the other hand was not crying; he was trying to push down his emotion because that made him weak, right? Showing emotion made you weak. So Sherlock thought and he enforced himself with that opinion for the rest of his life, not knowing how many people he had missed the hint and not created a real relationship with and how he'd hurt them and, unknowingly, hurt himself by isolating himself from the rest of the world, never learning about how people even got into relationships.

Slowly the time scale from their sister's death increased, seconds, minutes, hours, days, then weeks and soon years had passed and the family never talked about it, never kept photographs out and their father was put in jail until he died in 2006 of natural causes. Sherlock never visited him, neither did Mycroft, they both put him behind him and carried on with their life, as if in a story where the author blots out the worst parts and replaces them with better except that didn't happen, in Sherlock's mind blank spots regularly occurred and he thought nothing of it, not wanting to dig up his sister's grave in his mind, along with the emotions he encased with her at the funeral.

14 Years later…

Two men are in a cemetery. It's twilight, and the light above them is slowly disappearing. Pink and red, blue and white are mixed in the sky, twirling like a ballet show, twisting and twirling and pirouetting into nothing. The two men make their way to the older part of the graveyard, the one man was slightly taller than the other, his jet black hair, set with natural curls was slightly moving in the autumn air, his long coat slightly flapping at the hem, missing the littering of leaves on the gravel pathway. The other man, his hair pulled back on itself, smartly, not that he had short hair but it didn't look long at all, just neat. His suit jacket blew on the wind just like his younger siblings coat, for 5 minutes they walked before they stopped at a turning, walking down past old graves and new ones, the older brother took a deep breath and the younger simply sighed in disgust. He didn't want to die, not because he was afraid but because he couldn't bear an afterlife with no thrill, no crime, no work….

Both men turned when a particular grave was to the side of them, the older man held his suit jacket at the lapel and reached in to his inner pocket on the inside of his jacket and pulled out a white rose, its petals tainted at the end with ruby red, a specialized rose, made for his sister especially. He crouched down next to the grave and whispered a few words as the other man took a few paces back, for the only time he respected his brothers' personal space was when they were visiting their sister. After he was finished speaking he laid the rose down on the neat grass patch in front of him by the headstone.

The older man took a few steps back and the younger man approached the headstone, again, reaching into his inner pocket he pulled out an iris, almost black in colour, but it shone navy blue as the coat the man wore, the yellow on the inside almost florescent in colour in the dying light of the day. After saying three words he stood up and his brother joined him and they looked at the gravestone. In silence they thought about the person underneath them. The younger man spoke out of the two.

"Happy Birthday Cee," he said quietly

Mycroft Holmes stepped forward once and laid his hand on his brothers' shoulder, and nodded in agreement. Neither one of them spoke as they left the graveyard, midnight blue seeping into the sky rapidly, sending the night to rid the past day.

As the soft lid air blew the flowers petals, making them shiver, their faces stared up at the gravestone. It read:

Cecelia Amalie Holmes

Born: September 17th 1982

Died: February 18th 1996

(Across the rounded part of the headstone was engraved :)

'To live in the hearts of those we love is never to die'