Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes-canon anything (that includes original ACDoyle stories, as well as the latest BBC version). Thank you!
Author's Note: Hello to those who have found this story and a warm welcome. I have never published for BBCSherlock, but I figured this story was comprehensible enough. I should also mention that I am American and this has not been... edited to sound English. Is there a term for that? If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask. Either way your feelings fall, I hope you get some kind of entertainment/amusement out of this! - Carie
1. Little Stasi
John hadn't expected a knock at the door. It was 1:45 am on a classic blizzarding mid-November morning. He couldn't help wonder what kind of client would materialize at that hour. Lestrade never bothered to knock.
Another question: Why the hell was John still awake? Surely, that blog entry wasn't that important. Sherlock was, astonishingly, the one fast asleep. The taller man, dressed in his pajamas and red dressing gown, was slumped over the kitchen table – face pressed into some old file papers scattered about the abnormally clean surface.
Shaking the cobwebs out of his head, John stood and reached the door at the second knock. A young woman stood just beyond the threshold bundled in a pea-coat and scarf. A few ebony curls escaped her dark red knit beret. A circular suitcase was held against her leg.
"Hello… um, I apologize for the hour, but is Sherlock Holmes in?" she rushed, iridescent eyes flickering about. "It's urgent, Doctor Watson,"
"Um… one moment," John blinked, leaving the door wide open as he walked toward the kitchen. Sherlock was less than obliging at the prospect of having to wake up, but sprung to life when a faint plucking noise filled the space. John had to get his bearings, and then followed. The woman from before was perched on the window sill, reading Sherlock's sheet music and blithely moving her fingers in time. The detective, apparently at a loss for words, stood a bit away. She paused and glanced up, flashing her winning-est grin.
"The flat's lovely, Sher," her tone was calmer this time around, more comfortable. As if he had been in a trance, Sherlock's limbs stiffened and he swept forward. John was shocked the detective didn't yank the instrument from the woman's fingers. She continued: "And happy birthday, by the way. I know I'm a few months early but - ,"
"Why are you here?" Sherlock demanded.
"Excuse me?"
"In London, Anstice. Why you are in London," The dark-haired man crossed his arms, glowering down at the woman, who was suddenly equally serious. Sighing, she handed the Stradivarius to him, but otherwise didn't move. Instead, she calmly directed her line of sight to Sherlock's.
John couldn't take his silence any longer: "I'm sorry, but who are you?"
The woman turned to the doctor, a small smile pulling her lips.
"I'm his sister," she gestured to Sherlock's imposing form. His hand clutched the neck of his favorite though-provoker like he was fixing to strangle the thing. John quirked an eyebrow. He was sure this was just a delusion brought on by sleep deprivation.
"He doesn't have a sister," John answered, stiff voiced. Her lips parted in a mock-offended gasp. She shrugged, rose and drifted to the mantelpiece. Eyes swept over the clutter, landing on the skull. Picking it up and weighing it in her palms, Anstice whipped back around.
"I can't believe you still have this old thing…" she murmured, nose curling. Shaking it a bit, the hidden packet of cigarettes plummeted to the carpet. Stooping to retrieve it, Anstice rattled the carton, jumping back defensively as Sherlock lunged. The detective caught himself, a quick self-evaluation, and resumed his prim posture.
"You didn't answer my question,"
"I didn't,"
"Does Mycroft know?"
"Of course not. Mum, however…"
John watched in amazement as the siblings exchanged four-word cryptic sentences. The exhaustion was really getting to him by now. His hands were keeping him upright by gripping his armchair. He didn't notice Sherlock pocket the smokes or Anstice sauntering about the living room. The doctor jumped when her hand dropped onto his shoulder.
"Go to bed, Dr. Watson," Anstice smiled. John blinked, taking in her features. The woman had a rounder face, but still endowed with striking features: dark blue eyes that possessed the same chill-inducing silver sheen as her brother's; cheeks flushed pink from the cold; a dainty mouth that seemed a little small for her face; thick eyelashes that matched her dark hair that twisted in corkscrews.
"One question first," John sighed. Anstice nodded. "His birthday is when?"
"January 6th; he's 28 now," She answered. Sherlock huffed. "We're two years apart – for the record,"
"Thank you," the doctor mumbled, shooting Sherlock a half-warning looking. With a little nod to the younger Holmes, the doctor left for his room wondering what had just occurred.
"Sherlock…" The woman glanced at her brother. He had set down the violin and dropped in to the black armchair. She'd turned off the desk lamp, giving the room and eerie layout in the grey light.
"Yes, Stasi,"
"You've gathered why I'm here?"
"Some kind of secret operation that I'm technically not allowed to know you're involved in or what it's about…" He paused. "At Mycroft's behest or otherwise?"
Anstice settled herself onto the floor in front of him. "The former… I'm getting paid like it's a private request, though. Which is odd because it's international… I'm sure you're familiar with the name Moriarty?"
"Vaguely… why did you take it?"
"An excuse to come back to England… Marrakesh isn't my cup of tea," Without another word, Sherlock held out his hand. Anstice raised an eyebrow for a moment before realizing what he was after. Slowly, she extracted her passport from her coat pocket and placed it in his open palm. The man flipped through it for a minute, then strode over to the mantle to discard it. Anstice made no move to retrieve it. She always remembered to banish all questions around her closest sibling. First, questions irritated him and an irritated Sherlock was less than desirable. Second, the man's logic was a collection of anfractuosities; multiple labyrinths of hairpin turns and gaping trenches in the pursuit of alethiology.
Either way, Sherlock had his own motivations and even little Stasi knew better than to inflict baby-of-the-family sway.
"I take it you need someplace to stay," Sherlock drawled. The only eye contact made was kept through the mirror suspended over the fireplace.
"Only until my temporary flat is cleared… probably two weeks at most," Anstice shrugged. "I wasn't supposed to fly up for another week or so, but I thought I'd pop by… maybe see mum -,"
"Stasi, stop explaining. You know how little I care," the woman shut her mouth. The detective strode back to where she sat, flicking the bow about – several times "accidentally" hitting her. "We'll speak to Mrs. Hudson in the morning. I have no need to sleep now, so you can take my room for the night,"
Sherlock took a breath and letting gravity take his weight, pulling him back into the armchair. Anstice nodded, giving him a grateful smile. She made to stand, but was yanked forward by the detective's hand on her coat sleeve. A curious stare was exchanged.
"And Stasi," Sherlock continued. "Don't touch my violin without express permission," At this the young woman rolled her eyes – she didn't play the violin, so why would she unless it was necessary? Pulling her arm away, Anstice exhaled before bending forward to place a kiss on his cheek.
"See you in the morning, Sher,"
Needless to say, the good doctor Watson was indeed surprised to see the young woman and Sherlock kneeling on the floor the next morning. The pair were pouring over sheet music fanned out before them. There were at least six separate pieces displayed in the bunch – obviously they'd been up a while. John slipped into the kitchen unnoticed as the two bickered.
"No, no, no. The diminuendo starts here – back on the A," Anstice declared, jabbing her finger at a sheet – random to John's eyes – for emphasis. "Honestly, it's like you haven't played this in fifteen years!"
"I haven't," Sherlock answered simply, earning himself a harsh glare from his sister.
"Then the sentiment hasn't changed," she began quickly, gathering the papers in a neat bundle. " 'For Ana' hardly seems creative on your part, Sher," The man bristled and Anstice stood, hopping across the carpet and placing the stack on the music stand. She danced towards the kitchen. "But, I guess an apology is still an apology even if it was fifteen years ago and I'm no longer drenched in the paint that enticed it… You were so sweet when we were little , Sherlock,"
"I was not," said Sherlock through gritted teeth, making a swipe at the woman's house coat. She just laughed, leaping from his grasp.
"You were very sweet; always doting on mummy and me… What happened?" She teased, ducking behind the kitchen divider for cover in case of retaliation. Spinning around to press her back to the glass, Anstice only then noticed John casually observing from the far counter.
"Morning, Watson," She smirked. John nodded, hesitantly sipping his still-steaming coffee. After a few seconds, a melody rose up then faded back. It was clear and simple, an astonishing lack of artistry for the self proclaimed show off. John watched as Anstice's expression neutralized and as she peered around the divider, like a little girl scouting out monsters in her closet. There was something vaguely endearing about it.
"That sounds right," said she.
"To your memory, Stasi, which hasn't improved much over the years," came the dull-toned reply. As caffeine flooded his system, John finally started taking mental notes. The young woman was clad in wide-legged sleep pants that her willowy frame practically drowned in – same for the grey shirt she wore. John also started picking up on a slight Scottish accent woven amongst the words that he'd failed to notice the night before.
"Just because it's not written down doesn't mean it's not real," Anstice sounded bored, exasperated.
"If you don't have it recorded, you don't have proof. I win," Sherlock countered sharply. The conversation dwindled as the woman strode to the coffee maker. She chewed her lip, apparently lost. John smiled warmly, pulling down two mugs from their shelf and handed them to her. Anstice filled both and granted the doctor a grateful smile before carrying them into the next room.
"Perk up, Sher," John heard her mutter as he collected the newspaper, then settled into the red armchair. It seemed that neither Holmes sibling had much of an affinity for sitting down. Anstice settled her drifting body faster than her brother, standing on the window sill and gazing out into the street below. Suddenly, the woman jumped from her position.
"So, you're a detective now?" Anstice fingered the papers taped around the wall with meters of green string connecting some of the collection. It appeared that veritable scrap books pinned on walls was nothing extraordinary to her. "I heard about this one! The Chinese smugglers and the ridiculously priced jade hairpin! You solved that?"
An astonished glance was directed at the man standing by the window. Wordlessly, he popped open his laptop and pulled up a blog page. Anstice stepped over and bent towards the screen, reading the article intently. Her face shifted multiple times over the course of the few minutes, illuminated by the screen. She nodded, then leaned back and closed down the browser.
"The poor woman," She gasped, eyes flickering between the two men. The dark blue irises settled John. "I take it not much has become of that relationship?"
John's expression tightened. "Not at the moment, no,"
"That's a shame," Anstice frowned. "This Sarah sounds sweet; you should try again,"
"And what merit do you have for doling out romantic advice?" Sherlock chimed in, raising his eyebrows as he took a swallow of coffee. Anstice sighed, making her way over to the sofa. She crossed her legs on the cushions, the over-long hem of her pants bunching up under her ankles. Her hair was falling out of the loose knot she's tucked it into. Silence descended on the trio until the sound of the front door shutting echoed up.
"Weren't you going to speak to Mrs. Hudson this morning?" Anstice muttered a few minutes later. Sherlock rolled his eyes, parading into the kitchen.
"If you're staying here, Stasi, you need to make your own arrangements,"
"Can I at least get dressed first?"
"And why would you have to ask me in order to perform the task?"
"My suitcase is in your room,"
"Go on then," Taking the coffee with her, Anstice let her fingers brush over John's hair as she passed. The doctor watched her go, smirking as her fingers lifted a glass stirrer from the kitchen table. He was sure the action wasn't lost on the detective, but John waited for a reaction rather than mention it – prolong any sort of verbal abuse for the day. Instead:
"John, for your sanity's sake, I strongly suggest your opinion of my sister never strays from 'platonic'," said Sherlock in a dry tone after his bedroom door clicked shut. The doctor blinked, taken back, but returned to the Guardian without further commentary. In a kind of spite, however, John gave the young woman an appreciative once-over as she rushed from the flat.