This story is purely a work of fiction, and all rights to the characters belong to their respective creators and inspirations.
Story contains Original Characters not pertaining to Sherlock Holmes novella or lore without romantic connection to any characters of canon origin, nor will they become explicitly involved in intimate relationships with anyone other than other OC's.
The story flips back between John and Sherlock's own separate perspectives, with perhaps one or two OC inserts merely to serve as plot devices to move the story along so it's entertaining for all of us, because Sherlock's a rather hard character to stay in the mind of for an extended period of time - so I hope you enjoy, and stick around to read the other bits as well!
Sherlock – The Fallen Idol
Part 1; A Knock at the Door (J.W.)
"Sherlock? Sherlock, is that you?"
The name rattles in my ears. I haven't heard it spoken in months. Years. Decades, even. And yet even with its absence and sudden reappearance, silencing my breath and halting my thoughts, didn't have me questioning much more than the unfamiliar voice at my door.
"No...Sorry." I whisper back through the wood, my voice far weaker, quieter than it had been in past days. "He doesn't…live here anymore."
"What?" There's barely a moment of hesitation. "Don't be silly. Of course he does. I should know, shouldn't I?"
No, you shouldn't. I think.
"Well, it is my flat, and I think I'd know if He...were still living," I pause. "Here." I add, one broken breath later, my...his unexpected death still hanging in the forefront of my mind, plastered there, meeting my consciousness broken and battered each day since, regardless of how many times Lestrade checks in for advice.
The voice quiets, and is silent for several moments - I half think it gone, but then it rises.
"Do you mind if I come in?" It, not even yet deserving of a name, asks.
"What?" I jolt back sharply, glaring at the familiar wood of my door, past the familiar wood at my door, to the unfamiliar stranger I would much prefer to not be bothered by. "Yes, of course I mind!"
"Oh, good. I can have a bite to eat, then? I'm famished."
I see the door handle shift in place, and reach out in a panic to stop it, forcing my knee to its place, but two damn seconds and it's already too late. The door is open.
A young woman stares in at me, beaming, like she'd just fond someone's lost wallet filled with a bunch of cash. She's extremely young – probably sixteen or eighteen, I've never been good at telling the difference. She's tall, a bit scrawny - all leg and bone. Dark hair; a bit shaggy, but long. But it's her eyes. Her eyes stop me the most. An odd shade of green, like someone I once knew, something out of a dream, or a bloody memory in the rain, face against concrete.
"Which way's the kitchen?" She interrupts my thinking, stepping in before I can even form words with my mouth, before the invisible hand of a sharp, bitter agony I've been forcing myself not to feel around my throat loosens.
She drags a suitcase in behind her – pink, like a case He and I worked on once. She introduces herself, sharply, to the point, a name - a quick mix of letters, and I realize she won't be going anywhere soon…anywhere but upstairs, that is.
"You're American." I point out as she starts to stuff her face with my bread and my jam.
"Yes, well, no, not entirely. I've only been there for a few years. I liked the accent there - no one stared at you as much." She says, swallowing yet another bite of my food. "My uncle's sent me there a few years back, you see. I guess I was trouble for them."
"Your uncles?" I ask, trying to sound interested, just as he would try when I was talking. That is, when he would try, a rare enough occasion for the both of us.
"Yeah. Mycroft and Shirley. You know them." She replies. I stare, then blink.
Mycroft and Sherlock? Uncles?
"No." I say, a grin tugging at my lips, almost haughtily, but I hadn't heard a joke this rich since before...before it happened. I shake my head, still grinning, and giving her a firm look - if she thought she could just barge in here and fake a relation - a relation to him of all things, then she had another bloody thing coming to her. "No. Nope. I'm sorry but Sherlock doesn't have a niece." If I were rude, then at least I could sleep at night, when I could sleep at night, knowing I was right.
She sighs, nonchalant, then takes another bite, nearly returning the look I am sure I gave her first.
"Well it's not exactly something either of them would like mentioning, now, is it? Big scandal and all. Might put a dent in old Mycroft's political career – though dear Shirley did enough of that on his own the past year, don't you think?"
"Then you know that he's dead." I don't even ask, I simply state; an odd familiar tinge of pain ricocheting inside of me. A fracture, bruise retouched. A torment of words.
"Sherlock?" She asks, shrugging, like she doesn't even care. "It appears so, yes, but no."
"Pardon?" I almost laughed. Sherlock? Not dead? That's even more impossible than him having a niece of all things. I'd been there for Christ's sake, I saw it, all of it. I did as he said and this was my payment - what was next?
"Well he is Sherlock Holmes, isn't he?" She shrugged again, stuffing more toasted coated in delicious red preserves into her mouth. "And by the way, that cardigan is absolutely adorable on you. Did your boyfriend pick it out for you?" She asks.
"I - No. I mean, I'm not-"
"Sure you aren't." She snickers, winking in some suggestive way. I scowl, glaring, probably, but she doesn't notice and instead looks around the room.
"Right, so, which bedroom's going to be mine?"
My God.
A call confirmed the truth I never knew, and I was saddled with an overgrown child I never asked the rights to. She had only been staying here two days, and while part of me is sick of her and her sarcastic, annoying little quips, the other part of me is...glad to have company, I suppose. The walls don't seem as bleak, though nothing is as bright as it could have been, could have been if I had just been there sooner. Yet with that...with the company comes loneliness. It's been weeks since I thought of what it could have been, things I never knew I wanted, dreams of another body, nicotine patches, the sound of a violin, and it's that, that feeling I want out of this place. I can disappear in silence, but it's harder to stop breathing with another voice in the room.
"I can't get her out of my house, Myrcoft." I say, disgruntled, to the man at the other end of my mobile. Perhaps a bit more than disgruntled - stressed, burdened with a responsibility I never asked to have, burdened enough without the familiarity.
"I'll send a car over for her tomorrow. I was not aware my dear...niece was in town." Myrcoft said, his words drawling on, emotionlessly, right as you'd expect from the government. Great. Another day of this.
"So she is legitimate, then?" I ask, scratching the back of my head, my eyes fixed on the young girl sitting on my couch biting down on a few biscuits - still my biscuits.
"Well as legitimate as she can be, I suppose. She's entirely illegitimate, but as for being my niece, yes, I'm afraid that part is true."
"I see." I murmur, pausing with a small huff, running my fingers over my lips as I lean back against a countertop, staring at the refrigerator where his experiments used to be kept. "I'm sorry, He never mentioned having-"
"A sister? No, of course, neither of us would have. Nether of us wanted to, either. She was a bit of nuisance, really, Verity. Then she got herself killed."
"And how, erm, did she happen to...?" I asked, though I couldn't help but feel as through I was trespassing upon someone else's territory with my question - which was entirely true, bit given the circumstances...Besides, it's not like Mycroft ever told anyone what they wanted to hear. That was all part of being a Holmes, I suppose, and perhaps I should thank God there aren't many of them - not many of the right ones, at least. That was one of the reasons's he and Mycroft never got along very well. And one of the reasons we didn't get on well now.
"Heroin, I believe, or one of those other narcotics. Sherlock would have been the one to ask about that."
Yes, he would have. He would have been the one to ask about anything.
"Right, well-" I started, but was promptly cut off.
"I'll send the car at three o'clock tomorrow. No sense bothering you with my misfit of a niece."
"Alright."
"Oh, and John?"
"Yes?"
"Let's not mention this to anyone else, alright? It'll just be between us. We wouldn't want word of my…wayward sister getting out to anyone, now, would we?" I could almost hear a smile in his voice, hidden in his words.
"I suppose not." I sigh. Mycroft and his secrets, always getting in the way of productivity, as He once said. In the way of anything decent had been my own choice of words at the time, but now I couldn't help but agree, even if He wasn't here to see it.
"Right. Goodbye, John." Mycroft said, hanging up the phone, repeating the same words that he last said to me. The last words he ever said, to anyone. To me. And there was an ache, the phone hanging silent for a moment, then it went dead, and for a moment I was stuck in a flashback of memories. The way his coat wafted in the wind as he fell, his arms and legs swinging, out of fear, or determination, but I suppose it could've been both. I hoped it'd been neither.
Then all at once I'm back, standing at the flat, my eyes still fixed upon the refrigerator.
"Who was that?" The peppy little feminine voice asks from the living room, and for a moment I don't respond.
"No one." I reply flatly.
"Not a soul I've ever met could ever talk that long to 'no one'. Go on, tell me who it was." She coaxes. I walk to the living room and meet her gaze, a curious one, it is, probing, a bit like his.
"Alright, I was talking to your uncle."
"Shirley?" She asks, all too hopefully. Either she's incredibly stupid, or she thinks that I am. I stare, then shake my head, sighing heavily.
"Myrcoft." I say.
"Oh." She pauses, her face scrunching together as she thinks. Negatively, no doubt. "He's coming to get me, isn't he?"
I nod.
"Tomorrow." Too busy today, I suppose. Always busy, especially when you need him. Not like Him.
"Right." She sighs, nodding as she rises to her feet, brushing off crumbs of food from her shirt as she stares at me. "It's a good thing I won't be going home with him, then."
If she thinks that she's saying, she's absolutely, positively wrong.
"Do you have any more of that jam?"
Two days, and already tomorrow can't come soon enough.
Thanks for reading Chapter 1! Sound's like someone's going to be having a few unwanted adventures here in a bit...
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