Disclaimer: I do not own anything Sherlock. All rights remain with the proper people. All the characters, except Anne, belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am just a fan.

Chapter 1

Anne Holmes. The unknown sister of Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. That's me. No surprise really. With Mycroft practically being the British government, Sherlock as the one and only consulting detective, and both total geniuses, there was no shock.

I'm never mentioned by them-I just know it. But I prefer it that way.

I get a call once a year, on my birthday, from Mycroft. He says minimum contact from him is for my own safety. Having the job he does, that is understandable. I get nothing from Sherlock; it had been that was for a long time.

But that's to be expected. Sherlock and I never got along. He always said I had too much emotion-that I cared too much. But what does he expect? I am only human, after all. I could never figure out what he is-he has as much emotion as a rock.

Today was an ordinary day – or so I thought.

I was running around my flat, getting ready for work. I was already late when I received a phone call.

I looked at my mobile: Mycroft. Why would he be calling? Today was not my birthday.

I answered.

"Mycroft, hello, this is a surprise. Did you forget the date?" I teased.

"Hello, Anne. I was hoping we could meet sometime today," came the reply.

I hesitated in responding; that was an unusual request.

"Sure, Mycroft. Where would you like to meet?"

"Oh, I'll have someone come by to pick you up. Be ready in half an hour. Don't worry about your job."

Before I could object, he continued, I will arrange for you to have today off. You can go tomorrow instead."

Half an hour later and I found myself in a black car with tinted windows sitting next to a rude-looking woman on her mobile.

"Where are we going?" I asked her.

No response.

Fine. Mycroft could have at least sent someone amiable to pick up his little sister.

Not much later, and the car pulled up to a fancy-looking club.

The woman got out of the car and I followed suit.

"He will be waiting for you in the lobby," she said, not looking up from her device.

I walked in and looked around. Mycroft was across the lobby, staring at a painting.

I strolled up to him, "Mycroft."

He turned around, "Anne, thank you for agreeing to meet with me. Please follow me to a more private room."

I complied and followed him down the hall, up a flight of stairs, and into a room.

After the door shut behind us, I gave Mycroft a hug.

He hesitated for a second before returning the hug. Just a short, gentle hug. But that was Mycroft. He was always a reserved, personal man who preferred minimal physical contact. But he always saved a special hug for me, his favorite, when we were younger.

We separated and sat down on comfy chairs across from each other.

"Mycroft! I haven't seen you-actually seen you-in ages! What do I owe this grace of your presence?"

"Anne, my dear Anne. I'm afraid you wouldn't be seeing me now if it weren't for a rather sorrowful matter," Mycroft said gravely.

"What? What has happened?" I asked, suddenly wary.

"It concerns our dear brother, Sherlock," he said.

"What? Has he gone and finally found himself a problem too difficult to solve? Has his brain imploded because of it?"

"Anne, he's dead. Sherlock is…dead. He died about a week ago."

I suddenly wished I could take back my last comment.

Sherlock, dead? We never got along, but I felt the sting of loss none-the-less. Sherlock, gone. Sure he was a – and I quote – "high functioning sociopath". Sure, he had a sick fascination with murder and crime. But dead? Death was so final. Who would have imagined the great detective, the one who solved so many murder mysteries, would be dead himself.

Sherlock, dead.

Suddenly the world came crashing back; reality shattered back into place.

"I…oh, oh my goodness." I clapped my hands to my mouth. After a moment, I slowly lowered them.

"How did he die? I'm assuming it was in the paper, but I never…" I trailed off into silence.

"I guessed as much. You haven't read the paper in a while. It is one of the reasons I came to you personally. You ought to know," Mycroft paused, and I could tell he was struggling with what he wanted to say next.

"Concerning how he died…you really want to know?" He finally asked.

"Yes. I believe I deserve to know," I said.

"He…commit suicide." Mycroft gave a heavy sigh.

"Sherlock, commit suicide? I though he loved himself too much for that!" I exclaimed before I could stop myself.

"Anne"" Mycroft scolded sternly. "Do not make a joke of this. It is apparent we did not know Sherlock as well as we thought. He was always odd, but now is not the time…"

"Sorry, Mycroft." I felt ashamed. I changed tracks, "Was it all in the paper? Was there an obituary? I stopped reading the paper when Sherlock began making front page news every other day. I felt it was like he was indirectly bragging about his 'brilliance'."

"Ah, but Anne, we both know you bread the blog – not his personal blog, the other one," he gave a wry smile.

"Yes, alright I do. But that is because Sherlock wasn't doing the blogging, his blogger – friend? – was. Or was he an acquaintance? Anyway, if Sherlock was in charge of that blog, no one would read it. It would be a replica of his personal blog – rants on the stupidity of everyone else, and what it must be like in our "funny little heads"."

I paused, "But now he is gone. How are you, Mycroft?"

"Oh, you know life goes on. I will grieve in my own way, as shall you. We are of the Holmes family, after all."

I nodded.

"How is his…blogger?" I hesitated.

"John Watson is coping. I believe he was Sherlock's only friend. Sherlock was his best friend. They were close – as close as Sherlock is emotionally capable of being to someone."

That put a smile on my face. It was short-lived as I asked, "When is the funeral service?"

"In two days. You should be there, Anne."

I thought about it for a moment, then replied, "I will go. But I will keep my distance from everyone else. No one knows who I am – don't give me that look, you know Sherlock never mentioned me, and that way no one will be wondering, "Who is that strange girl?"."

"If that is what you prefer. I will see you again after the service sometime, I suppose."

"Sounds good," I got up, as did Mycroft.

"Do I get a ride back to my flat?" I asked, teasing.

"Of course. Anthea is waiting outside for you. I will see you soon."

"Bye, Mycroft," I said, leaving the room and going back down to the lobby.

Once outside, I was escorted into another black car by that rude woman – Anthea, Mycroft said her name was.

The whole way home I thought about Mycroft's unfortunate news.

It almost seemed surreal. Maybe that was because Sherlock and I were never close. If we had been closer, how differently would this news have affected me?

And John. Poor John. I was bluffing to Mycroft when I pretended to know nothing of John. John did the blog. He gave it humor and a sense of decent humanity.

That was probably why I found him so interesting. He was so opposite Sherlock. It intrigued me that they got along. That Sherlock could find a friend in this man, and yet have no relationship with his own sister. With me.

John was the main reason I followed their blog in the first place.

It hit me that I felt sad for John. While I was confused about my own sorrow over Sherlock's death, there was no doubt John would be hurting the most. I felt sad for John's pain. How interesting.

The car pulled up to my little apartment, and I got out, thanking the driver.

Before going inside, I paused, and turned around.

I walked up to the newspaper stand across the street, and for the first time in a long while, I picked up a newspaper.

I paid for it and trudged slowly back across the street to my place.

Opening the front door, I began to feel a strong numbness creep into my skin and bones.

I shuddered.

I walked up the stairs, through the living room, and into my bedroom.

I sat numbly down on my bed, staring blankly at the cover of the paper.

And, surprising myself, I began to cry over the loss of my brother.