Sister of Mine.

oOo

I am an amateur author of false name,

I borrow worlds of another's fame.

I stake no claim on recognised locations,

Neither do I own canon situations.

I merely come here to spend a while,

Reading other's work; writing my own style.

I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.

I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.

I do not mean to step on legal toes,

I mean no infringement, I'm friend not foe.

So please, do come in, relax, unwind.

I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find.

oOo

Author's note:

In 'The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes' there is a short story titled 'The Adventure of the Copper Beeches'. Now, I don't want to spoil the book for anyone who is inspired to read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's work, and hasn't already done so… but, at a point in this story, Holmes comments to the female character (Violet Hunter): "I confess that it is not the situation which I should like to see a sister of mine apply for."… and it got me thinking… What if there was another Holmes sibling, a female sibling. Turns out that quite a few people have also wondered weather there was a sister, so I hope my plot is a different take on the concept.

So, as far as I am aware, Thalia Juliet Holmes is my own creation. and she's named after my favourite variety of Fuchsia. (My Mum, a Fuchsia lover, has a Thalia growing on her windowsill at the moment!) Seriously, have a look at a few pikkies of the plant on the net if you get a minute, its a rather pretty little thing… It also just so happens the Ancient Greeks were rather fond of the name too - well, before it was Latinised, anyway. 'Thaleia' was one of the nine Muses, one of the three Graces, a Nereid (that particular Thaleia was Achilles's Mother), and a Nymph (who was also the demi-goddess of plant life and vegitation). Now, I could have made myself look all clever by saying I named my OFC after all those ancient Greek deities - but at least I was honest enough to admit to naming her after a plant… and I'm going off on quite a tangent at the moment… must focus again on the fic…

This was actually the second chapter to be written, because another chapter later on DEMANDED my attention first. As far as timeline goes, it is set after the second episode, but before the third.

So, to bring this (rather long) A/N to an end: I really enjoyed writing this fic, and I hope that you enjoy reading it.

oOo

Blissfully Ignorant.

Sherlock was roused from his typically light sleep by the beeping of his mobile alerting him to a text message. A glance at the screen told him that the time was 01:23. Had Sherlock been like everyone else, he might have smiled just a little at the '0,1,2,3' of the time; however, the time had no bearing on the context of a text message. The world's only Consulting Detective did not smile at such stupid things, such things didn't interest him.

The text was from Mycroft. Now that interested him.

Mycroft hated texting, much preferring to actually speak to a person, rather than send typed words. The oldest Holmes sibling especially loathed the butchered English language that texters tapped away fluently, not to mention the apparent abuse of punctuation to make smiley faces. Therefore, Mycroft texting anyone was a feat in itself; texting Sherlock was practically unheard of (unless both Sherlock and John were ignoring his calls, or due to dental issues); and texting at this time of night was extremely out of character - Mycroft liked to get at least eight hours of sleep every night.

Wake Dr. Watson. Coming to 221B. ETA 20 minutes. Strip your bed and put clean sheets on it.

MH.

"Very interesting." Sherlock mused aloud, climbing out of his bed. Apparently Mycroft was injured, heading this way, and required a bed for the night. Odd.

Very odd.

There was no point in replying to the text, so Sherlock half-tucked the phone into the drawstring waistband of his pyjama bottoms (for a lack of somewhere else to put it); and pulled on his silky dressing gown before leaving the room and climbing the pitch-black stairs to John's room in silence.

"I'm missing something about this, think, think, think." Sherlock mumbled, continuing to wrack his brain as he flicked John's bedroom light on, watching as the ex-soldier literally leapt out of his neatly made bed and stood to attention next to it in nothing but a pair of boxers and a thread-bare t-shirt. After a second of realising where he was, John winced and rubbed his shoulder through the t-shirt, glaring at Sherlock.

"What. The. Bloody. Hell. Do. You. Think. You. Are. Bloody. Doing. You. Bloody. Muppet." he hissed.

"Most people say good morning." Sherlock said, cheerily.

"Most people don't go from sleeping peacefully to being woken up by having all the lights switched on!" John's stance relaxed and he quickly re-made his bed before sitting down on it.

"Mycroft will be here in around twenty minutes. I have no idea how long his text took to write or to send and be received by myself, so there is very likely even less time to spare. He is specifically asking for 'Dr. Watson'." Sherlock said, turning and leaving the room.

"And of all the doctors in London, he has to have you wake me up?" John questioned, yawning widely while reaching under his bed for his warmest socks, he glanced at his watch on the bedside table. "Oh, for crying out loud, its barely gone half-one in the morning!"

The doctor sighed, stood and retrieved his medical bag from the dresser opposite his bed. Most of the bag's contents had been a 'congratulations on your new job' from Sherlock, upon him being appointed a permanent full-time position at the GP surgery. Though, as he ran a mental check-list of what he might need to treat Mycroft, John strongly suspected that Sherlock had only bought him the kit and the bag so he could pilfer the equipment to use in his experiments.

"Mycroft trusts you, John, which is more than can be said for almost everyone else. He holds you and your skills in high regard. Stop thinking and hurry up!" Sherlock called from down the stairs.

"I guess that compliment almost makes it okay to wake me up from some of the best sleep I've had in ages!" John yawned again, deciding that Mycroft would have to put up with seeing a doctor wearing baggy jeans and an extremely comfy, old, threadbare army t-shirt under a baggy jumper, he wasn't getting dressed up at this time in the morning.

"I've put the kettle on for you. You'll no doubt require caffeine." Sherlock shouted up the stairs.

"For God's sake, don't put anything granulated in any mug!" John cried, remembering the gravy-granules-instead-of-coffee-mix-up that had caused poor Mrs. Hudson to violently vomit in their lounge. After stretching his leg and shoulder quickly, the doctor dashed down the stairs to make coffee before Sherlock could.

"It was an honest mistake! And they were in practically the same container! That dreadful cold we both had meant neither of us could smell my error! I like Mrs. Hudson, I wouldn't do that to her on purpose! I didn't intend to make her a mug of gravy with milk and two sweeteners!" Sherlock said with a sulk. He paused, looking out of the kitchen window, suddenly he waved cheerily to someone across the street.

"Who's that you're waving at?" John asked, making two cups of coffee (with coffee granules), and cooling his own with cold water so he could drink it straight away. John began to tidy up, the kitchen would have to make do as a make-shift consulting room. He quickly wiped down the kitchen table with disinfectant and set his bag onto it in readiness before draining his mug and washing his hands thoroughly in preparation. He dried his hands on kitchen paper, rather than the towel, following the drying with a squirt of alcohol hand rub.

"I'm waving at whoever Mycroft has watching us this week. He's obviously very agitated, oh, and recently divorced." Sherlock said, pulling a small pair of binoculars from the knife-and-forks drawer to get a better look at their voyeur. "He's living back at his parents house - yes, obvious from the folds in his shirt. Divorced less than three months. It wasn't his decision, and I suspect his ex-wife has already moved in with her lover."

"Watching us? Not just you then? I thought you just said he trusts me?" John replied, not bothering to comment on Sherlock's observations of this member of Mycroft's surveillance team.

"Oh, Mycroft trusts you, but it doesn't prevent him from keeping an eye on you. He's had people watching me for years… I used to play chess against one of his little watchmen, until Mycroft found out - I haven't seen Brian since."

"That seems harsh." John replied.

"I know! And I was only one move away from checkmate too! It had been such a challenging game, it had lasted weeks!" Sherlock complained, replacing the binoculars in the drawer.

"That's not quite what I meant, Sherlock." John said, shaking his head.

"Drink up, Doctor, there's a large black car with blacked-out windows approaching at forty-three miles per hour in a thirty-zone; and it is parking on double yellow lines. Mycroft's here." Sherlock turned his back to the window, as if disinterested.

"There's someone with him. A woman. Mycroft's helping her our of the car. I don't think its 'Anthea' - or whatever her name really is. Too young to be her."

"What?" Sherlock breathed, turning quickly back to the window, his face drained of colour, "Oh God. Thalia." He ran from the kitchen in the direction of the front door. John followed, watching as Sherlock dashed out into the street to support the woman from her other side; she screamed in pain as he touched her.

"Sherlock! Let go of her arm! You're hurting her! Let's just get her inside! You carry the blanket, its hindering her at the moment." Mycroft snapped, helping the badly limping young woman across the road. Sherlock hovered around them, clinging to the pale blue fleece blanket with a white-knuckled grip.

"What happened?" John asked as soon as the door was closed, working seamlessly with Mycroft to carefully get the young woman into 221B as quickly as they could.

"I heard a scream, is everything… oh goodness! What happened to you, Dearie?" Mrs. Hudson gasped, pulling her dressing gown tight around her as she moved closer to the trembling woman supported between Mycroft and John. Bruises were already darkening the left side of the young woman's face, a small trickle of blood ran from her temple to the collar of her pyjamas.

"People. In the flat. Thieves. Dragged me out of bed and pushed me down the stairs when they realised I was at home." she replied in a croak; she was struggling to breathe, and John needed to see if it was from her injuries, or due to her bravely attempting not to burst into sobs. He could already tell from the way she walked that her left shoulder and back pained her greatly. Her left ankle peaked out from beneath her flannel pyjamas, and had already been strapped up with a bandage.

"Mrs. Hudson, I don't mean to be rude, but I need to get her inside and have a look at her." John prompted, gently pushing the landlady out of their way as he moved past.

"Oh goodness! Of course! I'm getting in the way, aren't I? Just let me know if you need anything. You poor mite, I'll be up in a bit with some sandwiches for you all - but only because this young lady is hurt - I'm your Landlady, not your Housekeeper." the older woman called, dashing back into her own residence. Mycroft and John continued to slowly help the injured woman up the seventeen stairs into the flat. Sherlock had already dashed past them, and was waiting at the top, twitching and fidgeting with nervous energy.

"Its okay, shhh, its alright, you're safe here." Mycroft soothed, gently ushering her into the kitchen at John's prompt, settling her into a dining chair. Sherlock draped the blanket carefully over her.

"You're going to be fine. John is an excellent doctor, he's patched me up on several occasions." Sherlock said quietly, crouching down by the chair and taking her left hand in his, smoothing his thumb over the back of her knuckles.

"I'm John Watson, I'm a doctor." John introduced himself, pausing as she nodded slightly in reply. "First of all, I need to know your name, how old you are, if you are allergic to anything and if there are any pre-existing medical conditions that I need to know about."

"Thalia Juliet Holmes; twenty-one; allergic to penicillin. No other ailments." Sherlock and Mycroft said in stereo.

"Okay, I wasn't actually talking to you two… Thalia, do you want them in the room while I examine you? Its entirely up to you." John asked, she took a deep breath before shaking her head slowly.

"Mycroft, Sherlock - wait outside, please." She gasped. Both Sherlock and Mycroft looked ready to argue with her.

"Right. Both of you. Out. We'll call if we need you." John said quickly shooing the brothers from the kitchen and closing the kitchen door quietly.

"I presume that the people who did this are in custody?" Sherlock said, his voice menacing. He walked to the mantelpiece, opened a little wooden box and peeled the backing from the two nicotine patches he'd taken out of it, slapping them onto his arm.

"Oh yes, and they definitely won't consider turning to crime again…" Mycroft said, his voice harsh. He suddenly deflated, sinking heavily onto the sofa, dropping his head into his hands for a moment. Sherlock joined him on the sofa, taking in his brother's appearance.

"Mycroft, is the Ministry of Defence aware that you borrowed a helicopter and its crew to transport our baby sister from Cambridge to London?" Sherlock asked, quite conversationally.

The older brother smiled softly, "I did wonder how long it would take for you to deduce that… Well, they do say that 'ignorance is bliss', well, thank goodness that many people remain blissfully ignorant of what I'm capable of." There was a pause, and both brothers turned to the kitchen at the soft cry of pain, listening as John said soothing words and promised that the painkillers would kick in shortly.

"At this time on a Saturday night, you had no chance of being seen at an Accident and Emergency Department within a reasonable time limit. Too many people choking on their own vomit, and other alcohol-related maladies. Not to mention the private hospital you are registered with isn't open to emergencies. I agree that bringing her to Baker Street and John was the best thing to do... I presume, from the passport in your top pocket, that you will be out of the country tomorrow?" Sherlock said, casually taking the passport and plane ticket out of Mycroft's pocket.

"As you can see, I need to be at the airport in two hours, I won't be back for five days. I just can't cancel this trip, and believe me - I've got my PA futilely attempting to do just that as we speak… Sherlock, Thalia will need both of you to take care of her until I get back, depending on how bad her injuries are." Mycroft said softly.

"Yes. We'll look after her. Excuse me, I need to change the sheets on my bed, and perhaps make the bed easier to access, most of my papers have ended up around it." Sherlock said, quickly leaving the room.

"At least you'll tidy and change the sheets for Thalia, even if we both know that you wouldn't have done so for me." Mycroft mused, taking a deep breath and leaning back into the sofa, waiting for the doctor's diagnosis.