Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or original storylines of Sherlock Holmes or the BBC television series Sherlock. All content expect this particular story belongs to the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N: Okay so I absolutely adore the new Sherlock programme on BBC1 and cannot believe they only did three episodes, I'm sure they'll do more but come one! What were they thinking of course Martin Freeman + Benedict Cumberbatch would be a success! Especially with a writer like Stephen Moffat! Anyway, the following story is based off this idea I had whilst re-watching the first episode i.e. John's sister dying. I'm not sure why I decided to make it suicide but I'm hoping it works. Anyway, hard as I've tried, I think Sherlock is totally OOC but hopefully you won't. Right now I'm just putting a feeler out for whether people like this, I have another chapter ready and waiting but since it'll probably be three chapters I wanted to see if it was worth continuing.

This is set after the series finishes because come on! We all know they aren't dead, and hands up everyone who sat there and thought wtf? When that guy said his name was 'Jim Moriarty'? I mean, what was that about? We all know who Moriarty is don't we kids?

Um, anyway as always, PLEASE read and review. Reviews are free, non-fattening and make me go squeeee. So, enjoy and please review. X

"That is...tragic" It was said thoughtfully but betrayed no emotion.

Lestrade grimaced. "I'm sorry, John." He rose from his seat and squeezed the doctor's uninjured shoulder, nodding at his sergeant, Sally Donovan that it was time to go.

She stepped forward and opened her mouth as if to speak but thought better of it, settling for what she hoped was a consoling smile and followed the inspector out. "We...we really are sorry for your loss, John." To which Watson gave a confused gesture somewhere between a nod and a shrug.

"Thanks."

There followed a silence in which Mrs Hudson wrung her hands together and watched John, biting her lip. John gazed at the door through which the police officers had left, sighed once then resumed reading his discarded newspaper as though he hadn't a care in the world.

Alarmed, the landlady quickly suggested a cup of tea - "Just this once mind!" and hurried into the kitchen area of the flat, almost bumping into the gangling young man concealed inside it.

"Sherlock! What are you doing in here?" She scolded quietly so as not to disturb John. The man cocked his head to one side in thought, frowning as though he had not understood the question.

"Doing, Mrs Hudson?" He seemed to consider his answer. "I suppose since I am doing only what is required for my continued survival, the generally accepted response would be 'nothing' which is of course ridiculous because even if I were dead I would still be decomposing – my entire existence is predicated upon my doing something or else I would cease to exist at all but since I suspect your question was, in fact, rhetorical and therefore requires an equally pointless reply, I shall reply as any idiot would say and tell you that I am indeed doing 'nothing at all'."

The woman seemed as if she would scold him once more but instead shook her head and busied herself with the tea. "His sister is dead, dear." She said quietly, her voice almost drowned out by the sounds of the boiling kettle.

"I know. Good God, Mrs Hudson, I was stood not ten feet away from him when the wretched woman told him." Incredulity and perhaps condescension laced his words, which referred to Donovan who had in fact (and contrary to all expectations), delivered the news to Watson with surprising tact.

"He will need your help, Sherlock. He might need to talk to you, you know." She advised him gently.

"Me?" The man seemed alarmed at the very idea, as if the thought had not occurred to him that his flatmate (friend?) might wish to speak to him on the matter of his sister's death.

"It was suicide, after all." She continued on as if she hadn't heard the unusual display of nerves. "And I know what you're thinking, Sherlock, but I want you to leave it be all right? It isn't decent, the way you think about these things, especially not this one." She chided fondly, pouring tea into mugs with her back to him. His eyes had indeed taken on that certain gleam that always preceded his manic investigations of seemingly ordinary cases. He visibly slumped at her words.

Suddenly, it seemed a thought had occurred and he straightened, opening his mouth, the gleam returning tenfold.

"SHERLOCK, NO!" This inspired a sort of intense glare between them, marred only by Sherlock's pale face breaking into sly grin. "NO!" She said firmly, shaking a teaspoon at him. She could almost swear she saw him pout before his usual mask of bored melancholy replaced it. Handing one mug to Holmes, Mrs Hudson paused at the doorway and gazed at him almost pityingly "Try to understand, dear."

Sherlock strode purposefully out of the kitchen and into his bedroom, rummaging in the clutter and finally slapping three nicotine patches onto his arm. There was a definite pout on his face now as he flung himself onto the bed. Understand indeed! What was there to understand? John hadn't gotten on with his sister, hadn't spoken to him in months – she was already as good as dead to him anyway! He sat up suddenly, clenching his hands to his eyes in frustration. There was no logic to this! There was no analysis to be done! There was no interesting titbit in her suicide that suggested murder even to him, her death was of no importance!

So why did he keep thinking about it? Or about Mycroft. Or John. A vague unsettled feeling had come upon him quite suddenly, it was…unpleasant to say the least. A sort of hollow feeling that he didn't really recognise. Hunger?

But what interest was there in a perfectly mundane suicide? She was John's sister so yes, he supposed he had a vague link but it was suicide! There was nothing remotely useful to be gathered from her death except that maybe John might have phoned her once in a while and asked about her mental state (which, he had on good authority was not a question deemed acceptable in most if not all situations). It was logical to deduce that since many people seemed to benefit from discussing their various mental failings with therapists that if John had called his sister and she had been able to discuss her… feelings then she may not have felt it necessary to…ah.

It was as if someone had turned on a light bulb in his head. And then flipped it off again.

Leaping up he began pacing then decided that this was a puzzle which required another opinion. He did not relish the idea of joining John and Mrs Hudson in the living room so instead removed his skull from Mrs Hudson's downstairs (she really ought to lock her door if she didn't want Sherlock entering whenever he felt like it.) Returning to the peace of his room, he held the skull aloft and narrowed his eyes at it. His thoughts were in overdrive and he wondered briefly whether Lestrade and the others thought as much as he did? He suspected not…the skull's silence told him that he was quite correct. Not for the first time, he felt something akin to pity for them, how boring it must be in their heads. But to business!

John's relationship with his sister was what? Strained at best. Non-existent at worst. Mycroft was his…brother (the word felt distasteful even in his thoughts), but even they had contact, unwanted as it may be. So why should the death of John's sister be of any concern to Sherlock himself? There were serial killers to be outwitted, he felt a thrill at the very thought of it. He wondered vaguely whether John would rather his sister had been murdered so that he could have the thrill of working out who it was. The thought was fleeting however and even Sherlock expected he would not. But he still could not understand! Why did this matter so much?

The bony grin across from him made him feel worse. It was all so frustrating! But…John didn't care that Harry was dead. He had commented that it was tragic but he himself had made more convincing statements than that! And now he was sat reading the paper without a care in the world, surely he didn't mind?

His mind went into overdrive.

If John cared, then he wouldn't be sat in a chair reading the newspaper and drinking tea. He would be…what the devil did people do in these situations? Drink? He could put up with that although he hoped it wouldn't involve going to a pub full of people who smelt so gloriously of smoke or a club where temptations would be…

"NO!" His voice sounded very loud in the small room and he glanced shyly at the skull, now sat on his bed. It grinned back at him as if mocking him and his incompetence in this matter. If John wanted to drink, he could so alone. Damn it, he was doing well! Absentmindedly, he slapped a fourth patch on.

Would John cry? Good God he hoped not.