London bustled around them as Joan and Sherlock rode a cab all the way to 221B Bakers Street. Joan had been here before and Sherlock had lived there, but this wasn't home to him anymore. They had come from America to visit Mycroft. Much to Sherlock's dismay, Watson had suggested that it might be good for him to make amends with his brother, more so than having his brother blow up his stuff. Unknown to Watson, but known by Watson because she practised her deduction skills daily, Sherlock had gotten word of a series of murders in London and had agreed to come solely so he could check it out.

The gold numbers on the doors were rusted slightly. The doorknob, however, shone as bright as the day it was bought. The constant use of it annoyed Sherlock and he shifted angrily as he waited for his brother. Bored, impatient and tired, he used his own key and walked up the stairs, followed by a similarly grumpy Watson. Halfway up they were intercepted by Mycroft. He was smiling to himself.

They walked into the apartment together and Mycroft motioned for them to sit down. Greeting and such were passed around and Sherlock tried not to piss his brother off on the first day. Something caught his eye though. He stood to inspect it.

"Mycroft, who else is living here?" he asked.

Mycroft replied with a soft smile. "How do you know there is?"

Sherlock took a breath. "There is a collection of musical DVDs here. You only see them live. There is also a bottle of medication here for someone with aspergus."

Mycroft sat for a bit, and then looked to his brother.

"I'm taking care of someone for a bit. They should be waking up soon." He looked at Sherlock in the eyes before settling down again. Joan looked at him with a puzzled look.

"Why are you taking care of them?"

Mycroft shrugged. "She's a friend."

Just then, a door opened and a girl walked in. She was 16 at most. Her hair fell to her feet. It was pure white. Her eyes were green and her skin pale. She noticed the new people in the room and seemed unfazed by it. She walked to the kitchen, dragging her feet sleepily, and got a drink of water.

Mycroft called to her. "Lilian, come sit."

She nodded, looked to Mycroft, exchanged a look which Sherlock knew all too well and flopped on the couch ungracefully, her hair splaying on the arm rest. "Sherlock, Joan, this is Lilian."

"Hi." She said half-heartedly, obviously exhausted. "I probably won't be much conversation until I wake up." She took a single strand of her hair and twirled it around her finger. "Sorry for being so boring. Also, please don't call me lilian. Call me lily." She smiled at Joan then went back to focusing on her hair.

Mycroft looked at her again, seeming to be waiting for something that didn't come. He smiled at her before turning his neck to Sherlock.

"Lilian is a fan of your work, Sherlock." He stated, receiving a glare from the snow-headed girl. It seemed to say 'don't you dare' and 'no one will find the body' at the same time. He chuckled and continued. "She's fascinated by criminology."

The younger Holmes sat down on the couch again as Mycroft went to make tea.

"I nearly forgot we were in England." Watson laughed as Sherlock and lily looked at each other. Some kind of air stood between them. An air of curiosity? No. An air of question.

"Name?" Sherlock started, taking Joan by surprise.

"Lilian Prinsepessa Farama." Lily bounced back just as quickly.

"Age?"

"16."

"Hair?"

"Recessive genetic. It's easier to braid the longer it gets."

"Branding."

"None of your beeswax."

"Wasn't a question."

"Everything you say is a question."

"That's how people learn."

"How Socratic of you."

Then there was silence. Both parties sat back, leaving Watson a little confused. She went to speak, decided against it, then gave up and joined Mycroft in the kitchen.