The text came at 7:53 in the evening from a blocked phone number. John and Sherlock had been watching one of those crime shows. Sherlock was watching to solve the case, and John just for the sheer amusement of watching his friend scream at the telly.
The phone buzzed and Sherlock reached for his pocket.
"Mycroft again?" John asked, keeping his focus on the television. He wasn't really in the mood to deal with the Holmes family antics right now.
"Why would it be Mycroft?" Sherlock questioned absently as he checked the text.
"Because exactly two people on the planet earth text you, and I'm here."
John waited a moment, and was a bit startled by the lack of a snarky come back "Sherlock?" He glanced over at his friend who's eyes were locked to the phone "Sherlock what is it?"
"John, pack a suitcase. Bare essentials only. We won't be staying for long."
"Wait, what? Where are we going? What's happened Sherlock?"
The detective elected to answer only the second question, yelling "We're going to America," over his shoulder as he jammed his belongings into a small suitcase.
John couldn't get Sherlock to settle down enough to talk until they were in the cab on the way to the airport. Sherlock had phoned Mycroft, and jabbered frantically into the phone about the text and someone named Emmalina, and the elder Holmes had assigned them a private jet to fly them to America.
"So what was the text?" he finally asked, about fifteen minutes into the cab ride. Sherlock hadn't spoken since he had announced their destination, and was now tapping his fingers frantically against the window of the cab, as if that could somehow make it move more quickly.
Rather than deign to answer him, Sherlock tossed the small black phone into John's lap and continued his tapping. John checked the messages. Sherlock had received three texts in the last twelve hours. The latest five minutes ago, from Mycroft, confirming that the plane would be waiting for them. The first, from himself, asking if they had milk in the flat or if he needed to buy some more. The second was from a blocked phone number and contained only four words.
"Better run for cover."
"So you think this is from Moriarty?" He asked, waving the text at the detective.
"Of course it's from Moriarty. No one else could possibly know about her."
"Wait, about who?"
"My sister, John. Obviously."
The doctor stared at the detective in absolute awe for a moment "You have a-"
"Sister, yes. Her name is Emmalina, and she's fourteen, and Moriarty has just threatened her life."
"And you never told me about this sister because?"
"You never asked." After a moment of uncomfortable silence Sherlock looked away from the window and studied the frustrated expression on John's face. "Oh, this is one of those friend things isn't it?"
"Yep."
"So I have to tell you now, don't I?"
"Great deduction Sherlock."
The detective inhaled deeply and then began to explain. "Shortly before my father died he and my mother were apparently able to reconcile their sham of a marriage long enough to spawn one final time. He passed away about three months into the pregnancy. My mother began to suffer from depression, so that after Emmalina was born it fell to Mycroft and me to take care of her, mostly me, because as you know Mycroft is useless. Everything would have been perfectly fine, had mum not died when Emmalina was ten. Mycroft would not take her, and I . . ." he paused and ground his teeth together in anger "was not deemed a fit legal guardian for my sister, due to some . . . unfortunate habits I was in possession of at the time. It was arranged that she would move in with a close friend of hers, whose parents had acted as a sort of second family when I was busy with school."
"Oh. Sherlock, I'm sorry."
"It's not of import."
John decided to ignore the fact that the detective was clearly very upset (or at least very upset by Sherlock standards), and move on. "So we're going to get her? You called her guardians?"
"Yes, while you were packing. We will be picking her up first thing in the morning and flying her back here."
"Wait. Hold on a second Sherlock. You're gonna keep a kid in our apartment."
"Is there a problem John?"
"Of course there's a problem Sherlock! You keep more weaponry, dangerous chemicals, and narcotics in there than most people keep dishes."
Sherlock looked a little hurt "Only the nicotine patches."
"Not the point Sherlock! What I am trying to say is that our apartment is not safe for a kid, and neither you nor I is a qualified parent."
At that Sherlock's face went from plain indignant to downright offended. "I did a good enough job of it for the first ten years of her life!"
John was a little surprised at the venom in his friend's tone and decided not to push it any further.
The plane ride was unpleasant to say the least. John though Sherlock must still be annoyed with him over the "not a qualified parent" comment, or perhaps he was just being Sherlock. Either way that man said almost nothing through the entire plane ride other than to ask John to hand him the pen that was lying three inches away from him. He then took the pen and began to tap it against the window of the plane to the same beat he'd been tapping in the cab. After three failed attempts to talk to him, John attempted to read, only to be unable to focus because of the incessant tapping.
"Sherlock, really, can't you stop that?"
"Stop what?"
"Tapping."
There was a momentary pause. "No," and the tapping resumed with more vigor than ever.
When they landed in Los Angeles Sherlock wouldn't even let John stop for breakfast, and instead drove immediately to the house, despite the fact that it was 6 am.
The cab ride was long and fairly awkward, since Sherlock refused to utter a word and kept on with his incessant tapping. Finally, after what seemed like ages, Sherlock and John arrived at the house.
It was a charming little house. White trim decorated the windowsills and a bright red door practically said "come on in".
Sherlock walked up to the front porch and rang the doorbell. John wasn't too far behind.
"Sherlock? You did tell the kids' parents that we were coming, right?"
"Yes, of course. I'm not an idiot, John."
The door opened to reveal a man and a woman in their 40's. "You must be Sherlock. Well, I must say this was all rather hasty. Any particular reason you want your sister back right now?"
"No. No reason at all," Sherlock lied. "I just want to spend some quality time, is all."
"Are you bringing her back?"
"Eventually, yes."
"Well, then. Emmalina!" she called to the young girl.
"What?" a voice answered from the second floor.
"Your brother's here."
There was a short pause before "Coming!"
A girl of age 14 came running down the steps with a black suitcase covered with Les Mis stickers. She was wearing skinny jeans, combat boots, and a blue tank top with a TARDIS on it.
"Hey," she said before hugging her older brother. "Long time no see. Who's your boyfriend?" she teased.
"He's not my-" Sherlock said.
"I'm not his-" John defended.
"Relax. I'm messing with you," she explained. "So, remind me why I'm leaving."
"I wanted to spend time with my little sister. Is that so wrong?" Sherlock said.
"Wrong, no. Out of character, yes. You haven't visited me in over two years."
"Two years?" John asked.
"Two years," Emmalina confirmed. "Well, times a-wasting. Off to the airport." And with that she marched out the door leaving the two men with nothing to do but follow her to the cab.
The car ride back to the airport was still rather awkward, but at least Sherlock didn't tap his pen. Once they were about to board the jet, Emmalina said, "You have a private jet?"
"No. It's Mycroft's."
"Ugh. Him. I never did like him. Was always 'too good' to hang with his little sis. Unlike some people I know," she nudged Sherlock, who blushed. Sherlock actually blushed. Needless to say John was in awe of their relationship.
Finally the trio arrived in London. Emmalina was quick to throw her stuff right at the front door and ran over to the bathroom. "I'm taking a shower!" she announced.
Sherlock and John settled in their old apartment. John finally worked up the nerve to ask what he has been itching to ask for days.
"So what was that text about anyways 'better run for cover', I mean I guess I can see how that's a threat, but how did you know it was about your sister?"
Sherlock sighed, lifting his chin from his steepled fingers "When Emmalina was little, she wasn't like the other children, none of us were as I'm sure you could have guessed. She was more normal than Mycroft or me, but she was still mocked. She used to come home crying most days. My mother was in and out of the hospital and my father was . . . gone by then, and Mycroft was busy, so it fell to me to deal with it. I used to sing her songs when she couldn't calm down, from the musical Les Miserables. That was a lyric from our favorite."
"Oh." John was a bit surprised by such an emotional memory in Sherlock's life "What was the song?"
Sherlock sighed again in annoyance this time, rather than remembrance, but gave and began to recite the words. "Little people know, when little people fight"
"We may be easy pickings," sang the soft, lilting voice from around the corner. Emmalina had emerged from the bathroom, showered and in a nightdress, "But we got some bite."
Sherlock gave a genuine grin and sang, actually sang, the rest of the song along with his sister. "So never kick a dog. Because he's just a pup. We'll fight like twenty armies, and we won't give up. So you better run for cover, when the pup grows up."
During the rendition the girl had crossed over to the detective and taken his hand in hers. When the song finished he pulled her tightly into a hug. "It's good to have you here Emmalina. I'm happy to see you again."
She smiled and ruffled the dark black curls "You too Sherly-locks" John snorted a laugh at the nickname, which he was most definitely going to use against his friend when he got the chance.
Sherlock groaned at the nickname and batted at his sister's arm. She laughed and danced away, perching herself on the opposite edge of the sofa and pulling a phone from the pocket of her night dress.
"Who are you texting?" Sherlock asked without actually looking over.
"Robby, boyfriend," she said nonchalantly and continued to tap out the text.
Now Sherlock did turn, a single dark eyebrow crawling up his face. "You're fifteen. When did you get a boyfriend?" He spat the last word like it was poisonous.
Emmalina looked up a little defensively "It's new."
Sherlock mulled this over for a second and then firmly declared, "No outside contact" before snatching the phone from his sister's fingers.
"You cannot be serious."
"I most definitely can be and am serious."
"You just don't like that I have a boyfriend."
"I can neither confirm nor deny that fact. But when you do return home please inform this Robby, that your brother owns not only several guns, but a wide range of knives, swords, throwing stars, and a harpoon."
Emmalina groaned and John looked up from the paper. "Oh that reminds me. Molly called. You left the harpoon at the mortuary."
"Oh. You can get it on your way to work tomorrow."
"Absolutely not Sherlock. I am not bringing a bloody harpoon into the hospital with me, and I'm done fetching your weapons anyway."
"Since when?"
"Since I had to explain the throwing stars to airport security."
Emmalina looked up from her sulk. "I'll go get it. I can take the tube."
"Absolutely not," Sherlock replied "You're not going to leave the apartment until everything's been sorted."
"It's boring here," she groaned, and John was struck by how very much the young girl reminded him of her older brother. "There's nothing to do. You didn't even give me time to pack my damn books."
"Language," Sherlock said, almost automatically, and John gave a startled laugh at the absolutely parental tone in his voice.
"Sherlock," John said cautiously "Maybe it would be a good idea to let her go out, with Molly or Mrs. Hudson or one of Lestrade's men. You can't exactly keep her cooped up in the apartment for the entire time, it's not safe here for a kid anyways," he continued, thinking of the numerous weapons which weren't exactly well hidden, not to mention the nicotine patches, and the cigarettes and god knows what else Sherlock was no doubt hiding somewhere.
"Not a kid," Emmalina corrected "And I concur with Dr. Watson. Come on Sherly-locks. If you keep me locked in here I swear to god I will hack your website again and post all the stories mummy told me about you, and more."
"I'd like to see you try," Sherlock scoffed.
"73PBFURIW-LV-DQ-DVV20"
"How did you?"
"Sister, Sherlock, remember? Sorry that you and Mycroft aren't getting along. Things haven't changed there I see."
"What was-" John stammered, amazed at the skills of the rather ordinary seeming girl (though he knew he shouldn't have been too surprised. She was after all, a Holmes). "How could you possibly-"
"It's 'Mycroft is an ass' in Ceaser cipher, between the numbers of my last address. It's adorable really."
"Amazing," John said and Sherlock gave a whining sound and slammed his head into his hands.
"Not really. He's used the same trick since we were seven. Even the great detective has his tells. So shopping then?"
"Fine," Sherlock groaned "on the condition that you go nowhere near my laptop."
"I think we may just have a deal, dear brother."
"I'll get Molly to take you tomorrow. Just don't bother me for the rest of the week."
She gave another grin and a giggle. "No promises." Then she twirled and headed off toward her room, grabbing an encyclopedia of diseases off the shelf as she went.
"Well," John said after the door had shut behind the girl "I officially like your sister."
"She's incredibly annoying."
"Must be genetic then."
Author's Note: Okay so sorry if this wasn't great. I sort of just got a random idea and wrote it all up in a frenzy. New chapters will be coming soon. And sorry for the Les Miserables references (really not sorry), but just sort of had to due to obsession. I can assure you they will continue throughout the fic. Thank you so much for reading and pretty please review, any feedback is appreciated because I'm constantly looking for ways to improve. With editing and help with my writer's block from Camibelle ( u/4479666/), who is an awesome person and has earned my eternal gratitude.
