Their destination was one of Kensington's ubiquitous white stone townhouses. It appreared well kept, with colourful flowerpots decorating the front entrance. They lingered by the doorway, John straightening his coat and Sherlock's hand flying up to pull his collars upwards. John stopped him. "Just don't."

Sherlock glared at him. Then the door opened, and in less than a split second he flashed what he thought of as his best friendly smile. The one that John had dubbed his axe murderer face.

Such was the first glimpse Harriet Watson got of his brother and his now-more-than-flatmate: John looking slightly uncomfortable and a tall, dark fellow standing next to him, grinning like a madman. This should be interesting.

"Hey Harry," said John, and soon he was engulfed in a big sisterly hug. "Mind the shoulder, you."

Harry beamed. "Sorry. God, it's good to see you. Don't be a stranger'n all that, you know? Not even a text? I have to compulsively check your blog to find out what's going on with my bro? Or read the papers."

John grimaced. Harry turned her attention to Sherlock, who was clearly trying to figure out what to do with his already fatigued facial muscles. "So you're you then." Harry seemed to be appraising him from top to toes. "Bloody hell, John. I mean I've seen the newspaper shots but Jesus H Christ."

Sherlock looked confused. "I'm not sure what warrants all these expletives."

John nudged him. "It's a compliment. I think."

"Damn right it is. In you go, shoo." She moved aside from the doorway to let them into the hall.

John whistled. "Any time you'd like to enlighten us how you ended up living in a bloody mansion would be nice."

Sherlock carefully removed his coat and scarf, lost in thought. John could only guess at the onslaught of information he was getting upon entering such a grand premise.

John had been to Mycroft's house once, and this place did not lag much behind it in grandeur. Flower arrangements, antique furniture, marble floors.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Inherited."

Harry nodded, passing John a coat hanger. "Charlotte's family are judges and barristers going back a couple of centuries."

"Bursnell or Sallow?"

"Sallow." Harry was staring. "I knew you were good, like brilliant, judging by what John says on the blog, but- - "

John smiled. Textbook first reaction to the proximity of Sherlock's cleverness.

"Several cases have demanded perfunctory knowledge of British genealogy."

"I wouldn't exactly call that perfunctory. Dinner's almost done. I used Mom's recipe for Shepherd's pie."

After a short tour of the house and some small talk later they were settled at the dinner table. John had noticed the way in which Sherlock had seemed to appraise Harry, take in all possible details. He secretly hoped he'd resist the temptation to indulge in his usual antics. Harry was not too keen on other people pointing out his faults. John had figured that a certain amount of self-denial was necessary for anyone to fully indulge in the addictions that had characterised his sister's life. She seemed alright, now. Quite happy. Sober. Toned down. Maybe this Charlotte person was being a stronger good influence that Clara had managed. John had really liked Clara.

Harry waved her fork at Sherlock, who was still being surprisingly quiet. "Go on, then. I know you want to."

Sherlock raised his brows. "Excuse me?"

"Read me, deduce me, whatever it is you two call it. I've been waiting for this for two years now. I'm sure John has shared most sordid details of my life with you already so I don't think there's much you could say to upset me."

John's laugh was somewhat hollow. "You really have no idea, Harry."

"There's usually a context in which to ground my thinking. 'Deduce me' is quite a vague starting point."

"I could ask questions. Start with something easy. Like a game."

Sherlock ran his fingers through his head. John thought he seemed uncharacteristically reluctant. John was quite touched that Sherlock seemed to be making a genuine effort to at least try to avoid insulting Harry. And insults were often an inevitable byproduct of Sherlock's genius.

"Alright." Sherlock placed his napkin on the table, with an almost predatory glint appearing in his eyes.

John sighed. "Now's your chance to back off, Harry."

"No way in hell." Harry looked as enthusiastic as Sherlock.

John gave up. "I'm not pulling you two off one another's throats later on, that's for sure." He decided to focus on his dinner.

Harry straightened her spine. "Favourite colour."

Sherlock looked insulted. "Really. You said easy, not preschool level."

Harry giggled. "Just humour me."

Humouring people was not Sherlock's defining characteristics, but even the slightest chance to prove his intellect would not be wasted. John picked apart his bread roll. Usually he enjoyed Sherlock's theatrics but knowing Harry this could easily spread to areas that John would not wish to enlighten his sister about.

"Black, but since a post-adolescent gothic style would clash with this house and your significant other's rather bourgeois lifestyle you've toned down."

Harry nodded. "And Charlotte's?"

"A barrister would knowingly select muted, neutral and business-like tones for work. To compensate for this she might favour a more colourful palette on her days off. Judging by the flowers, red and orange. Also, I would not peg you as someone who favours timid women in pastel shades."

"Well, no. Judging by what you're wearing you're no stranger to carefully selecting what you wear either. Maybe some of that dress sense could rub off on our John here."

John raised his arms in protest. "There's nothing wrong with practical!"

"Sure, grandad, whatever."

John tried hard to look indignant but couldn't help but smile since it was difficult for him to take Harry's jibes seriously.

Harry's attention continued to be on Sherlock. "I think the hat was a bit much, though."

"I concur. Excellent test material for the flammability of wool."

"So you don't wear it to bed then, eh?" Harry asked in mock innocence. If John didn't know better he would have thought there was a quick flash of crimson on Sherlock's cheeks. Just a quick flash.

Harry stood up and gathered their plates. She hesitated before grabbing Sherlock's who had hardly touched his food. She remember John's blog remarks about his almost non-existent appetite so she confiscated his plate anyway without asking first. He did not protest.

"Lemon pie okay with you?" she enquired.

"As long as there's tea," Sherlock replied. "Any more?"

"Loads. I've not even started with you, mister. How did I meet Charlotte?"

Sherlock joined his fingers together, leaning onto the now empty dining table. "Easy again. Rehab."

John was surprised. Or maybe not. A successfully recovering former addict was probably good support for Harry.

Harry could not see the logical leaps required for the deduction. "How'd you get that?" she asked from the kitchen.

"It seems unlikely that your would move in the same social circles. Judging by your Internet manners or lack thereof evident in your comments to John's blog, you lack the patience for online dating. The law is a high-stress environment, particularly for a young woman in such a conservative big city. This combined with pressures for a formidable family name, reasonable income and no parents present to curb her bad habits, cocaine or other stimulants would be my first guess."

"I thought you never did guesses."

"Not guesses per se. Not what you people usually mean by the word. More statistical probabilities. Intuitive leaps."

"Us people?"

John crumpled his napkin into a ball. "He mean normal human beings with average IQs."

Harry looked slightly annoyed. "You think John's a bit thick, then, compared with you?"

Although the rules of social interaction often eluded him, Sherlock had learned enough to know he ought to tread carefully. Harry was the black sheep, John the academical performer. It was obvious that Harry was proud of him, perhaps even felt that his successes somehow mitigated her shortcomings in terms of their parents' expectations. Sherlock thought it strange that such expectations seemed to matter to many even after said parents had passed away.

"No. Our talents merely lie in very different areas."

John beamed. "I think that's one of the nicest things you've ever said to me."

"Apart from the things I tell you when we're alone?"

John's look told him to move on.

"John's the brilliant one. I never even did my A-levels." There was a strange mixture of regret and pride in her voice. "I've got the street smarts, John's got the career."

"Probably what intrigued this Charlotte in the first place. Rehab is mind-numbingly dull. You'd have provided a welcome distraction, a sense of adventure to someone with such a sheltered upbringing."

"I don't know if that's a compliment to me or an insult to Charlotte. Moving on." Harry did not seem stymied. At least not yet.

"Interesting you should mention John's career. To me it seems to be dwindling away lately, mostly part-time locum work as a GP instead of using the surgical skills he has acquired during his overseas service."

"Hey! I thought we were discussing Harry, not me. And that's a bit thick coming from you, since you've the very reason I'm too busy to actually hold a job."

"You know you don't need to worry about finances. My fees are more than adequate in keeping us fed and clothed. Besides, Mycroft wants to buy us a house."

"It's just - - Mycroft wants to WHAT?!

"He thinks it unbecoming to keep up this flat-sharing pretense now that we have taken a step forward in our relationship."

"I wasn't aware it was a pretense. I don't want a house that comes with a full surveillance system attached with no extra charge through which some MI5 idiot can watch me in the sodding shower. Besides, don't you think it's a bit strange - -" John tried to continue his train of thought but realised that he'd made the mistake of using the word normal in the same sentence as the name Holmes. Why did he even try?

Harry was laughing. Hard. "I only know bits and pieces about this Mycroft guy but you make it sound like he's the head of the CIA or something."

"The head of the CIA probably scrubs his toilets," John muttered.

Sherlock didn't even laugh. His focus was on Harry again. "You're between jobs, although you have been thinking about enrolling on some sort of open university course. I have to admit that's hardly a deduction; I saw your leaflets in the hall. You're reasonably happy but never stop looking for a better catch. You would love a pet but are still too uncertain whether your sobriety will hold to dare get one, fearing you might neglect it. You're right-handed but for some reason hold the tennis racket in your left. You're fascinated by John's love life since it's quite understandable in many biological ways for you to be unable to view him as an eligible relationship prospect. You are open about your sexuality and cannot understand why other would shun such honesty. For instance, you have been wondering which one of us usually has the upper hand, so to speak, between the sheets. Do stop kicking me under the table, John."