Hi everyone!

So first, thank you so much for the reviews, they made my day! :D I'm happy that you guys liked what I wrote, and I hope you'll continue to read it!

So, a few informations about how I'm working: I have shitloads of homework, so I'll only update the fic on sundays :( I'm so sorry, but unfortunately school's gone MAD in the last few weeks...

Anyway, hope you enjoy my second chapter (the real story's going to start around the third one, so it might be a bit boring .)

Thanks again for all your kind words, I really appreciate it :)

When I wake up the next morning, I'm a bit confused. I'm lying in a bed far to large for me, with fluffy cushions and very sweet drapes. Everything is bright and white, and my eyes can't quite see further than the end of my bed for a few seconds. When I realise where I am, my hand immediately reaches out for my phone, which I have kept under my pillow. Whew. It's still there. I roll up in the bed, and turn it on while looking at my temporary bedroom: it's probably one of the most spacious rooms I've ever seen. The walls are painted in white, with tiny light grey patterns of crowns or whatever. The unique window is twice as big as the wooden door, and the grey curtains don't really stop the sunlight from coming in. Apart from the bed, there are only three other things in the room: a wooden wardrobe, a huge mirror, and a white sofa that looks quite comfortable. Everything is painted in white, actually. I'm a little surprised by this, because my half-brother isn't really the bright type of person and I thought I would sleep in a creepy black or purple room, but it's a real relief.

A beep indicates me that my phone is awake as well. We're the Monday, the 21st of October, I've got eighteen missed calls and four messages. Oh great. I decide start with the messages: the first two are from Janis, who was what I could probably consider as my best friend back in Wales. She sounds anxious, and she asks me to call her back as soon as I can. I feel a bit guilty: I left school without a word to anyone, and she's quite the protective type. She must be so very worried. I decide that I'll send her a text later, and I listen to the two other messages. One is from my phone operator, informing me that I've only got twelve pounds left on my SIM card, the other is some random bloke who just says something like "Hey Jeff, I was wond... Oh fuck it, wrong number!" and hangs up. I find myself breathing again: it looks like almost no one noticed that I left yet... It's normal, though, the autumn holidays just started, and many kids go back home during this time. I just hope that Janis isn't going to ask to everyone where I went.

I shake my head. Why am I even bothering?! I put my phone on the side of the bed, and I get up to open the curtains. A bright, warm sun is shining up in the sky, which is quite rare for London, and Mycroft's garden is all green and beautiful. Smiling, I get out of the room, still wearing my pyjamas (an oversized Pink Floyd tee-shirt and shorts), and I run down the stairs, softly humming a song from the Beatles. When I come in the kitchen, my brother is already there, wearing one of his boring and official suits, and drinking a cup of tea in front of the window.

'Hey', I say.

'Good morning. Or shall I say good afternoon.'

'Oh.'

'Mmh. Looks like someone slept well.'

'Come on, one o'clock isn't that late. I can do better than that, believe me. Shouldn't you be at work by the way?'

'I came back for lunch, I thought I could show you the house.'

'That's very kind of you.'

'Well, I don't want you to mess up with my stuff, okay?'

I frown. Alright, he's still the same old schmuck he was last time I saw him. I sigh loudly, and reach out for the fridge. I grab a bottle of milk and a pear, then a few toasts from the bread box next to the microwave, and sit on a stool near Mycroft. He drinks his tea up, and stares at me.

'So. Before I show you around, you have to tell me everything.'

'Everything?'

'Let's start with how did you get here?'

'By train.'

'I know, but with what money?'

'I could've gotten here earlier, as soon as I read the... Bad new in the papers, but I had to save pocket money first, for my train ticket, yeah? So I waited.'

'Does your school know you came here?'

'Autumn break just started, it's alright, don't worry. They have plenty of students who go back home at this time of the year.'

He lightly shakes his head, but doesn't say a thing. I know that it's as hard for me as it is for him to even consider that we're from the same family. I don't like calling this place "home", but it's better than telling him the truth. God knows how he'll react if he finds out that I escaped from my boarding school.

'How are you going to get back there? Do you have some money left?'

'Yep. But I'm not going back until the end of the break.'

'What, do you intend to stay in my guest room for the rest of your holiday?'

'No, I intend to find out how our brother faked his suicide, and then I'll move to his flat, 'cause I'm pretty sure he'll be happier to let me sleep on his couch that you'll ever be.'

Mycroft sighs, and puts his cup back in his saucer.

'I'm not even going to argue with that, alright? But if he is, as you say, alive and well... How do you think you're going to find him?'

'Ah, that's an easy one.'

'Oh really?'

'Course. You'll help me.'

'Says who?'

'Says me, and you don't want to mess with an underage genius, do you?'

'Calista...'

'Don't start. Please don't. Listen, I'm not asking you to believe, yeah? You can continue to pretend he's dead, it's up to you. But can you at least help me with one tiny little thing?'

We're face to face. I look at the few wrinkles that started to appear on his forehead and cheeks, at his eyes – which seem less cold than yesterday – and at his light brown hair, that are of the very same colour as mine. Apart from that detail, no one could say we're related. He's as tall as I'm short. His face says "official" while mine just screams "mess". And I won't even mention our clothes. When I think about it, this is maybe the first time that I really compare myself to Mycroft, and I suddenly realise how different we are. We're like chalk and cheese. Finally, he exhales deeply, and claps his hands.

'Okay, time to show you the house. Clean up your breakfast, and we'll start with the first floor. Then I'll have to go back to work, and you keep yourself busy while I'm away. Tonight, when I come back, we'll discuss about the... Thing you need my help for. Are we good?'

I manage to smile. It's better than nothing.

'Sounds pretty reasonable.'

'I thought so too. Now hurry up. I haven't got all morning.'

XXX

One, two, three, take my hand and come with me,

Because you look so fine, and I wanna make you mine!

The guitar part bursts out of Mycroft's super speakers. I shriek, and lower the volume a little: I can't believe he's got this kind of thing in his house! Though he surely uses these to listen to Vivaldi or Bach, I didn't imagine my brother as a music person. I mean, he went in college in some private Welsh university next to my own school, and I know that people there tend to be well-educated artistically: I've been learning to play the piano since I was six. My music teacher, an old Scottish woman who was very fond of Mozart, told me she'd never met a student as talented as me, apart from my brothers. But I can see from the dust covering the big black piano in the living-room that Mycroft abandoned arpeggios and scales a long time ago. After I turn the speakers off, I walk towards it, and let my fingers run on the ivory keys. Suddenly, I'm flooded by memories. A warm summer afternoon. My fingers, way too little to reach all the keys. The sound of a violin. Blue eyes, kindly looking at the efforts I was making.

I shake my head, and bite my lip. Tears are threatening to come out of my eyes, but I won't let them. I'm not a cryer. Never was. Never will be. I guess that growing up in a boarding school has advantages, I'm tougher than the majority of the kids of my age. It's a matter of complete indifference to me: I'd rather be heartless than fragile.

Without really thinking, I sit at the piano. My fingers automatically press the keys. I don't need any music sheet, I know this one by heart. It's from the only DVD I had back in Wales. After the intro, I start to sing softly:

La lune trop blême pose un diadème sur tes cheveux roux,

La lune trop rousse de gloire éclabousse ta jupe en plein trou...

Thanks to my double nationality, I can almost speak French without an accent. I still have issues on the "r", though.

La lune trop pale caresse l'opale de tes yeux blasés,

Princesse de la rue, soit la bienvenue dans mon coeur brisé...

As I move on to the English part, I look over my shoulder to check the time on the old-fashioned clock hanged on the wall. It's almost eight o'clock. After showing me the things I could touch and the ones I couldn't, Mycroft went back to his office, or wherever he's working, and said he'd come home around dinnertime. He shouldn't be long, but from what I understood he's up to one's eyeballs with a super secret thingy, so I don't expect him to be on time. But then again, it's Mycroft, and God knows how he hates to be late.

I continue to sing and play. I find myself enjoying it. It's quite relaxing, and the living-room is so big that the sound of the piano comes out very beautifully. And besides, it's probably the most interesting thing I've done today. Since my brother left, I took a shower, got dressed, read the end of 1984, took a nap, ate a marmite toast, took a walk in the garden, and scared myself off while trying Mycroft's speakers. So I guess that playing the piano helped me at least to do something concrete.

When I finish La Complainte de la Butte, I switch to an old rock'nd roll song from the Turtles. It's amazing how I remember things I like, really. You'll never see me play an aria from Mozart by heart, I tell you!

You've got a thing about you, I just can't live without you,

I really want you, Elenore, near me...

Your looks intoxicate me, even though your folks hate me,

There's no one like you, Elenore, really!

'It's nice.'

I scream, and turn around quickly: Mycroft's standing in front of me, a small and satisfied smile on his face. I exhale deeply.

'Damn it, Mycroft! You scared my pants off!'

'Sorry. Didn't you hear me open the door?'

'Obviously not, you idiot!'

'Oh, don't get insulting, Calista.'

I sigh loudly. Here we go again. I hate it when he says my name. My brother comes towards me, and randomly presses one of the black keys.

'So you've tried my piano. You're a good musician, you know.'

'That's on behalf of heredity.'

'How were your grades in science class, again?'

'Oh shut up, it's a theory. The Holmes theory.'

'Yes, most amusing. What were you playing?'

'Some random rock. You wouldn't recognise it.'

He stares intently at me. The way I quickly answer his questions, the impatient expression on my face: he knows what I'm waiting for. His smile disappears, and he removes his hand from the piano.

'Alright. You must be hungry.'

'I'm not.'

'Oh.'

'Yeah. Are you?'

'Well, I had a late tea... So I guess I can wait.'

Silence. We stare into each other's eyes. I gulp. He blinks. And, after what seems to be two centuries, he finally says it.

'Right. Tell me.'

My heart starts beating faster. Okay. Here I am, this is it. This is the reason I came to him. Because he's the only one who can help me. I take a deep breath, and lean onto the piano.

'I need to see someone.'

'Who, and why?'

'I've got questions.'

'Okay, well, maybe I can answer them...'

'Nah, not you.'

'Why? It-it's about his death, isn't it?'

'Yes. And you just proved my point by lowering your voice and asking for confirmation. You can't answer my questions. I don't know yet, but there's something weird with you, Mycroft Holmes. I can't tell if you're just afraid that your little brother might've fooled you, or if you actually know something...'

'I said I didn't want to argue about your... Deductions. Let's not go there.'

'Fine. But you're being nervous again.'

'Do you want me to help you or not?!'

'Right, okay, I'll shut up!'

'Who is this person you want to see?'

'I don't want to, I need to.'

'Whatever. Who is he, or she?'

'Oh, don't play the silly one, you perfectly know who I'm talking about.'

He remains quiet for a minute or two. His eyebrows are frowned, and his fingers started scratching his left knee. Anxiety, anxiety, always anxiety. It's very weird, though, the fact that I can tell what he's thinking just by looking at him. We share the same blood. We both know how to hide our emotions and feelings, don't we? So why on earth can I read him like an open book?

'He's away.'

'For how long?'

'I don't know. He's staying at his sister's, he's been there two weeks already.'

'Why did he go there? I mean, he has a place to stay anyway, don't you pay his rent?'

He raises his eyebrows super high. Oh, piss it. I sigh, and look down when I tell him:

'I might've looked into your um... Your bills and stuff.'

'What?!'

'And your mail. Sorry. Couldn't help it. Curiosity won.'

'I told you not to go in my room, why did-'

'Oh for Christ sake's, Mycroft, why did you even bother to tell me things, you know I don't listen to you anyway! Telling me that something's forbidden is the best way to make me do it. You knew I was gonna go into that room.'

'It was locked!'

'Duh, like if that could've stopped me.'

He buries his face in his hands. I exhale deeply, and lean back against the piano. I completely, beautifully fucked up. I'm such an idiot sometimes, I can't even believe it. Showing off will never be a good thing, I get that. Worst thing is, I can't control myself, I have to show what I know to everyone all the time. Being an arse is a full-time job, I tell you. Anyway, I seriously doubt that Mycroft will help me now. Why would he? Family obligation? Duh. We're both continually doing efforts not to jump at each other's throats, and even if the brother/sister thing is working so far I know that he can't get over the fact that I'm part of his family. The great and virtuous Holmes! Sherlock already made our name a disgrace after the whole fake genius story, so Mycroft doesn't need an illegitimate sister as well, does he?

'Okay.'

I turn towards him. He looks so tired and prematurely old, it's pitiful. It's like he never laughs, or smile, or think of something nice. Or like he never had a childhood. I'm pretty sure that he came out of the womb wearing a suit and reading the Times.

'Listen to me. I give you one more chance, only one. I'll help you, but you have to promise you won't go where I forbid you to. Ever.'

'Cross my heart and hope to die.'

'Right.'

'I'm sorry, you know. I really am.'

'Apologies accepted. What... What did you find when you nosed into my documents?'

'Oh not much. How was Seoul?'

For a second, he looks surprised, but he quickly puts a neutral face on.

'Fine, thank you...'

'I've never been to Korea. Don't like the idea of eating dogs and stuff. Anyway, between your bills from the Seoul Airport Starbucks and you correspondence with the prime minister of Norway, I didn't find anything interesting except that.'

I pluck the paper out of my pocket. He takes it, and quickly reads it while asking:

'So?'

'So what?'

'There is nothing written on that except the amount of money I give to pay the rent of a flat in London. How did you know it was his?'

'Easy. I looked at the dates: you started paying for this flat two months and a half ago. There's no such thing as coincidence, and I recall that Sherlock ''died'' two months and a half ago as well, so I found that weird. Besides, why would you pay for another place than yours? It's certainly not a house in the countryside, because Baker Street in right in the city centre – I checked – and ''221B'' means that it's not a house, it's a flat. So, a flat, okay, bit strange, innit? Well, I noticed that they sent the letter to Mr Mycroft Holmes, on behalf or Dr J. W. Initials, no full name, nothing. So it's someone who has obviously had some trouble with the press, and they don't want his name to appear on a paper which can be lost, sent to the wrong address or read by anyone. But it's a doctor, and there aren't that many famous doctors in the world, I can tell. And as Sherlock's my brother and that we send e-mails to each other and sometimes even talk on the phone, I know that he got a flatmate quite recently, who happens to be an army doctor, and, what a surprise, is called John Watson. Doctor John Watson, living in 221B Baker Street, who shared a flat with my brother because he couldn't afford a place to live on his own. Now that Sherlock is not here anymore, he obviously needs some financial help, and you're it, but you don't want him to know because you know that he thinks he doesn't need any help, and that's why there's a nota bene saying ''appearing as anonymous'' at the bottom of the paper.'

I inhale. God, I haven't talked that fast for ages! It feels... Good, actually. Very good indeed. I feel like my brain is going to explode, and it's wonderful. In front of me, Mycroft is speechless. He looks at me for two minutes of so, and finally smiles lightly.

'Goodness, you... You are his miniaturised copy.'

'I'm not that short, you know.'

He laughs. He laughs?!

'It's absolutely amazing. For a moment, you just became him, the way you spoke, the way you moved... How did you do that, how could you find all that?'

'I don't find, I deduce. It's taken me ages to do that properly but I am quite happy with the results.'

'That, plus the fact that you are way too big for your boots, it's official: you two are so much alike.'

'Should I take that as a compliment?'

'It's up to you.'

We stare into each other's eyes. He's still smiling, very kindly actually. But I noticed that, if he said I was completely like Sherlock, he hasn't uttered a word about me being a Holmes. Anyway, I can deduce anything I want, I'll still be a motherless unwanted child to him. With a certain talent for playing the piano. Finally, he stands up, and gets out of the room. He comes back a few seconds later, with a small orange notebook.

'Here's John's sister's address in London. You can go there tomorrow if you want to, if you think you can manage to take the underground.'

He points one address with his finger. Harriet Watson, 103 Harris Street. Mycroft closes the notebook. I look up. And find myself smiling. I'm going to talk to Doctor Watson. I'm going to find out what happened to my brother. I'm going to see him again. I impulsively want to hug Mycroft, but I stay still. We're not touchy-feely here. Instead, I just pat his arm.

'Thanks, big brother.'

'You're... Welcome. Now how about you continue to play the piano while I read my mail?'

I nod quietly. Still hasn't said ''sister''. Oh well. I sit at the piano, and Mycroft's voice comes form behind me:

'Do you know any Chopin ballads?'

'Do you know who you're talking to?'

'Oh fine, just go on with your savage music, you uneducated punk.'

That's it for this week! See you all next sunday!