John slowly lifted his eyes from his phone, half expecting to see Araminta towering over him with a kitchen knife. She was just lying on the sofa however, flicking through the newspaper aimlessly, with a bored look on her face. He then reread the text. Yep, it definitely said what he thought it did the first time. He was sitting opposite a murderess. John, needless to say, was furious. Why did Sherlock think it was OK to leave him alone in the company of his murderous sister? And, despite his nerves of steel, he was also a teeny bit terrified:

WTF Sherlock?

Almost instantaneously, Sherlock replied:

Just don't let her out of your sight. She's dangerous. You will need your gun SH

John aggressively switched the screen of his phone off, and stuffed it unceremoniously into his trouser pocket. He then glanced again at the infamous sister, who was now draining the last drops of whisky into her mouth. While drumming his fingers anxiously on the arms of his chair, John began to plot the most subtle way he could get his gun from its hiding place in the desk, into his pocket; he did not want to be unarmed in the presence of a homicidal Holmes.

'About the gun in the top left hand drawer of your desk that you're presumably planning to get –'

Her tone was disinterested and matter-of-fact, and she kept her eyes fixed on the newspaper she was flicking through. John's mouth gaped and his eyes got wide. Araminta turned to face him.

'Oh please! You're as transparent as air! Was it Sherlock who texted you? Or Myke? I'm guessing that look of morbid terror means you've found out my secret. Anyway, the gun is already in my dressing gown pocket. It's my protection. Text Sherlock telling him that if he sends anybody over to come and get me, his bestie blogger get's it. That's you by the way.'

She smiled sweetly, and very artificially, and then turned back to her newspaper, her affected grin replaced by a look of complete indifference.

'Likewise, if you try leaving…'

Araminta trailed off, finishing her sentence by miming shooting John with her hand.

I'm now being kept hostage by your psychopathic sister. She has the gun.

John stared stonily at Araminta, his brows furrowed darky and eyes set grave. She didn't seem to notice however, or care very much about his presence. Instead she called Sheba over to her and ruffled her fluffy ears. The dog put one paw reverentially on her mistress' arm, and licked her nose. John, after learning he was now a hostage, was more than a little bit pissed off.

'So what now?' John's tone was deadly serious.

'Hmmm?' Araminta continued to pet Sheba.

'You've just declared that if I go anywhere you'll shoot me. You're a murderess on the run, and all you can do is lounge around drinking whisky and reading the paper. What now?'

'Hand me your laptop'

John looked puzzled. 'Why?'

Araminta began reaching a hand into the dressing gown pocket. John quickly obeyed her order.

'Why thank you. Password?'

'Surely you can guess it as easy as me telling you?'

Araminta smirked, tapped a few keys and pressed enter. The computer started logging on.

Although John had said that Araminta should guess his password, and although he was more than very aware of the Holmes' stupendous powers of deduction, he was still surprised that she had worked out his password in a matter of seconds. It felt invasive; this woman who didn't know him at all could just read him like an open book.

'How did you know?' John continued to stare at Araminta, his expression stressed and nonplussed.

Her ice blue, piercing gave met his, amusement dancing on the surface, although it was the cold, callous amusement of a cat playing with a helpless mouse.

'The first few letters are easy to guess. They are, in all probability, the letters you use the most on the keyboard. Not just when you enter your password to log on, but also when you try to access any of your online accounts. A man who leaves a gun in a very visible drawer is fairly careless, not the kind of man who has a separate password for all of his account, so you use this password every single time you try to access anything on your computer. Thus, I looked for the most used keys. You can see that the matt coating of the keys in some areas has been worn down so the keys are shiny, from regular use. The enter key is very used, so is the backspace and the space. The letter S is so used that it is completely shiny. T and B are also very shiny. The other keys are about as shiny as each other, so you can't tell with ones are used more often than others. So we have S, T and B. St is the abbreviation for saint, and when I see a B afterwards, I am automatically lead to assume Bart's. As distant as I have been from my brother's life, I have not been disinterested, and keep a keen eye on the news. Sherlock jumped from the roof of St Bart's. This building is a pivotal one in your life, and as people are inclined to be foolishly sentimental about such things, you therefore used it as your password.'

She had said this soliloquy of deduction without even breathing, and smirked at John's shocked expression. She then proceeded to type into the computer, causing the screen to go blue and various chains of number's and symbols to go whizzing across the screen.

'Err, what are you doing?'

'Oh, just hacking into dear Mycroft's account. He thinks that it's safe from cyber-attacks. Not when his little sister is the one attacking.'

'Why?'

'Oh please, John. I know the exertion of thinking must be excruciating for your pathetic excuse of a brain, but this is primary school stuff. Mycroft can control absolutely everything with his computer. He's literally just a few clicks away from starting a nuclear war if it takes his fancy. With his computer system broken, he no longer has the upper hand. Don't bother trying to evade Mycroft in London, when he can control every single CCTV system and can lock every single door. Instead, mess it up and run when he can't see you. There we go,' She clicked enter, 'CCTV is now down all over London.'

She leapt up from the sofa grinning, with remarkable energy considering she'd just downed a bottle of whisky. The contrast from torpor to vivacity was incredible. John's phone beeped.

'Your phone, John.'

She held out her palm accommodatingly. John reluctantly gave up his phone. Araminta checked the text, and laughed, slightly demonically. She read the text out to John:

'Tell Araminta that if she stops now, and hands herself in we're prepared to offer her a full pardon. If not, the consequences for her are dire, MH. Oh Mycroft, ever the politician, ever the diplomat. You understand that I'm dead either way?I do just luuurve winding him up. Let him just try and catch me. The thing with Myke, is that he's nothing without his computer, his power. I'm safe from him now. It's Sherlock I'm concerned about now. But he's certainly the more reasonable of the pair. The more human – well, for a Holmes'

She giggled again.

'What should I reply? I know.' She typed a message and sent it quickly, chucking the phone back to John. He read it:

Ciao, dear brother mine. How do like the CCTV shut down? If you think I'm handing myself in, you've got another thing coming. Any dire consequences to me will be reciprocated to John Watson. I've killed before. Don't make me do it again. AH xx

John wasn't quite sure what to do. He watched Araminta put on some boots which were much the worse for wear, and enrobe herself in Sherlock's old coat, over her dressing gown. It reached her ankles. She winked at her reflection in the mirror. Well, the Holmes' certainly shared a unconventiality in dressing, and a disinclination for wearing underwear.

'Sheba, John ¡Vamos!'

She flung open the door to the flat and flew down the stairs, coat and now dry curls flaring out behind. John followed; the risk of being shot if he didn't was quite persuasive, and even if he was safe from this risk, he wasn't sure the rest of London was. Once outside, Araminta raised a decisive arm to beckon a taxi, and a black cab accordingly pulled up. Instead of getting in the back seat, like a normal person, she opened the door, and sat next to the driver. John peered in behind.

'Oh bloody hell, not you again.'

The taxi driver happened to be the same one Sherlock deduced a few hours ago, and when he saw John and mistook Araminta for Sherlock, he thought he was going to be ferrying around those nutters again. The reality was worse; he was right to swear. Araminta smiled sweetly, and pointed the gun in his face. He wasted no time in getting out, with his hands above his head. Araminta took the driver's seat, and Sheba hopped in beside her.

'I'm really sorry, um, this lady is deranged, I'm so sorry, this is nothing to do with me-'

'Get in the cab John!'

John shrugged, looked apologetically at the taxi driver, and jumped in beside Araminta, and Sheba, who was taking up most of the space. The cab sped off, leaving the taxi driver looking helplessly on.

Mycroft sat at his desk, his head in his hands and let out a low groan. The ever erratic Sherlock paced neurotically around the room with a flagrant disregard for the furniture; he climbed over the smart leather armchair, his restless hands incessantly brushing through his mop of dark curls. Eventually, he stopped fiddling with his hair, reached into his pocket and brought out a packet of cigarettes, lit one, inhaling deeply, before sitting on the back of an armchair, so his feet rested on each arm.

"Sherlock put that out at once. This is a designated no smoking area. If anybody knew …'

Sherlock rolled his eyes exasperatedly and exhaled, causing smoke to drift out of his nostrils, dragon-like.

'If anybody knew they wouldn't care. You have the power to sack anyone of them. Besides, have you nothing better to do than instigate immoral office protocol? It might have escaped your notice but currently our mentally unstable sister, who died 10 years ago, is gallivanting around London with a gun, and John, her hostage. What are we going to do?"

Mycroft looked at Sherlock and said nothing. He was not one who often got stressed, but his eyes belied anxiety and strain. He fiddled with a pen for a few moments, remaining silent.

"Do you have any cigarettes to spare?"

Sherlock chucked Mycroft the packet, which he just caught, and the lighter, which he didn't. Frowning, with a cigarette between his lips, he made his way to the front of the desk to retrieve it. Perched on the edge of his desk, he lit the cigarette, and took a long drag.

"Araminta has succeeded in closing down my whole computer system. My system had access to those of the government and secret service, so they are also infected by the virus she so thoughtfully introduced. All communication systems are down, all CCTV systems are down; all databases are down, as are all security systems, grâce à Araminta. In short, not only are we unable to track our dear sister, the whole infrastructure of the country is vulnerable to even the most unsophisticated terrorist attacks and infiltrations. The question is not what can we do, little brother, but what can't we do.'

Sherlock shot Mycroft a look of utter contempt.

"So you suggest we do nothing?"

"No Sherlock, merely that there's not much that we can do."

"What, so we just wait here for something to happen? Wait for her to kill again? Wait for her to kill John?"

"She died."

"Not one of your best deductions Mycroft, considering she very much alive and kicking as we speak. She must have faked her death somehow – you've got to admit, it runs in the family."

Mycroft's eyes glazed over, and focused on a patch of thin air just over Sherlock's shoulder.

"She died, Sherlock. I killed her."