A/N: Hello, dearest readers! I have decided to drop my dear editor, Ledded, unless she gives me some things to work with. So, here's chapter six, beta'd and edit'd by moi, and spell check. Hmmm, where to begin. Ledded, if you read this, sorry, but you take forever. I wish I was joking.

Anyway, Chapter six, and after some time, I have decided to call it

Brother

Because we're gonna learn a bit more about who this 'brother' character is, right? Alright! This is kinda sad, so I'm sorry. And yes, I know, more Holmes. He's in the next one, I swear! And a few mentions in this one! - B

The rest of the afternoon was spent in moderate quiet, and Olivia enjoyed the peace. But she soon grew bored of it. She picked up herself, looking around her flat, quietly. She was sitting on her rather small bed, which despite everything that happened to it, was rather comfortable.

Next to her bed was her nightstand, and the daisies on it looked rather sad and droopy now. Olivia sighed, bringing them to a small bathroom jutting off her room next to her closet. She filled the vase with water, before setting it back on the nightstand. Carefully, she touched one of the daisy's petals, before muttering, "Petites fleurs, parlez a moi, s'il vous plait."

The daisy, however, remained quiet and peaceful, and Olivia returned her attention to the room. Next to her window was her wooden dresser, with most of her working dresses. She stood in front of it now, looking solemnly at the bottom left drawer. She knelt down, and pulled it open slowly, as if it might explode if she moved to fast. In the bottom left drawer were newspaper clippings.

Mostly about her brother, and Holmes, the man she had met recently. She had so carefully blotted out the man's name every time it appeared in the clear font, but Doctor Watson's remained clear. The papers with her brother on them seemed void of ink and tears, and all they received were empty glances, maybe a mutter of 'why,' but that was it.

There were two clippings Olivia kept about herself, and those were so carefully placed on top. One had her picture on it, holding a violin, and she truly looked happy. That was the time she had gotten into to perform with a very prestigious orchestra, and the picture was taken after. She was eighteen, a mature adult, and planned on opening a music shop, the article read. It went on to say something about passion with string instruments, and the then Olivia was a true musician, through and through.

The now Olivia was still a musician, but also a shopkeeper, making it that harder to find time to practice. The violinist turned her head to her mirror, and flipped it over, looking at the sealed envelope that was taped carefully to the back. Written on it was the nice, neat script of her brother that read, 'When you've forgiven me.' She breathed a sigh of relief, and placed the mirror back, tears forming in her green eyes.

She had forgiven her brother, long since then, actually. She had forgiven him when she walked away from his jail cell a few minutes before his hanging. But opening the envelope right then and there seemed. . . She struggled to find a word for it, but she couldn't find any that fit. It seemed to her as if she would've been mocking him and if she had opened the letter right then and there. Mocking his last request of seeing her. She remembered that day, like it was yesterday.

Olivia Irings, a violinist in her late twenties, walked down the sidewalk to the jail where her brother was being kept at. In about two hours, the whole ordeal for him would be over, but for the young woman, the battle would still be raging like wildfire. Ever since the great detective Sherlock Holmes had declared that her brother was the main suspect in a triple homicide, her almost perfect life had been falling apart.

Her fiancé had broken off their engagement, her shop's income had dropped horribly, people even came into her shop to curse her and her family's name, her children, her brother.

The parents of the children she taught placed their children with other teachers. Another month of this and she'd have to move shop, scaling down quite a bit.

But she walked on, in anger, to her brother. He had made her his last request, which disgusted her. If people found this out, she would never have the once perfect life she had. When she reached the jail, she was led by an officer to her brother's cell. He was alone, most likely because this is the cell where people went before they were hanged. He looked at her, with his green eyes, so much like hers. He stood up, and walked to the bars, sticking his arm through to ruffle her hair. "Hello, dearest sister Olivia. Might I inquire how you've been?"

Olivia bit the inside of her cheek, thinking of a proper answer. Her brother chuckled at his sister, before rubbing her arm. "You always were one to think before you answered simple questions like that," her brother said, locking eyes with his younger sibling.

Olivia looked enraged, but her brother looked peaceful. He looked down, and picked up one of her hands. Her left. He looked at her disappointedly, before he spoke in a soft voice.

"Why have you stopped playing, sister? You were always so good at it. I remember when we were kids, when you got that violin when you were eight, oh, how your face lit up!" He chuckled, a blank look on his face, telling Olivia that he was reliving that moment in time. She hissed softly at him, and he returned back to reality. "Right. Now, the reason I brought you here. I know you're a bit frustrated with me for committing those horrible acts, but I hope one day you'll forgive me."

The violinist nodded slowly, biting her lip to keep her from speaking and saying something rude. Her brother pulled her closer, and gently gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Good bye, dearest sister. I'll miss you."

He slipped an envelope into her left hand, and let go of her. She looked at it for a moment, before a single tear slid down her cheek. She felt saddened, and all she wanted to do was throw her arms around her brother, but the bars made that impossible. "I'll miss you, too, dearest brother," Olivia said as she slid away from the bars. She gave a slight wave to her brother, before nodding to the guard that she wanted to be taken back to the front.

The now Olivia rubbed away a few tears that were rolling down her face as she looked at the article in which Holmes had 'so cleverly found out that O. H. Irings had been the murderer all along,' as the reporter put it. Olivia rubbed her eyes, and brought herself back to the bed, lying down. Slowly, she began falling asleep, but just as she was, she mumbled, "Why, dearest Oscar?"