Sherlock opened his wallet to find that it was distinctly... empty. With no other option, he took out a bank card and slotted it in to the machine. The cab ride seemed pretty expensive, but rather unusually, Sherlock didn't see it fit to complain too much - he was, after all, carrying a harpoon and several taxis had passed him by on Baker Street - instead he muttered under his breath whilst jabbing the four digits on the keypad. He was half in, half out of the cab, with his latest toy tucked under his arm. Of course, he was impatient, so when the machine took fractionally longer than normal to complete the payment he started to tap his foot on the tarmac.
Unable to complete transaction.
He had to double take when the error message appeared. Exasperated (and more than used to having any necessary funding at his disposal) he pushed the card further in to the slot. A lot of mumbling followed; why don't things just work?
The driver suggested that he tried again, only to be met with a death stare usually reserved for those idiots who don't stand to the right on escalators. Just as Sherlock began to consider snapping the bloody thing and using the harpoon to its full advantage, an arm was extended over his shoulder. The leather glove attached to the end of it held a crisp twenty pound note.
"Keep the change." The familiar voice diverted Sherlock's rage way from the small plastic gadget and towards its owner.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock dropped his hands and turned so that he was staring directly in to the eyes of his brother. Mycroft took the opportunity to inspect his eyes, along with the bags underneath them. Everything seemed to be in order. They squared up to each other for a few seconds. The younger was quickly reminded of his awkward position by a call from the driver seat, strongly infected with cockney, that asked him whether he was 'in or out'. As soon as the detective chose the latter and slammed the door (a small protest because of the inflated price tag of the journey) the car sped away.
"I could ask you the very same thing." said the elder, eyeing up the tall and frightfully pointy instrument in Sherlock's hand.
"It's for a case." Came the reply, as if it was an adequate justification for carrying around a weapon. Sherlock brushed past Mycroft and towards the old industrial units behind him. He fixed his collar to complete what had apparently become his 'trademark look'. The affected tone with which Mycroft called after him made him stop.
"How is she?"
Sherlock spun around on the ball of his foot. "How do you think? Frankly, I'm surprised you need to ask seeing as you seem to have twenty four hour CCTV trained on the back of our heads." He went to walk off again, pleased with the fortitude of his statement. As ever, Mycroft seemed intent to outdo his little brother; he was not allowed to get away with assumptions like that.
"Yes, Sherlock, I do need to ask. I need to ask, I need to be here, because of your petty refusal to answer my calls. Both of you - do not think my anger is singularly directed at you - seem committed to the notion of keeping me out of the loop and I will not stand for it."
"So you're telling me that we are the ones at fault here? You don't think that you could have handled it slightly better yourself? There is a reason she came to me, Mycroft. The same reason she always has done." The younger edged closer to the elder. He could feel a need for violence in his blood, coursing through his veins, yet he somehow refrained. His fingers curled in to fists of their own accord. They were now around six feet apart.
Mycroft visibly tensed as he heard the final sentence - he stood taller and lifted his chin in an attempt to illustrate that he would not be backing down.
"I do not wish to talk business with her. I was contacting her in a familial capacity. Please let her know."
With that, Mycroft chose to walk away. Years of practise told Sherlock that the last word belonged to his brother, no matter how much his audacity warranted response. As he turned to continue with the original plan, he scowled up on hearing his brother's shout:
"Don't worry, the cab is on me."
She woke up wrapped in a knot of blankets and at a very strange angle in relation to the position of the bed. Wiping the sleep away from her eyes, she turned to check the bedside clock. 8:23. The most sleep she had had in weeks.
Still cloaked in tatty midnight blue throw, she emerged from the dark bedroom and in to the sun lit hallway, which was currently boasting the smell of bacon. John was clearly awake, then. He was humming to himself as he made breakfast. All of a sudden, she felt conscious of the fact that she was a guest in someone else's house. Even worse, she was wearing a periodic table t-shirt that Sherlock had dug out for her (apparently a present from the lab technician at Bart's) and a blanket cape. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed her suspicions about appearing to have been dragged through a hedge backwards. She sighed, returning back to the bedroom to retrieve yesterday's screwed up work clothes from the corner of her brother's bedroom. After throwing them on, she couldn't help but grin at the thought of actually being in Sherlock's room. To think - the old 'KEEP OUT' sign decorated with skulls and crossbones had been enough to deter her from crossing the threshold for years.
Faylinn returned to the living room looking at least a little more presentable, if nothing else. The cape remained, however, as her blouse was still slightly damp after last night's torrential downpour. The doctor had now turned on breakfast television, the noise masking her second attempt at an entrance.
"Morning." She turned on her best smile as John turned to greet her.
"Good morning." He mirrored her half-smile. Faylinn immediately noticed that it never travelled to eyes. She let her own mouth drop as soon as she was alone in the room - John had now journeyed to the kitchen to make her breakfast. Was this how Sherlock lived now? Waking up to a cheery flatmate who offered you toast? It was unclear whether she was meant to be suspicious of or grateful for John Watson.
Faylinn hovered uselessly while the kettle boiled. Desperately trying to collect the scattered utensils and discarded teabags from the worktop, John tried to initiate a conversation.
"They said it's going to be a nice day today."
"They're usually wrong." She mumbled. The woman didn't look up as she flicked through a pile of papers on the desk.
"Hmmm." John didn't seem to know how to react to that; it seemed like a very 'Sherlock' response. "Do you take sugar?"
"No...No thank you."
They smiled at each other as John delivered the drink. Faylinn returned to her sniff around what she assumed to be Sherlock's work files, scanning everything before returning it to its exact original place. Her host cleared his throat, drawing her attention away for a second: he was staring directly at her. Oooo. He was clearly very protective then. Perhaps that was why Sherlock kept him hanging around. Not only was he a helpful boost to the ego with the blog, but he seemed to act as a guard dog too. How quaint.
Silence reigned as they stared at each other, only broken by John offering his guest breakfast. She politely refused. Expecting questioning and even possibly a lecture, she aimed to divert the conversation.
"Where is he?"
"Oh, Sherlock? He had already gone out before I got up this morning. I would imagine it's case related - he was up well in to the early hours last night experimenting and well..." He looked at her, almost as though he couldn't quite believe she was real. "You know what he's like, I suppose, once he's got his mind set on something it can't wait."
Faylinn's only reply was a nod. Surveying the room, she wasn't sure if what John had said was true anymore. 'You know what he's like'. She could once claim to have been the closest person in the world to her brother; a world expert in the field of Sherlock Holmes. Not anymore. Not now he had a proper home, a flatmate and perhaps most surprisingly, a best friend. Recognisably the same, yet so different.
Steam rose from the top of her teacup as she sipped away at the caramel liquid. The warmth flooded into her chest, melting away all the tension in her shoulders and allowing her to sink back in to the soft cushions of the sofa. This is what she'd really missed in America - a proper cup of tea.
John seemed determined to not let the weak and ailing conversation die so continued to limp onwards. Faylinn pretended not to notice as he continued to look at her as though she was some kind of mythical creature.
"There's three of you. I still can't get over it."
"You must have had one hell of a childhood, with two brothers like Sherlock and Mycroft." He laughed to himself, ensuring that his remark was received with good jest. He looked over to her, having to turn his body slightly to get a good view, but still not able to miss the twinkle of sorrow that flashed behind the blue of her eyes. She forced yet another smile.
"Yeah, you could say that."
John seemed to want more than that; he eyed her expectantly. Faylinn had no further comment, however, unable to move past whatever snag her mind had become caught on. She stared at nothing in particular, almost forgetting about her surroundings.
"Your mum must have had her hands full."
Even after all those years, she still felt it - that twinge of pain in her ribs. She swallowed and shuffled in her seat. John didn't seem to know, but really that wasn't at all surprising. If Sherlock had neglected to mention one whole sibling, then why would he have been willing to excavate the deepest and most delicate points of his past? The loss of their mother didn't necessarily need to be a secret, but it had somehow evolved in to one over the years. Faylinn had often considered this process, but it had taken a meeting with John Watson to make her realise that all this time, they had been lacking someone worth telling. As the dull stab of sadness subsided, nostalgia replaced it. Indeed, her mother's hands were full, but she seemed to relish the challenge. She never got angry when they all squabbled in the back seat of the car, when Sherlock fed the cheque book to the dog or even that time when Mycroft 'accidentally' locked him in the shed. She was always proud, even when she didn't understand the completed experiment or the new theory. She was kind hearted and that was what each of her children needed her to be.
Still smiling to herself, Faylinn realised that nothing had been said for a while. The doctor appeared to be looking at her again.
"Do you have any siblings?" That seemed like something normal to ask. Of course, she couldn't help but already know the answer; his phone and a small scribbled line on the calendar was enough to tell her he had a sister. Older, probably. She knew well enough what it was like to be the youngest and there was something about John that told her he knew too.
"Yes." His grip on the handle of the now empty mug suddenly became tighter. "Yeah. I have a sister. I don't see much of her, mind."
He didn't seem sorry about that. Faylinn concluded that the conversation had now met it's natural end, so rose from her seat and shed her cloak. John had clearly thought the same and had his laptop closed on his knee, ready to work. After folding the blanket and placing it on the arm of the sofa with a firm pat, she took her cup and rinsed it in the sink. She wanted to make a move, but hesitated. It felt strange not to have an office to report to. Downstairs, the door was heard slamming shut. John sat up straighter - the cursor blinked in front of him as he listened for the footsteps approaching up the seventeen steps.
The door was flung open.
"That was tedious." John took one look at him.
"You went on the tube like that?!" The stench wrinkled his nose. This statement had aroused the guest's curiosity, as she crossed the kitchen and poked her head around the corner. The sight that she was met with was one that the average person would have been shocked, even horrified by. She knew to expect it. He stood in the doorway, crimson from head to toe. The blood covered his clothes, his shoes, his skin and had somehow glued his fringe to his forehead. When she emerged, Sherlock's head snapped towards her.
"None of the cabs would take me."
With that, he took his spear and left, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He could be heard stamping down the hall and swearing under his breath after a loud bang.
"I hope you don't mind..." she said. John looked up at her. "...but I'm definitely going to want to hear the story behind that."
She fell backwards on to the sofa, for once content to stay put.
I hope you enjoyed it! I'm personally not too sure about this particular chapter, so I'd love to hear what you think? Constructive criticism is always welcome.
Thank you for reading, favouriting and following - it means a lot.
