Sent: Tuesday, 15th June 02:27

Mrs S is in Ldn this weekend. Are you willing to commit to an engagement? -F

Sent: Wednesday, 16th June 16:03

...Well?

Sent: Wednesday, 16th June 16:04

If I didn't know you any better then I'd say you were ignoring me...

Sent: Friday, 18th June 23:56

Never mind. I'll say you're not interested.

Sherlock looked around the flat, noticing for the first time that it had turned dark. He reached for his phone, which was awash with notifications, and learnt that it was, in fact, Saturday. Hmm.

As he unfolded his legs and sat up from his vantage point on the sofa, his muscles creaked and ached - a sure sign he was growing old. He made a mental note not to let Mycroft find out about that. His brother did not require any fuel for ridicule; it would go to his head.

His eyes flicked down the list of received emails and messages, helping to allay his fears of having missed an important case. Fortunately, most of them were mundane enough to be solved from the subject heading. A few required the rest of the email to be scanned, but the sum total of energy that needed to be expended on the task was close to zero.

He could then turn his attention to texts. The consulting detective made a point of providing his number to a very limited audience, so there was far fewer to contend with. Just one from John, who was grappling with Harry's antics in Bristol, or wherever else she had ended up this time. He sounded very fussy. No change there then. He seemingly wasn't getting much sleep, either. Faylinn's were the only other messages of interest.

Despite often being mocked by John for his lack of understanding of 'feelings' and 'emotions', Sherlock was not oblivious to the disappointment lying behind the most recent text.

He got up from the settee, leaving an imprint behind, and made a b-line for the kettle. After flicking the switch, he contemplated a reply. The cursor blinked unhelpfully back at him as the kettle shook behind him and eventually clicked off, allowing for a break in attempts at familial communication.


"Hello Dear!" Faylinn was absorbed in to the arms of her old housekeeper before she even had time to reply. The greeting had been shouted so loudly over the incoming travellers that the whole of Marylebone station seemed to be gawping at Faylinn's increasingly coloured cheeks. She eventually freed herself from the steely grip of the surprisingly strong older woman and waited for the inevitable inspection. Her features were surveyed one by one. Experience told her to plaster on a smile, relax her shoulders and widen her eyes. The faithful recipe was a success, as she was released without further comment.

London rain - always to be expected, no matter now deceptively blue the sky - had set in. Umbrellas went up and cagoule clad tourists scurried indoors to shelter from the typical British weather. At least they're getting the proper experience, Faylinn thought, as she nodded along to the rhythm of Mrs Scott's ramble regarding the seating arrangements on her train.

"Where are you staying?" Faylinn probed. She was making a half-hearted attempt at digging the conversation out of the hole that the bumbling housekeeper had created.

She was handed a note with a perfectly copied address on it. The calligraphy was something to be admired - evidence to suggest Mrs Scott had never lost her trademark attention to detail. The hotel on the paper was incredibly expensive. The haunt of visiting heads of state and famous businessmen, writers, academics. Definitely Mycroft's doing.

"Mycroft arranged it, very kind of him." Yep, there it was.

Faylinn wanted to reply, very specifically through gritted teeth to that remark. Mycroft had not spent so much money on accommodation out of the kindness of his own heart (that was actually in very short supply). The eldest had recently bailed out of entertaining beloved Mrs Scott. Something about meetings. He had been very specific about his alternative arrangements, giving Faylinn reason to be suspicious. As Sherlock was so fond of saying, only lies have detail.

"Hmm." The youngest Holmes frowned and pocketed the directions as she climbed in to a cab with her companion. Through the process of elimination, she had been forced to assume the role of host and as much as she loved Mrs S, she wasn't too happy about the set up.

Small talk filled the journey across north London.

"You should cut your hair, love." Mrs Scott made distracted comments as she stared out of the window.

"I had it done last week, actually." Faylinn replied. The older lady looked at her again. She tilted her head to the side, as if trying to find the best angle, searching for more data to make the final verdict.

"Did you?" She allowed a pause to punctuate the conversation as her attention was snatched by some sort of protest on the side of the road. She soon carried on when the traffic light turned green. "You should wear it short. It would suit you more. The lady who does my hair could do it for you if you'd like. She's ever so good."

She smiled, trying not to laugh. A raise of the eyebrow was added for effect. "Thanks, Mrs S. I'll keep that in mind."

She carried the small overnight bag up to the hotel room, which was honestly, bigger than her flat. Faylinn made a mental note to read up on the price list for this place. A concierge, who had followed the two women to the second floor, was adamant that they needed to be fussed over. Mrs Scott would have allowed him to exhibit the numerous features of the room for the remainder of the evening (the Jacuzzi bath, the mini bar, the television that required the operator to have a degree in computer science and the complementary confectionery) but Faylinn was quick to shoo him away. Content that Mrs Scott was settled, she politely bowed out, promising to meet her before their dinner reservation at The Ivy. Funnily enough, that particular arrangement was also Mycroft's doing.


Faylinn was satisfied to see that she had turned a few heads as she walked in to the restaurant. Unfortunately, all of the heads were incredibly middle aged - not that she would have pursued any claims anyway, but it was always nice to know that she still had it. With her guest in tow, she approached the manager.

"Hi. Table for two under the name of Holmes?" He scanned the list.

"Holmes? One of your party has already arrived. Let me show you to your table."

Faylinn was about to protest about the mistake that had clearly been made on the part of the staff, until she rounded the corner and saw a familiar head of black curls.

From behind the professional host, the younger Holmes revealed her scowl to her brother. Sherlock glanced up from the menu, directing a flicker of confusion towards the taller, younger woman and standing to attention for the woman behind her. He reluctantly opened his arms to welcome Mrs Scott, leaving Faylinn with an obscured view. This dinner was his first trip outside of Baker Street for days and the fact that he had even scanned the leather bound menu told her everything she needed to know about his calorie intake during the past 72 hours. His collar, plum purple and ironed by a skilled hand, was ever so slightly turned up on the back of his neck. This suggested that not only had Sherlock left the flat in a hurry, but he had done so alone. She trusted that John Watson would have picked up on such a detail. The impulse to correct it made her hands tremble, from the tip of her index finger to her tiny wrist. Anchoring them to her side with the use of excess dress material, she gave Sherlock one last subliminal search. Mycroft would be asking for some evidenced conclusions soon and it was best to be prepared.

The detective received his inspection, just as Faylinn had done hours before. From her seat, she ticked off the well known checklist: relaxed shoulders, big 'television' smile and wide eyes. He was released, apparently having passed.

With Mrs Scott now studying the wine list beside her, Faylinn was able to have a hushed conversation with her older brother.

"Qu'est-ce que tu fais là?" she hissed.

"Que voulez -vous dire? J'ai été invité!" Sherlock replied, adapting to the sudden lingual change with an enviable ease.

"Oui, mais vous n'avez pas accepté!"

Stalemate reached, the two returned to the pleasantries of dinner. Their contributions were minimal - simply questions to refuel the long monologues of their housekeeper. Sherlock received a rather brutal kick in the shin, owing to his reaction to Mrs Scott's description of Mycroft as 'very busy and important'. Of course, he had to respond with his own jab under the table. This trend continued until desert arrived.

Once the bill was argued over and settled, a cab was found for Mrs Scott and Sherlock was prevented from exposing an affair, the siblings found themselves on the pavement, simultaneously lighting a cigarette.

"I thought you'd quit." Faylinn ventured, flicking ash away with a manicured fingernail.

"I could say the same to you." He spoke around the fag, shooting her a sideways glance. The two smokers were forced together by a stag party that bulldozed the pavement with its loud chants and flailing, drunken limbs. Faylinn leant against the wall, Sherlock facing her but refusing to look her in the eye. The flicker of his pupils told a story, however, revealing that he was fulfilling the same task that she had taken on earlier. The woman sighed, having assumed that Mycroft had taken her word for it when she assured him she was 'absolutely fine'.

Stamping out his cigarette, Sherlock looked set to leave. Orders from the British Government had not arrived, something which had irked him - why was he considered to be more high risk than the little sister who had recently been made unemployed? He took it upon himself to weigh her up.

She looked... sad. Amongst other things. The detective considered his options, knowing that he was not renowned for his tact or empathy. Cold wind stained her cheeks, blossoming as she distractedly watched the blur of the city go by. Cabs crowned with lights, all of which could potentially excuse him from this situation, were allowed to continue on their way towards Covent Garden. Baker Street beckoned, but the calls of home and his dressing gown were still feeble enough to be resisted.

"Got anything on, at the moment?" he asked tentatively, referring to the mobile that Faylinn was now typing on. She sighed.

"Nothing important."

"That exciting, really?"

He forced a smile, hoping that the sentiment would be reflected back. It was not. She simply looked up from the blue screen, staring at him with a mixture of pity, expectation and confusion. Sherlock shifted his weight on to one foot, struggling to read such a cocktail of emotions so quickly. His sister waited for him to continue, forcing him to forge on.

"Is everything... you know... okay?" Sherlock prompted.

With an unexpected smirk and an over-exaggerated eye roll (usually reserved for the other brother) she pushed off from the wall with her foot. Sherlock instinctively lurched backwards, maintaining the distance between himself and his sibling. He relaxed once again, content that there was no real potent threat in the vicinity. Faylinn had not finished however, as she took the two strides necessary to square up to the man. Within a few seconds, her hand had seized Sherlock's iPhone, which she gripped tightly and broke in to a run. Perplexed noises stemming from over her shoulder made her snigger. A new burst of speed was necessary as her brother caught on to the game; his Oxford shoes tapped on the concrete rhythmically behind her. It felt freeing to run. The wind roared in her ears and formed tears in the corner of her eyes. Strides getting longer - sprinting now - she started to search for a diversion. A small alley on her left seemed adequate.

Without giving away her intentions a moment too soon, she swerved in to the tiny cobbled side street, stopping as soon as she was out of Sherlock's view. To taunt him, Faylinn held the phone out at arm's length, signalling her position as she did so.

The device was whisked from her grasp as Sherlock ran past her, evidently unable to stop in time. A creased brow questioned her actions, but all she was able to do in response was to puff out her cheeks. Regaining her composure, she held her hip, drawing in as much air as possible through slightly parted lips. Sherlock, too, seemed to be struggling with the sudden burst of exercise, as he folded and placed his palms on his knee caps. The heavy breathing continued for a few seconds, until the two unintentionally made eye contact. The gasping then suddenly descended in to laughter - uncontrollable laughter that Sherlock attempted to shield with his hand. Faylinn's nose wrinkled as she giggled.

"What the hell was that for?" The detective asked, finally able to form a question in between dying chuckles.

"Listening to you talk was becoming painful," she gibed, "I had to think of something that would shut you up!"

Sorry. I'm not really sure that there was any point to that. I just had the idea running around in my head for a while. I hope you liked it!

Also I do not, by any stretch of the imagination, claim to speak French (I did what I could with Google and an old French dictionary) so feel free to correct me.

Thank you to those of you who have reviewed, favourited and followed!