The Other One

by Still Marauding

The line went dead. He cradled his head in his hands, feeling. His phone rang again. A single beep. He picked it up and almost immediately dropped it again. It was his sister, his sweet sister, beaten and bloody, barely recognizable. Every bit of her face was stretched and distorted, discolored and bloody. "You know what happened to the other one."

8. Seven

Mycroft entered the flat without knocking. For a moment he thought he had accidentally walked in to the wrong apartment, though a second look disproved this.

Sherlock and Isla's flat had always been over-crowded and slightly messy, a bit too small for the pair of them. Sherlock's science equipment lay strewn throughout the kitchen and tiny sitting room. Microscopes, beakers and graduated cylinders sat on nearly every surface, some full of various bodily fluids, others with foul smelling chemical. A large sign was posted on the microwave in bold letter, reading: ABSOLUTELY NO SCIENCE IN THE MICROWAVE. A similar sign was posted on the refrigerator, this one reading: SCIENCE ON THE LEFT. Papers were tacked to the walls, some with actual tacks, some with penknives and other various sharp objects. Every other available surface seemed to be covered with books. They lined the floor and the windowsills, sat double-parked on the shelves. Bookmarks hung out of some, while others lay open and still others were marked by small rocks and other books.

But now it seemed bare, Isla's books boxed up, the signs missing from their respective appliances. Everything that had belonged to her was gone, every last scrap of paper, every lone sock. Sherlock looked up as he stepped inside, his face set.

"Brother," he said formally.

"Brother," Mycroft answered in equal formality.

"Well now that you've had your check-in, if you could kindly leave. I'm busy," Sherlock said bad-temperedly, turning back to one of the few boxes that still lay open.

"I can see. Two weeks and it's like she never existed," he said coolly. He regretted it as soon as it passed his lips, but it was too late now. He'd have to hold his ground.

"Shut up Mycroft," he spat, wheeling around. "And get out."

"That was her favorite book," Mycroft said, picking up the worn little volume. "The Hobbit. I used to read it to her all the time when she was small. And now it's in the rubbish heap with the rest of it."

"You haven't any idea what it's like to be surrounded by all of this stuff."

"No, I don't."

They stared at each other, a silent truce reached. Mycroft pocketed the book, leaving Sherlock to the rest of his packing.