It wasn't really in Eve's nature to be deeply concerned about her family. Mycroft worked for the bloody government, and Sherlock was, well, Sherlock. That being said, Eve watched the television with wide eyes as the local news channel covered the breaking, shocking story of Sherlock Holmes, who'd been arrested, and then promptly taken John Watson as a hostage and run off. That concerned Eve greatly. She knew Sherlock hated being the centre of attention publicly, even though he loved being a show off. That's where the whole 'private consulting detective' thing had come from, and this was definitely bad for his Reichenbach Hero image. She followed the story intently, considering the fact that she figured if she texted Sherlock, he wouldn't exactly have the time to text her back about what was going on. And of course, this was probably all Jim's fault, so he was most likely too busy to answer his phone as well.
It didn't exactly come as a shock when Eve woke up to an empty flat the next morning. She hadn't even realized that she'd fallen asleep in Sherlock's favourite chair, the TV still on the news station, and still wearing yesterday's clothes. There was the sound of heavy footsteps downstairs, which sounded too calm and weighted to be either Sherlock or John's. Faintly, she heard Ms. Hudson's voice talking to a man, who Eve figured must have been there to fix something in the slowly-falling-apart flat.
The news channel still covered Sherlock's escapades from last night, but all in all, it seemed to have quieted down in the last few hours. Eve took her phone out of her pocket, frowning at the lack of messages. She shook her head, before sending a quick message to Jim.
What the Hell is going on? –EH
She fiddled with her phone for a good twenty minutes, watching cars go by out of the window, occasionally listening in to the television before Jim finally decided to text her back.
I'm sorry it has to turn out like this. Jim xxx.
Now that text concerned her. Sure, Jim was always a little mysteriously vague, but that was just the man's style. But this was too much. Eve quickly dialed his number, and waited nervously while it rang.
On the rooftop of St. Bart's hospital, Moriarty's phone rang its familiar tune, Staying Alive, as Sherlock Holmes came up through the roof's entrance. The criminal didn't even look over at him. "Ah. Here we are at last – you and me, Sherlock, and our problem – the final problem."
Eve waited for Jim to pick up the phone, and angrily threw it on to the sofa when he didn't pick up. Jim always pickedup. What the Hell did he mean, 'had to turn out like this'? Just then, Eve heard another set of footsteps downstairs, and those ones were familiar. She practically ran down the stairs in time to see John run back out the door and hail a taxi, or rather, kick someone else out of one. "Shit" she growled, slamming her hand against the wall in aggravation. "Evangeline? What's the matter?" Ms. Hudson asked, and eyebrow curiously raised "Sherlock Holmes is the problem" she muttered, stalking dejectedly back upstairs.
Evangeline heard it from John before she heard it from the papers. And for the first time in a long time, she didn't know what to say. What could she have said to 'Sherlock's dead. So's Moriarty'? John was sitting across from Sherlock's favourite chair, rubbing his hands over his face as he stared vacantly at the violin that lay on the window sill. Eve knew that he was still in partial shock over the event, still in denial, and the tears would come later. Tears always came, at some point. The whole flat was in a crisp silence, which was intensely unusual for any place that was – had been – inhabited by Sherlock Holmes. No violin, no text messages, no minor explosions in the microwave.
Curled up on the couch, tears streaming down her cheeks silently, Eve held her head in her hands, just trying to think clearly. Not that she and Sherlock had been exactly close, but he was her brother, and in their own ways, they'd cared about each other. Not only was her big brother dead, but so was her boyfriend. Is boyfriend even the right word? She thought, before shaking her head. It didn't matter now, anyways. For a second her mind wandered to Mycroft, wondering how her stoic, eldest brother would handle it. Mycroft certainly wouldn't cry, like in the way Sherlock never cried. Except that Sherlock didn't have the mental capacity to feel something so deeply that he could cry.
Suddenly, she felt a hand on her shoulder, and looked up to see John kneeling by her. He gave her a soft smile, rubbing her arm gently as she cried. She could see in his eyes that once Eve was gone, he'd break down. Eve supposed that that was the military man in him. So, for the moment, she sat up quickly and hugged the doctor, sobbing quietly in to his shoulder as he rubbed her back. You never realize how much something means to you until it's gone.
John had kindly let Eve stay in the flat after Sherlock was gone, so long as she made enough money to pay part of the rent. She felt like Sherlock's replacement, but she knew she could never replace her charismatic older brother. There had even been a point where John had offered to let Eve sleep in Sherlock's old room, but they both knew that it just wasn't right. Money came rather easily to her surprise, finding odd jobs singing at cafes and bars, and sometimes even getting calls to make special performances. She had no idea how people had gotten her number, but she was glad that she got a chance to perform. Somehow, writing songs had come easier to her now, though more and more of them had become about heartbreak and sadness. John had found a new girlfriend about two months after Sherlock's death who John really seemed to connect with, and Eve couldn'tve been happier for him.
Eve had been watching the news one morning with John while they ate their breakfasts, when Sherlock's name came up on the screen for the first time in months. The 'Sherlock Holmes Fraud' issue had died off only a week after the detective himself did, but suddenly in had resurfaced. "The late detective Sherlock Holmes is now being accused of crimes that were previously believed to be the work of the also late James Moriarty, who's claim to fame is his attempt to steal the crown jewels" the reporter said, while pictures of Sherlock and old newspaper articles flashed on screen "Now the question that faces London: Do you believe in Sherlock Holmes?" John quickly changed the channel, and didn't see Eve's eyes brighten at the report. "I'm going out" she said quickly, putting her bowl down and quickly running out of the room, grabbing her coat and putting it on as she ran down stairs. John cracked a small smile "Just like him"