WARNING: TRIGGER ALERT - SERIOUS INJURIES/TRAUMA

There will be a graphic description of the injuries sustained by Sherrinford in the blast, if this is a trigger, do not read.

Mind whirling like a dervish, Sherlock had no doubt in his mind that Mycroft was correct, they were looking at a living, breathing Sherrinford Holmes and though a part of him wanted to pitch a small fit at the moment, he choked it down viciously. When Mycroft moved forward to interrupt the couple that remained oblivious to their presence, Sherlock stepped in front of his brother and stopped him.

"Leave them be a moment," he said with a level of calm that he in no way felt, "regardless of how we feel, this cannot have been easy for her." He glanced over to where the couple remained, held tight in each other's embrace; his sister's eyes were closed tight, silent tears making a ruin of her makeup. "Them," he corrected, he could barely hear Lestrade's voice, low, urgent but far too quiet to make out exactly what he was saying, "Spare her your anger, we have a much better target for that."

Mycroft gained visible control of his emotions as he quirked a brow, "The voice of reason, Sherlock? Not your strong suit."

Sherlock nodded with a smirk, "As one who has returned from the dead after a lengthy exile, I gained certain… perspective."

"Really," Mycroft drawled, his eyes locked on his sister as if memorizing her, "Enlighten me."

Sherlock glanced over to where Anthea stood; he met her gaze and said simply, "Loving a Holmes is painful, for all parties. We plan for all contingencies but who plans for them."

Mycroft stepped away from him, a sneer flicking across his face, "Where was this lofty view when you shot Magnusson?"

Sherlock sat down, glancing up at his brother, "You always say that caring is a disadvantage, Mycroft but look at our sister. Truly look at her and see that never, not ever, would she say that to you. I understood that viewpoint when I shot Magnusson – no one was safe while he lived and breathed and if my freedom was the price to be paid, so be it. Now sit down and drink your tea."

Moments ticked into minutes before Sherrinford pulled away from Lestrade, her fingers tracing the curve of his jaw before she addressed them, "You are kinder than I deserve, you undoubtedly have questions – I'll answer them as best I can." The accent she'd affected was gone, in its place the public school tones he remembered. "Before we start, well, I have a few requests, nothing major."

Sherlock nodded sagely, "A new chair?"

Her smile was warm and amused, "I do suppose an uncomfortable chair would make clients much more inclined to brief explanations of their case." When the faint trace of a smile ghosted across his lips, she said softly, "Also, if you would be so kind to ask one of my keepers to bring up my travel bag, I would appreciate, nay, love to change and repair the disaster that is my 'disguise'."

Retrieving an elegant Queen Anne's chair from his bedroom, he brought it into the living area and at the table below the bison skull. His search for a proper sized mirror had proven problematic until he remembered the elaborate mirror he'd purchased from an antiques shop with the plan to give it to his mother for her birthday. The 'Fall' had put an end to that plan but it was just the thing in this case.

Lestrade was talking to Mycroft when he returned to the living area, a slightly haunted expression on his face. So many questions, Sherlock thought as he handed the mirror to his sister. Yes, he thought to himself, 'Going to take some time to getting used to saying that again'. He fully expected Mummy to be ghastly when it came to holiday invites and his expression hardened.

The faintest of touches drew his attention back to Sherrinford; she was watching him with those utterly alien brown eyes. 'Coloured contacts, obviously!' he chided was that touch again, the merest tap of a perfectly shaped finger nail. He met her gaze and arched a brow, "Let it go for now, it's a distraction, nothing more."

With a slightly annoyed sigh, he gave his agreement and slipped into the kitchen to search for another teacup. Before he had the chance to get more than a pace away, Mycroft coughed, pointing with one talon-like finger at the tea service. Anthea had been busy while they'd been dealing with their personal demons – a full tea service, scones (where had she found scones?) and a plate of biscuits sat on a side table placed conveniently for Mycroft's reach.

He listened with scant interest as Mycroft and Lestrade talked freely in front of him for the first time that he could remember, he wondered how much their feigned indifference had cost them over the years. Instead of their conversation, he focused on the woman at the table as she pulled items out of a nylon travel bag that showed a tremendous amount of wear. Several plastic containers were removed, from which she extracted a smaller plastic tub, a brush as well as what appeared to be a simple cosmetic bag. She plucked the blonde wig from her head to reveal a mesh cap which proved to be a wig cap. When the cap was removed, her hair proved to be the same dark mahogany that had intrigued him as a child, dark in the shadows but a burnished sanguine in the sun. She had always seemed to be the middle point between the brothers, neither light nor dark but rather a combination of both. Reaching behind her head, she removed one blue hair elastic and the length of her hair spilled across her shoulders and down her back. Using brush and comb, she set about to restoring her hair to some mental standard before letting it flow around her face.

Her task complete, she set down the brush and turned her attention to the plastic tub. The delicate scent of baby powder wafted in the air as she extracted a wipe from the container, something that surprised him.

She glanced up at him and smiled, "We exiles have to be frugal. Best makeup wipes on the market if the smell doesn't bother you," she explained. Starting at her hair line, she wiped her face in circles, removing the heavy makeup. When she reached the right side of her face, his attention was drawn to a section of skin that was a different tone, a bright pink, shinier than the skin on the left. She cleared her throat, "This is the least of it, Sherlock," her voice was velvet soft, "the injuries to my face and neck were some of the easiest to heal. There's a reason I grew my hair to this length, it hides a lot of sins. You'll need to see it all if you're to understand why I hid."

Her hands never stilled, removing all the makeup from her face, neck and the décolletage visible. The eyebrow on the left was missing the portion on the edge near the bottom of the eye socket, Burned, he thought. The scarring continued down to the ear on that side, extending down to her collarbone. There were minute droplets of shiny pink skin scattered across the top of her chest like inverse freckles.

Reaching into one of the bins she pulled out a bottle of what looked like high end professional makeup – he'd had cause to use something similar on a case – and began to carefully hide the scars. Makeup was something he had an appreciation for, the alchemy of pigments magically transforming and changing what was beneath. She applied precious little makeup other than that needed to conceal her scars, a little pencil to even out the eyebrow, a touch of lip pencil to hide the scar at the corner of her lip. With that task complete, she tidied up quickly, put her things away only to roll her eyes and pull out a small container, a contact case. Removing the contacts, she winked at him, eyes so much like his own – that unique shade of cadet blue with flecks of green and gold that swirled like mercury glass net floats.

"A pity your friend the doctor isn't here," she commented as she put everything away and pulled out a simple short sleeved cotton shirt and shook out what appeared to be a very short skirt.

"Why would that be?" Mycroft asked.

"He would be able to explain what you're about to see, I suppose I shall have to do my layman's best," she explained.

"No," Sherlock said firmly, "We don't need to treat your injuries, we just need it explained and who better than Molly Hooper."

A faint tap on the door was all the warning Molly had before the door to John's former bedroom opened. Sherlock leaned against the doorjamb, his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. He went to speak, paused and then sighed before he stepped into the room.

To her surprise, he walked over to the bed on which she was sprawled, sitting down at the far end near where her feet kicked the air. "It has been a strange twenty-four hours, Molly, I have no doubt that John will likely give me no small amount of hell about this but I have a request of you." Her gaze met his, she quirked her head to the side, her chin tilting up slightly as she set the book face down on the bed and waited, "It seems I'm not the only Holmes to return from the dead. My sister," he nodded when her eyes went round in surprise, "Yes, I had, have, an older sister. The whole sordid mess goes back years and we haven't really gotten all the details yet, she's Mummy's source and it would appear she was injured some time ago quite badly."

Molly stared at him for a moment, "John is a better choice…"

"No," he disagreed, "the injuries are old, the result of a bomb. Mycroft and I need to understand what kind of trauma she went through. You should also know that it appears that Lestrade was more than just friends with my sister."

She blinked at him, "I always thought you and he knew each other for years…"

He shook his head, dark curls tumbling as he said, "Years, yes, but no, I never knew, I don't think Mycroft really knew – suspected, but never had confirmation of it. This will change things."

"What things?" she asked as he stood. He turned, offering her a hand up when she twisted herself up into a sitting position.

"For a start, practically everything I should think."

There was no sign of Sherrinford when Sherlock returned to the living area with a visibly curious Molly Hooper in tow. Molly smiled over at Greg Lestrade who sat by himself over on the sofa, trying to look as if his whole world hadn't been torn asunder.

Molly gave Sherlock's hand a quick squeeze, her eyes glancing over at Lestrade and then back. She gave him a faint smile and then walked over to Lestrade and sat down beside him. She gave Lestrade an impulsive half-hug, one he returned briefly before stating simply, "This has been a hell of a day thus far, Mol."

"We've had worse, ya?"

He chuckled, a knowing smile curving his lips, "That we have." He inhaled sharply, "This is buggered up proper." He gestured with his chin at Mycroft, "His Nibs over there almost went all protective brotherly on me earlier but Sherlock… Sherlock of all people intervened." The detective, clearly listening to their low whispers chuckled, and Lestrade continued, "We have a lot to talk about."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, as he looked down at the tea service. "Is it too much to ask for coffee?"

A sharp bark of laughed sounded in the kitchen, then Anthea came out with a mug in her hand and handed it to Sherlock. She then crossed to Mycroft and held out her hand. "You can't be serious," the British government said in a frosty tone. The full effect of her dimples was levelled at him and he sighed, "All right." He stood, extracted his billfold. "How much was it?"

Anthea laughed, flicking Sherlock a knowing smile, "A fiver, I believe, sir."" Mycroft handed over a ten pound note with a wave of his hand, as if he hadn't anything as lowly as a five. She paused as she was about to step into the kitchen, "The kettle is full as is the teapot. There's a full pot of coffee on the counter. If you have no need of me for the moment, I would like to catch a nap." Mycroft nodded and she left without further comment.

They were chatting comfortably, Mycroft ignoring them whilst he read messages on his mobile when Sherlock heard the sound of the bathroom door open. As Sherrinford stepped out into the hallway, he was the only one who could see her and for one moment, his mind went blank with horror. He managed to keep his features neutral but he couldn't keep the totality of his shock from his eyes. Her expression was grave as she said, "Don't turn around, Mycroft. Not yet."

Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment and blinking them furiously, Sherlock said, "You should have told us straight away, I would never have made you sit…"

Mycroft's breath stuck in his throat and a single tear rolled down Lestrade's face when she finally stepped out into the living area clad in a simple sport brassiere and a brief pair of shorts. If Sherlock had thought that the left side of her face was marred by pink burns, the skin of her torso was positively livid with them. The sheer volume of scarring made it hard to tell what was burn, what was shrapnel damage and what was surgical. The scars extended up under the sports bra and down to under the shorts. If her abdomen was a study in pain, nothing prepared them for the reality of her legs. The reality was an almost total lack of them.

Her left leg ended mid-thigh with a stump that slipped into a well-padded, polymer sleeve, what appeared to be stainless steel knee constructs and resin calf, the foot hidden by her shoe. The right leg was also artificial, ending at the knee. Sherlock had perceived a slight limp; he sat in quiet awe at how she had almost completely hidden all sign of this injury. Seeing the extent of her injuries he had no doubt now as to why his mother had hidden her survival – it had never been sure and Mummy didn't gamble with important things.

Silence reigned supreme for several moments before Molly stood abruptly, stepping forward to hold her hand out to the other woman, business-like. "I'm Molly Hooper," she said by way of introduction, "I'm a pathologist at St. Bart's."

Sherlock's sister smiled at her and Molly was startled as eyes so like Sherlock's, yet so warm, met hers, "Sherrinford Holmes, Dr. Hooper."

Molly shook her head suddenly as she asked "Your mother really didn't believe in making life easy, didn't she?"

To her amazement, Sherrinford looked over at Sherlock and burst out laughing and he smiled with unsuppressed mirth. "A fair question, and no, Mummy really didn't have anything against us. We did it to ourselves in a way."

"Speak for yourself," Mycroft drawled.

His sister laughed, "Country squires are a traditional lot which means traditional names – the same ones trotted out each generation. William," she murmured as she glanced at Sherlock before her eyes flickered over to Mycroft, "Edmund," she laughed at Mycroft's snarl and then smiled, "Elizabeth. Like my Mum, my aunt and a cousin." She smiled as she shrugged, "Elizabeth Sherrinford Vernet Holmes is what they saddled me with. Mostly I go, went, by Sherrin. I chose Sherrinford since a certain brat took a liking to making references to Vernet being one step removed from vermin."

Mycroft rolled his eyes heavenward and said in exasperation, "I was four!"

"You were an idiot," she retorted dryly.

"Was?" Sherlock countered.

Mycroft sniffed, looking down in nose at his brother, "I have not missed this part of sibling interaction."

Molly watched the three of them as they bantered, well aware that she was watching a coping mechanism unique to the Holmes family. Where others would cringe or cry, their response was as British as you could get. They made a joke, had a cuppa and got on with it – whatever 'it' was. The levity didn't disturb Molly; people who worked in the morgue often had the weirdest senses of humour.

"May I examine your arm?" Molly asked and then went about the work of cataloguing the myriad of pains that overwhelmed the other woman's body. Through it all, Lestrade sat on the sofa, his expression a mystery as he listened to them banter while Molly continued in her recitation of injuries. When she was finally done, Lestrade snapped to his feet and the Holmes siblings turned their focus on him. He took a breath, stepped towards Sherrin. Molly startled as Lestrade stepped up and into her personal space but he was in no way paying any attention to her. Taking Sherrin's face in his hands, he placed a kiss on her brow and in a voice thick with emotion said simply, "This changes nothing. We're still having that talk." He released her, stepped back and spoke to Sherlock without looking at him directly, "I have work to do, some personal stuff to clear up and I'll be back." He turned then, looking at the man he'd spent years working with, watching over for this woman in front of him, "If you let her go, I'm going to be wickedly pissed."

"No fear of that, Greg," Sherlock assured him, "She'll be staying." Lestrade nodded and then left the flat without a look back. It was a sign of Lestrade's state of mind that he didn't notice Sherlock's correct usage of his name.

Notes:

I'm currently writing what is either the last or second last chapter - I haven't updated even though there are several chapters written because I didn't want you to sit there waiting for the end chapter for what seemed like an eternity. Since it's going well, updates should be more regular. Thank you for being patient with me, thank you to the anon who caught the typo - yes, I'm aware her name is Hooper. My bad.

The song for this chapter is the Concrete Blonde's version of the Leonard Cohen song Everybody Knows.