CHAPTER 2: THE SAME NAME

John started and stared at the girl. "Sherlock Holmes?" He echoed.

"Intriguing, isn't it?" Sherlock glanced at John. "She said 'Sherlock' like she'd heard it before or had some sort of connection. It's unlikely to be a friend or family member's name, because though it is a reasonably common last name it is a rare first." He turned back to the girl. "It is possible you've read John's blog, or seen the papers, but that's not probable because you showed no recognition before you heard my name."

The girl Sherlock looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "I suppose you want me to believe your name is also Sherlock Holmes, and you're some sort of private detective."

Sherlock's mouth twitched the slightest bit in annoyance. "Consulting detective," he corrected. "And yes, I am Sherlock Holmes."

"Consulting detective?" The girl smirked. "What, when the police have a problem they come to you?" Her smirk grew a bit. "I could tell you were arrogant, but congratulations, you succeeded my expectations. Not many people can do that."

John looked back and forth between the two, a confused look on his face. "Hold on, you can't both have the same name?"

The girl shrugged. "Why not? It's not a terribly uncommon occurrence for more than one person in the total population of the earth to have the same name."

"Yes, but..." John shook his head and glanced at Sherlock and back at the girl again. "But you don't just have the same name, you look the same. You look exactly the same." He looked back at Sherlock and cleared his throat awkwardly. "Um, you don't, I mean, I don't suppose it's possible that um... there's a chance you have a daughter?"

'Scandalized' was the best word John could think of to describe the look on Sherlock's face.

"John!"

"Sorry." John felt his face flush and he cleared his throat, coughing. "Right, sorry. It was a reasonable question though."

The girl's smirk widened. "Sorry, but no. My parents were Siger and Violet Holmes. I've never met this man in my life."

Sherlock stiffened. A flicker of surprise flashed across his face, then vanished. He looked the girl up and down. "Yet you look, talk, and even dress similar. All of which could be coincidental, but the name..." He paused and raised an eyebrow. "Talking to two strange men on the streets of London though you are obviously alone and being so bold about it is not a typical action of a teenaged girl. How old are you? 16? 17? Not quite young enough for me to be your father." He looked pointedly at John who flushed again.

"Oh, I know how to take care of myself," the girl said. "And I'm 18, if you must know."

"Carrying a British Army Browning L9A1 in your coat pocket, I imagine you can," Sherlock said. "Who are you, and what do you do?"

The girl smiled. "Oh, very good. I was right about you. You are clever. I told you my name- Sherlock Holmes. What do I do? Since I am not yet old enough to be a private detective, I have to settle for 'amateur', though I assure you I am much more intelligent than the majority of the so called detectives out there- consulting or otherwise," she said, putting enough emphasis on the word "consulting" so it didn't exactly sound complimentary.

Sherlock regarded her for a long moment. "Where are you from? Are you from London?"

"Originally, Yorkshire," the girl said. "I live in London now."

"Where?"

The girl looked at him hard. "You ask a lot of questions, Mr. Holmes. Why should I answer them?"

"Miss Sherlock," Sherlock said. "You made a remark a moment ago, several actually, which indicated you were uncommonly intelligent, or at least think you are. I have formed some of my own opinion of you; perhaps you can tell me what you can deduce of me?" His eyes held a genuinely curious look.

The girl looked a little irritated at being called "Miss Sherlock", but she nodded, sticking her hands deep into her pockets. "I knew you were in some sort of detective trade by the way you examined your surroundings. You have a nicotine habit, but you don't smoke, you use patches. You're a violin player, usually classical, not fiddle. You're a workaholic when you're on a case, hardly eating or sleeping, but you're not on one now. Though, you did just have one recently. You get bored easily, and quickly."

Sherlock nodded, looking pleased. "Speaking of eating, John and I were about to get something to eat. You're welcome to join us. John won't mind." He looked at John.

John shook his head. "I don't mind at all."

The girl considered this a moment, then nodded. "Alright." She smiled wryly. "Though, Mr. Holmes, I may be too old to be your daughter, I am definitely too young to be your date."

Sherlock's face was emotionless, but John caught the flicker of... not quite disgust... flash in his eyes. "I assure you, nothing was further from my mind." He shot John a warning look.

John tried (and failed) to turn a chuckle into a cough. The girl kept her smirk on her face.

"Right," John said, after composing himself, though his voice still held undertones of amusement. "We were just on our way to Angelo's. It's not too far from here."

"I know where it is, thank you," the girl said, giving him a look very much like Sherlock did when he thought John had said something exceptionally stupid.

John shrugged and the three walked in silence the couple more blocks to the restaurant.

A few minutes later, they were in out of the crisp December wind and seated at table near the back of the restaurant. Sherlock took off his coat and draped it over the back of his chair, revealing his button down purple shirt. "So, Miss Holmes. You've been acting rather defensive about our obvious resemblance. You're smart. I can see that, I'm not an idiot. Don't you find it a little out of the ordinary?"

The girl shrugged off her own coat and draped it over the back of her own chair and sat down. "Oh, I do find it out of the ordinary. But just about everything can be explained, given enough time."

Angelo came over to take their orders. "Just tea, thanks," Sherlock said, waving him off like he did when he was too caught up in something interesting to be bothered with eating.

The girl glanced down at the menu, but didn't order anything.

John sighed and shot Sherlock a disapproving glance and told Angelo they'd be ready to order in a few minutes.

The girl leaned across the table. "Now, I've told you what I can tell about you. What can you deduce about me?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You're obviously a violin player. The instrument itself is German made; you wouldn't settle for anything less if you're serious about playing, which you clearly are. Your fingertips are slightly spatulated from pressing on the strings, and there is a subconscious graceful curve to the fingers of your right hand with is common in violin players, especially in the little finger, from manipulating the bow. You don't play regularly though, in fact I might say you haven't in a while, because there is no impress under the left side of your jaw, which is the sign of a daily player."

The girl nodded. "So far correct. I haven't played recently because my violin was destroyed during a recent case."

Sherlock gave her a look as close to sympathy as he was capable of. "Then there's your coat. Similar to mine, but a little worse for wear. You wear it often, obviously; there's the tiniest bit of fray on the cuffs where they rub against your wrists, but there are three other tears I can see from here that indicate it's not only worn often but has seen some action. That coincides nicely with what we already know about your boldness and character. You're an amateur detective, you said, originally from Yorkshire with parents Siger and Violet Holmes. I think it's safe to say you have an elder sibling Mycroft who is involved in the government in some capacity. That last bit is only conjecture based on the similarities between us I have already observed. You get a little defensive when we ask about you, yet you seem interested in learning about us, while smirking at nearly everything you learn. That indicates you are at least as arrogant as I am. Am I wrong?"

The girl nodded. "Very good." She tilted her head to the side a little bit. "And if I'm arrogant, which I do suppose I am, it is only for the same reasons you are." She paused, then nodded again. "Now that we know more about each other, what do you propose we do?"

John cleared his throat. "Well, firstly, we are going to order our food and wait until it gets here, and Sherlock, you are going to eat something even if I have to force it down your throat. It's been too long. Again. And secondly, I can't call you both Sherlock, so we're going to have to find a new name, a nickname for one of you." John gave a little wave to Angelo, who came over to their table, flipping open a notepad and taking out a pen.

"All set then?"

Sherlock glanced up at him and back at John. "Actually, I don't think..."

John stared at Sherlock, a stern and steady look in his eye. "You're going to eat," he mouthed.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "You know what, I think I'll have a biscuit or something." He handed his menu to Angelo, ignoring John.

John turned his menu over to Angelo as well. "Why don't you make that a basket of biscuits, as well as the soup of the day. And I'll take the same soup as well."

Angelo turned to the girl, who shook her head. "I'm fine, thanks."

Angelo was off before Sherlock could protest his amended order.

The girl looked at John. "Now, if you don't want to call both of us Sherlock, why not Miss Holmes, as your friend is doing." She wrinkled her nose just the slightest, again reminding John of Sherlock. "Though I must say, I'm not particularly fond of it."

"Then do you mind if I call you something else?"

The girl shrugged. "I suppose not."

John considered a moment. "How about... Shirley?"

The girl looked disgusted, and out of the corner of his eye, John saw the same look mirrored in Sherlock's face. "Absolutely not," she said.

John chewed on his lip. "Alright, well... um... Sheila? What about Sheila?"

The girl drew her eyebrows together. "Sheila..." she repeated. "Sheila. That's not bad. I think it's alright."

John smiled. "Well, good, Sheila."

Sheila smiled back.

"Sheila..." Sherlock said, as if testing the word. "Alright then, Sheila. You asked what I suggested we do. I don't see any reason we should do anything, at least not yet. Answer me this, though; what do you think our connection is? It's impossible you are my sister, yet you share my birthplace and your family members bear the same names as mine. You can't call that mere coincidence unless you are willingly blind."

Sheila raised an eyebrow. "I most certainly do not consider it coincidence. The only explanations I can see with what information we have now is either one of us mimicking the other for what reason I can't think of, someone else is manipulating our lives for again, a reason I cannot see; or we are, in fact, related. Which I also consider at the very least, improbable. But certainly not impossible. I have no recollection of an older brother with the same name, but that doesn't mean one does not exist."

Sherlock grinned the slightest. "Going on the assumption for a minute that we are siblings. Why would our parents tell you about Mycroft and not me? Why would we share a name, and why wouldn't I know about you?"

Angelo reappeared with their food, but Sherlock subconsciously pushed it aside and began to stir sugar into his tea distractedly.

Sheila nodded. "All good questions. And it is possible that we are not related. It doesn't appear more likely than any of the other theories. But whoever said we had both of the same parents? Another possibility is that we are half-siblings."

Sherlock glanced at John. "You said your parents were Siger and Violet Holmes."

Sheila blinked once, momentary confusion flashing across her face. It flickered out as quickly as it had appeared, and she replaced it with her trademark smirk. "Paying attention. Good. Then we can rule out half-siblings unless our parents were lying."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

John noticed the look on her face, and glanced at Sherlock, but if he had seen it too, he gave no indication. John decided to let it slide for now, but watched her closely over his mug of tea.

"Our parents lying... not unbelieveable," Sherlock said. He took a biscuit from the basket and toyed with it in his hand, appearing to barely notice it. "Have you had genetic testing done?"

Sheila shook her head. "Had no reason to before now."

Sherlock nodded, and they lapsed into momentary silence.

After a moment, Sheila spoke up, "I'm curious, Mr. Holmes. We have both deduced things about the other, but what else can you deduce about strangers without talking to them?"

"State of marriage is always easiest to tell. In married individuals, anyway; with adolescents or minors the state of their school-work is easiest. But I can tell almost anything you'd like."

Sheila didn't bother to hide her grin. "Well, then. Dr. Watson, why don't you pick out a patron nearby and we'll tell you about them."

John looked around the room, his gaze settling on a middle-aged woman sitting in the corner of the room by herself. "There." He nodded towards her.

"She's obviously just come from her younger sister's funeral," Sherlock said, hardly glancing up and taking a long drink of his tea.

John looked at the woman again. "And how can you tell that?"

Sheila nodded towards her. "The program sticking out of her purse. The picture on the front is of a young girl, and the name underneath reads 'Jane Doyle'. I know it is her sister, and that she is local, because I overheard the server call her by name earlier- 'Miss Doyle'. She is the only surviving member of the family; both parents are dead and probably have been for a number of years."

Sherlock twitched a little. He'd missed the program. "She's married. Has three sons, born in August, May, and February. She's wearing an old wedding band and her necklace has three birthstones in settings that would indicate sons, not daughters."

Sheila nodded. "Her youngest son's name is Arthur, who is an aspiring writer and or artist." She smiled at the baffled look on John's face. "There were hand colored pieces of paper folded as a book also inside her purse, next to the program. He gave it to her recently, probably as a consolation gift judging by the picture resembling his aunt on the front."

Sherlock tensed. He felt a little threatened, like he was having to defend his title as genius with a teenager. "She has no nail polish, which is a bit surprising taking the rest of her into account. This indicates she often gets her hands dirty, yet she has no calluses. From that we can deduce she bakes fairly often and doesn't paint her nails so that it won't chip off in the dough as she kneads it."

Sheila seemed to sense the competitive edge Sherlock was putting on. She bit back another smile as she waved her hand dismissively. "She bakes when she's overwhelmed or upset, and it is a type of distraction for her, as seen by the small smudge of flour on her sleeve. She wouldn't have baked in her dress clothes otherwise. Her cat is another great comfort to her, as evidenced by the white hairs on her black dress slacks. The cat was likely either a childhood pet, or a gift from her sister, or in some other way reminds her of her late sister. Otherwise she would, again, not have held the cat while in her dress clothes, especially when wearing black. The cat is a long hair, Persian most likely."

John looked back at the woman, then to Sheila in amazement. "That's fantastic," he said. "Anything else?"

Sherlock straightened up in his chair and sniffed. This is pointless, he thought. He didn't like John asking Sheila questions; he was supposed to ask Sherlock those things. "So, we've both proved we can do this stuff. The question is why?" He took out his phone. "There's a way to find out fast, if you'd like. Mycroft. You call yours and I'll call mine and we'll see if we get the same brother."

Sheila nodded. "Fine." She pulled a cell phone out of her pocket and dialed a number. She held it up to her ear and tapped on the table impatiently while the phone rang. After a while, she sighed in irritation and pulled the phone down. "He didn't answer," she said. "He's probably still put out with me."

Sherlock paused. A strange look played across his face. "You've had a disagreement, then. How long ago was this?"

John looked at Sherlock. He'd never seen that look on Sherlock's face before. He wasn't even sure how to explain it.

Sheila paused, looking like she was trying to decide how much to tell them. "About a month ago," she said finally. "Why?"

Sherlock didn't answer right away. She's eighteen... I was eighteen when...when we... He cleared his throat. "Um, you know what, just let me call him." He spoke quickly, as if he rather hoped the other two would forget what Sheila had asked.

Both Sheila and John watched him closely. It wasn't hard to figure out he was evading her question.

Sherlock stood up and walked a few feet away across the room, facing away from them and held the phone up to his ear.

After a few rings, Mycroft's voice came over the line. "Sherlock, what is it now?"

"Nice to talk to you, too, Mycroft. How've you been?"

Mycroft sighed. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"Listen, em...there's a girl here. She looks like me. She is just like me, Mycroft." Sherlock glanced back toward the table.

"Sherlock..." Mycroft sounded wearied.

"You talk to her then."

Sherlock walked back to the table. He held out the phone toward Sheila.

Sheila hesitated then accepted the phone. She held it up to her ear. "Sherlock..." An exasperated voice on the other end said. Sheila stiffened.

"Mycroft?" She whispered. How... but it can't... Sherlock's brother's voice sounded like an older version of her own brother.

John looked back at Sheila and saw that her face was white. He leaned across the table, concern in his eyes. "You alright?" he mouthed.

Sherlock sat slowly back in his own chair. "She does know him."

Sheila could hear the frown in Mycroft's voice; the frown her brother commonly wore. "Who is this?"

Sheila didn't answer. She pulled the phone down from her ear and pressed 'end' on the call. She set the phone down on the table and looked Sherlock in the eye. "I want to know what is going on right now, Mr. Holmes." Her voice was cold and her eyes held an intense look. "Who are you?"

Sherlock started pacing in front of the table, watching Sheila intently. "She knows him," he said again, looking at John. He was confused. That was rare for him. And it was now past annoying; it was frightening him. What if she was his sister? It wouldn't surprise him that his family had kept a secret from him, but why would they?

"Mr. Holmes," Sheila said, her voice trembling just the slightest bit. "Who are you? And why does your brother sound like an older version of my brother?"

Sherlock stopped paced and looked her in the eye. "Because," he said, "he is. Tell me, Sheila, what can you remember? When you were five you fell into a well and Mycroft pulled you out. When you were thirteen Mycroft made you angry by moving out. You made up then...but last month you had a bigger disagreement, didn't you?"

Sheila froze. Her chest constricted. She could see her hands trembling, but she didn't feel it. "It's... none of your business," she hissed between clenched teeth.

"It's very much mine. You asked who I am. I am Sherlock Holmes, Sheila...but so are you." His voice was quiet. "I fell into a well when I was five. Mycroft moved out when I was thirteen. When I was eighteen, we had a disagreement. Don't you see? We're the same." He looked at John, seeming a little dazed. "She... she's me, John."

To Be Continued...

A/N: As with the first chapter, a HUGE shout-out and thank you to sherlock'sthename for all the help with this story, especially with Sherlock's deductions, and the bit about his past.

I hope it won't take me too long to get the next chapter up, but I've got a few other projects that I need to be working on that take top priority at the moment. But I'm not stopping on this, or even putting it on hold. Just wanted to let you all know. :)

Enjoy!