A/N: Sibling rivalry was the prompt. Luxembourg, just because it's multisyllabic, I'm sure it's a fine country and would visit if I could. -csf


1/2.

John.

I open the closet door, push away the skeleton, and bring out extra bath towels for the guest.

'You've got a skeleton in the closet,' my sister points out, looking uncomfortable.

I shrug. 'Have to keep it somewhere.'

'It's missing its head.'

'It's on the mantlepiece. Perhaps. Not sure it's the right skull. I'll ask Sherlock and come back to you on that…'

'Johnny, this isn't normal, you know that, right?'

I shrug. I almost didn't survive normal.

Normal is overrated.

'When were you and I ever attracted to normal, Harry?'

She holds her breath and her words, finally taking the towels with her.

My sister is staying for the weekend, while her house gets fumigated; she adopted a wild fox and– actually, don't ask. Harry, née Harriet Watson, has invited herself to bunk in with me at 221B.

Now all I need to do is to keep the peace between my sister and my best friend, lest they start a new world war all on their own. It helps that Sherlock has suddenly been called for a MI6 meeting in Luxembourg overnight. With a bit of luck, they won't even cross paths.

So, effectively, I get to live 221B's homeliness as if I share the flat with my sister, and not Sherlock Holmes. Brings flashbacks of home life, growing up. And that's exactly the problem.

.

Sherlock.

'A certain level of personal grooming is expected, Sherlock,' Mycroft Holmes decries, rolling his eyes at the way his younger brother looks, as said younger brother comes downstairs late to partake in breakfast just as the maître d'hôtel is about to turn the place over for lunch covers. Maybe it's the marble columns and the crystal chandeliers, the linen tablecloths and the lustrous silver teapots, but Mycroft fits right in this overly polished setting.

The younger, grumpier Holmes shrugs. He knows his suits is impeccable as ever. What he won't verbalise to his brother, or himself for that matter, is that he misses the simplicity of 221B. Home.

'You wanted me here. You said nothing about three piece suits, Mycroft, and this is my weekend attire, you can ask John about it.'

'John isn't here.'

Sherlock over-enunciates his words, gratingly: 'Also not my choice.'

'It's a secret services meeting!' Mycroft hisses, already on the brink of losing his patience.

'You know I'll just blab everything to John anyway.'

Mycroft rolls his eyes and buys an opportunity for distraction with ordering a bottle of expensive water from a passing waiter.

'Keeping hydrated, Mycroft?' the detective asks, playing disinterested, checking the other guests in the room. It won't do for a coincidence that the older Holmes sat them in front of a wall mirror with clear view of the whole room.

'Yes. Very hydrated. And you?'

'I've got tea. Not as good as John's, but it'll do. And I'm also thinking up on the control variables of that aqueous poisons experiment you interrupted...'

Mycroft pulls his chair back brusquely. 'I'll be in the lobby, should you choose to head to the conference room early. There's only 10 minutes left anyway.'

'You're not taking your water bottle with you? I've only had a few seconds to taint the water inside in one of 19 ways I have thought of so far. Statistically speaking, it's fine!'

.

John.

'I could sleep on the sofa, Johnny.'

'John, the name is John, I'm not four years old anymore, Harriet.'

She shrugs, dismissing my feelings about it, and I supress the urge to roll my eyes. Decades have passed and we're back where we left off, aren't we? Family dynamics are funny like that. Next, she'll remind me she's mum's favourite and that dad lets her take the car and stay out late (all of which I later found out was a lie).

'Have you got tea? I could do with a cuppa.'

I almost give her a double take. Of course, I have tea. What an odd thing to ask.

I get up and get the kettle going, then open the top cupboards to look for the mugs. Sherlock has changed things around again in my absence, presumably to make room for his chemicals store. I end up finding the mugs in the top shelf, the one where I need to stretch to my tiptoes to reach. I can almost hear the git laughing under his breath. I grit my teeth and grab two mugs, pushed far back on the uppermost shelf. By the time I have them, Harry has already taken two mugs from the sink (unwashed), filled them with water and approached the microwave. I suppress a shudder. Microwave tea is the last resort tea.

'Don't be so uptight, Johnny. We're not royalty.'

She programs 30 seconds in the microwave (little does she know what I found lurking in there earlier as I cleaned it) and sets the first mug for sacrilege. I grab away the second and return it to the sink, stubbornly insisting on preparing my tea the Queen's way.

She shakes her head and sighs as if visibly disappointed at me. Another old habit, I suppose.

This is going to be a long weekend. I wonder if there are any deals on last minute flights to Luxembourg. Or anywhere, really.

Harry is far more trusting than me over the contents of the sugar bowl, and I'm left to tidy up the mess she makes with spillages over the counter. 47 hours to go? Surely an hour has passed already...

'Johnny, are you happy here?' she asks me, looking around 221B critically.

'Yes, very happy,' I assure her. She acts as if she didn't bother listening to my answer.

'Johnny, I want you to be happy. I... I remember when you wouldn't bunk up with Clara and I after you came back and— You're not thinking of going back there, are you?'

Back where? Physical therapy, hidden depression, being a homeless veteran? Or does she mean the army and the war, as if it was all a bad holiday decision?

'No, I think it's safe to say that those days are behind me now.'

'And this life you've got now, Johnny, would mum have been proud?'

I stand up straighter. 'Yes, I reckon she would.'

'You're so different from us, Johnny,' she says, calmly. 'You always land on your feet, don't you?'

I chuckle spontaneously and shake my head.

She turns around to face me. 'Clara and I are separating.'

'Again?' I ask, before I can check myself. To be honest, Clara did a world of good to my sister, but I couldn't saddle my sister on the kind soul that is her ex-wife.

'She found a couple of bottles I hid behind the sofa and of course she assumed I would drink them! They were there exactly so I wouldn't drink them!' Lower, she adds, in a softer voice: 'So I knew that I didn't have to drink them, and that not drinking them was my choice, not some coincidence for lack of opportunity.'

I go give her a silent hug. For some reason, namely the silence around it, she lets me.

'Why don't you and your dandy flatmate have family pictures?' she interrupts the moment. 'Why won't you have pictures of me?'

I shove her away, much as she expected, and return to my tea.

'Enough ugly stuff in the flat already.'

Come on, it's not like she didn't expect such a comeback! I'm her brother, not her bully.

'For that, you can sleep on the sofa tonight. I'm going to go up and unpack.'

'Sure. The room is ready for you.'

'Johnny?'

'Yeah?'

'If your room is upstairs, doesn't that make it 221C?'

I blink, utterly confused. Do I hold rooms outside our flat? Isn't 221C the basement?

.

Sherlock.

Long conference table, flanked mostly by middle-aged pale-skinned men, clearly all Mycroft's public school chums. There's a boring presentation being projected onto a screen, and Sherlock is not impressed by the first few slides' animations in terms of engagement. They discuss a terrorist threat across Europe and all Sherlock can do is ponder the terrorists' own presentation skills; must be better than these people's or why would impressionable folks be lured into murky ideologies? How is a room full of stiff collars and tight ties going to disassemble the promise of a cause and glory to disengaged youths?

Note to self: Maybe John would care to co-infiltrate this cell with me?

'Mycroft, can I borrow a pen?' Sherlock lazily trails his words, much too loudly.

The older Holmes and a few other heads turn. The man presenting too much text in too small font doesn't even notice, he just carries on reading through the slide.

'Here, take mine!' Mycroft whispers harshly, shushing him for good measure.

Expensive fountain pen, gold nib, a corporate gift from someone in the room that Mycroft cares enough to impress; easy deduction. Sherlock starts to write something down and frowns at the pen.

'This is a normal pen!' Sherlock snarls quite audibly.

'What did you expect?' Mycroft gives up on any pretence of secrecy, given that the whole room has come to a standstill and watches the two brothers squabble.

Sherlock looks around in the room and gathers: 'Anyone got an invisible ink pen?'

Lots of spooks in suits actually hand him one.

'See?' Sherlock asks his brother.

.

John.

I'm updating my blog when my sister comes back down, yawning as if she just had a restorative nap.

'Any food in the house, Johnny?'

'Hm-mm.'

'Anything organic, vegan, gluten-free and without artificial sweeteners?'

'Probably not,' I admit, wondering if there are still any apples left.

'Thank goodness, Clara was driving me crazy!'

I notice how Harry's cupboard explorations never falter at the sight of an old whisky bottle. It's empty anyway and Sherlock wanted to keep it for some glass refraction experiment, long forgotten.

'I'm sure Clara meant well.'

'Which side are you on, Johnny? You are so callous sometimes!' She huffs as she explores the fridge. I hope that she won't look inside Sherlock's Tupperware box, stuffed at the back. And yet, I also hope she does.

A piercing shriek followed by coarse and foul language tells me she just did. The fridge door bangs. She's still breathing hard when she comes to the double doors to viciously demand: 'What did I just look at, John?'

Oh, she finally got the name right.

I adopt my calmest demeanour and offer a lie: 'It's just a prop. Sherlock is using it in some investigation of his. How about some pizza? Full of gluten, sprinkled with artificial sweeteners and packed full of cholesterol.'

She still glances over her shoulder at the fridge with a certain amount of suspicion. 'Fine, you're paying for it.'

I shrug. Extra mushrooms it is.

.

Sherlock.

The terrorist cell is centred around big capital cities, including London. They operate through burn phones and disposable new incomers. Sherlock makes a mental note to check on his network. They are vulnerable prey for people coming in with odd jobs and some easy money; Sherlock should know. He has asked his network to give him first dibs on dead bodies washed ashore from the Thames and they didn't bat an eyelid. They also didn't promise exclusivity, and soon after Sherlock found himself in a group of about five other gawkers, the others just attracted to dead bodies. Sherlock soon paid his network the premium rates required to keep the creeps away. John insisted on that. Said even in the depths of war, the mark of a civilised people was how they treated their dead. Sherlock had protested over "hurting dead people's feelings". John had fixed his big eyes on him and said words that Sherlock would never manage to delete from his memory: "what if it were me?"

The detective suppresses a shiver and forces his eyes towards the giant map of London on screen. Automatically, Sherlock frisks the area for the usual tourist landmarks, checks the hidden government buildings are still amiss in this version, mind maps the pockets of unrest where different cells have been operating under the authorities' close scrutiny, and his gaze settles at Baker Street 221B.

No, wait. Two, two, one. Two, two, one. Two, two, one.

Sherlock pushes his chair back, scrapping the floors. Is he the only one in the room seeing that Fibonacci sequence on recent bombsites? Twenty one, thirteen, eight, five, three, two, one, one... And the epicentre is just one street down from 221B. Home. John.

.

John.

'You don't like mushrooms either, Johnny. It's all very petty. You think you're clever or something.'

I shrug, trying in vain to focus on a paperback, while at the same time trying desperately to act normal, knowing I'm under Harry's constant scrutiny. Anyway, why do I need to act normal? I'm normal. A bit. Sometimes.

Gosh, I miss Sherlock. He never gave me a side eye for the type of books I read; he'll call any fiction "mind boggling crap". There's something easy-going when you know where you stand when in comes to your flatmate's view on any works of fiction.

And then my books go missing for a day or two. Just enough time for Sherlock to read them while I'm at work or asleep. And finally the books gets returned where they were last misplaced.

'You are smiling like an idiot.'

I start at that.

'Harry?'

'You really miss him, don't you?' She comes over and sits on Sherlock's empty armchair, facing me square on. 'Did you two have a tiff?'

What? No! 'It's a work thing, in Luxembourg.'

'So he's coming back?'

'He better, or I'll go after him.'

She smiles.

'Too bad, I had plans to take up his bedroom, it's bigger.'

I roll my eyes overtly. 'Yeah, but I have got a whole floor to myself.'

'What's in the other rooms?'

'They're locked,' I reprimand.

'I know that, Johnny,' she defies, petulant, still picking out the mushrooms.

'Mostly old furniture. Mrs Hudson's stuff from America.'

'So you checked.'

'I didn't have to, I live with a detective,' I tell her pointedly. 'He did all the investigating for me.'

'Come on, let's go out for dinner, John. You must know somewhere local.'

'We've got food, Harry.'

'Yeah, but you're picking out the mushrooms too.'

.

Sherlock.

'There should be a collective noun for a room full of spooks in turmoil,' Mycroft comments, amusedly observing the best in Europe dealing with the aftermath of Sherlock's explosive deduction.

'Why isn't John picking up his phone?' Sherlock hisses venomously at the device in his hand.

'Sherlock, it's just a theory—'

'John, Mrs Hudson, they need to evacuate, I won't have them—' dead.

They lock gazes.

.

John.

I mutter a curse under my breath. I left my phone at home.

'Just leave that, Johnny. You've got me to keep you company.'

I roll my eyes to the high heavens; why curse me with my sister? She easily pushes me away towards the open road.

.

Sherlock.

'Mrs Hudson has been extracted by Anthea and removed to safety. John's phone has been left in his armchair, 34% charge and 19 missed calls from you, brother dear.'

'Better try again and round it up to 20, I know what this is doing to your OCD,' Sherlock answers darkly, grabbing Mycroft's phone to study the picture of 221B's living room with the red armchair and the phone at its centre. 'John doesn't favour mushrooms in pizza. And since when does he order fast food chain pizza? And why is there enough for two?'

'A guest?' Mycroft suggests.

'Or a kidnapping clue?'

Mycroft's eyes narrow and he snatches his phone back. He calls Anthea directly, while carefully moving away from his frazzled brother.

'... Women's clothes in the upstairs bedroom? ... Long blond hair in the shower drain ... A tea mug in the microwave ...' The older Holmes reports lazily on what Anthea tells him.

Sherlock, who was protesting something about John's infatuation with the ladies, jolts at that, then groans. 'Harry Watson,' he identifies at once. 'The sister.'

.

John.

My sister's phone rings loudly, as she searches inside her handbag with a confused look. 'I could swear I had this darn thing muted...'

And John knows, just like that... Sherlock.

.

Sherlock.

'Listen to me, you female-John-impersonator! I need to talk to John, and I don't care whose phone this is!'

He can hear John bargaining in the back, and this woman being purposefully dense and difficult. That's when he also hears the loud explosion and the line goes dead.

.

John.

'Fff— That was behind that house! Damn, I need to go check, I need to make sure people are okay. Call Sherlock, tell him that. Please, Harry!'

She does. Because she recognises that tormented voice from John since the day their mum died.

This is John's never-ending atonement. He needs to save others.

.

Sherlock.

'What do you mean, he ran off towards the explosion!' Sherlock spits out, feeling his jaw locking. Mycroft actually reaches out to his shaking shoulder.

'Ever the hero,' Mycroft comments darkly. It's at times like these that he cannot comprehend Sherlock's insistence in having a companion.

.

TBC