AN: This is a bit of a author's note. It's not necessary to read it, but it may be beneficial prior to embarking on this particular fic.

Firstly, I come from a family of high functioning autists. When I watch Sherlock I'm just reminded of my older brother, only without long hair and with better clothes. Very similar mannerisms (sans the shooting things or playing violin), similar way of speaking ... it's quite funny for me.

Secondly, this is a self exploratory piece. While the details are definitely not exact, I'm exploring my experiences over the last year and a bit. It's proving to be very cathartic. Also a slightly different writing style.

Thirdly, bonus points to anyone who guesses the breed of the dog. I have one. They are hilarious.

Fourthly, this is all completely un-beta'd and pretty fresh off the top of my brain!

There is a knock on the door, polite and smart. John left not twenty minutes ago to shop, and would not return for another forty (if that), while Mrs Hudson had departed for the afternoon to have tea with the ladies down the road. There would be nattering and scones and old biddies talking about who has married whom, who is having an affair, and the latest news on babies.

Disgusting.

The knock sounds again, still polite though a bit more insistent. They can wait until John returns, if they are that eager to see him.

Sherlock doesn't haul himself from the lounge until it sounds as though the door might be hammered off its hinges, or splintered through the force of the knock. "Will you go AWAY-" he yells as he drags the door open, only to be caught up in a whirlwind of flashing smiles and blonde hair and painfully tight arms around his chest and oh dear lord.

"SHIRLEY!" it shrieks, nose rubbing against his pressed shirt in a suspicious manner. Then the rocking begins. Although, really, rocking is too polite a term to use. Hurling around is more accurate.

People are always surprised to note that a small woman with a vice like grip about the chest can toss around most fullgrown males without much difficulty.

He lets her, though, with only the token resistance of his hands held up and away from her and dim protests of "get it off!" After a short time – shorter than usual – he was released and able to draw a full breath again.

"To what do I owe this displeasure?" he grouses, glowering down at the beaming blonde with a deeply suspiciously large suitcase behind her.

"Oh I was just in the area and thought I'd stay with my ickle buddah for a bit, you've got a spare couch right?" the smile is brittle in the corners of her lips and the skin on her chin quivers.

Large suitcase was indicative of a longer stay than she implied, her clothes rumpled and well worn from a rushed change and immediate departure to the train station. Practical shoes rather than her favoured Louboutins. Red rimmed eyes with an excess film of moisture over them.

The smile drops to become a carefully pursed stiff upper lip. Her left hand twitches, thumb rubbing against white indentations on slender fingers. Ah.

"You'll only get in the way," Sherlock replies, stepping back from the door. The grin returns but it never quite reaches her eyes, wide and restless and desperately not thinking.

"Oh, now, you'll hardly even notice I'm here." She steps back onto the street and cranes her head to the left to shout "Lady! Comecome!" before ploughing past and up the stairs. An inquisitive and long nose shoves itself purposefully into Sherlock's crotch, before the remainder of the dog (long legs, long toes for speed but much larger than a greyhound, saluki perhaps? No, the hair is too long and curly for saluki, although not too dissimilar) shoots up behind its master.

With an exasperated growl, he slams the door shut.

When he finally reaches the top of the stairs, Jolanthe is a whirlwind and Lady, elegantly white and cream, has draped herself across his couch. His couch.

"Oh relax, Shirley, I'll vacuum," she says without looking away from her inspection of the bits and bobs on shelves, the skulls on mantelpieces, flutters of paper and books. "Toxicon from nineteen ninety, ninety three and ninety eight? Who did you bribe to get the original journals?"

"I called in a favour," he replies simply. "They were relevant to a case I was investigating."

"Ah, still doing that?" her aimless ponderings finally bring her to the kitchen, where she opens the door to the fridge and pauses for a moment. "Please tell me you haven't resorted to eating mice straight, have you?"

"That is, in fact, an experiment on the toxin from bothrops insularis."

"So not to eat, right. How do you survive?"

A key jangles in the lock and Lady's head perks up, jaw snapping shut and to attention. Jolanthe's eyes turn wide and round and fixate on Sherlock. "Do you have a girlfriend?" she gasps, raising both hands to her face in mock horror. The door opens and snicks shut, and John's heavy footsteps begin clambering up the narrow stairs. "Or a boyfriend?"

Lady drops herself from the sofa and pricks her ears.

"Oh my god, Shirley, how long has this been going on?"

John opens the door and stops, a nose in his crotch and a blonde woman eyeballing him from the kitchen entryway. "Hello," Jo says brightly, stepping over and ushering a curious Lady away. The charm comes out and Sherlock watches as John is mesmerised and struggles to shift groceries into one arm so that he may take the offered hand. "I'm Jo, I'm Sherlock's big sister."

John looks from Jo – blonde, sweet, and so small – to Sherlock – dark, tall, decidedly not sweet – and back again. The grin she gives him is self-depreciating. "He took all my height and fantastic cheekbones, despite me trying to squash him when he was a kid," she says.

"No, I mean, that's not it, it's just you're..." John's mouth tries to work and it's a near thing, but in the face of all of that Holmes Charm, he is powerless.

Really, they all had it. He, himself, sometimes even deigned to use it. Mycroft had charmed the Queen that one time they met, and used it when occasion called for it. Jo, on the other hand, oozed it. Her face, much more open than either brother, drew people in and beguiled them.

Woe betide anyone who thought her stupid for it.

"Yes, I know," her laugh is pinched. "I was just about to make a cuppa, would either of you like one?" She steps into the kitchen and Lady returns to the couch, an awkward clamber of long legs until she flops and organises her limbs.

"That would be fantastic," John says, following her into the kitchen with the groceries to begin unpacking.

"Shirl?" she asks.

"Ah, yes, English Breakfast if you please."

"Do you have ginger nuts?"

"What do you take me for? Of course we have ginger nuts."

"Where?"

"Out of little people's reach."

"Oi, watch it. I'm teaching Lady to bite people's bottoms," she snaps back, throwing cupboards open and craning her neck on her tip toes to search the top most shelves. John continues unpacking the groceries into the fridge, careful to avoid the mice. Jo lets out a noise of satisfaction, she has clearly spotted the small stash of Griffin's Ginger Nuts.

"Oh, wow, you got the good stuff," she says as she launches herself at the bench and climbs up and onto her knees to reach the topmost shelf. John blinks at her in alarm while Lady watches the scene with growing amusement, judging by the way her tongue rolls out the side of her mouth. Goodies acquired, she drops back to the ground to continue her tea service preparation.

A brief few minutes later and the tea is steeped and poured, milk added ("and don't you dare tell me to add the milk before the tea is poured, because I will throw you out of your own house by the seat of your pants, you heathen"), and a small pot of brown sugar is placed on a tray. The gingernuts are artfully arranged on a plate, most of which end up being devoured by Jo after liberal dunking.

It's all terribly civilised.

"So, er, what brings you to Baker Street?" John tentatively asks. He's smart, he knows there's something terribly amiss that is Not To Be Spoken About, but he hasn't noticed the clear evidence on her ring finger.

That smile returns, the one that's there because showing what's really there would be too painful. Just as she will never admit why she is here. "Oh I just felt like bothering Shirley and seeing London again, it's been years since I've stepped foot in this city." It's rushed and breathless, but John can at least deduce enough not to pry.

"I won't be here long, and you'll hardly even notice me." At this announcement, Lady yawns from the settee, and both Sherlock and John eye her large and sharp teeth.

At least the tea is good.

Later that night, when all have reclined and the house is quiet, Sherlock listens to heart wrenching sobs muffled by dog hair.

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