"There's a girl here for you, Sherlock!"

And that was the statement, in Sherlock's opinion, that started it all... And by 'started it all', to an innocent bystander's view, was just another dramatized (as per usual by John's standards) woe from the consulting detective.

The sound of trainers, the very same ones from ten years ago no doubt, creeping softly across the floor, up the stairs. The scent of vanilla and Seven Minute Cigar poisoning the air. There was no escaping it, he'd never found a way to evade it, shake it off his trail completely, without a trace; Mycroft was unquestionably involved - the traitor, Sherlock's thoughts hissed. Any minute now, any second, he'd hear the shrill, unpleasant voice that accompanied those soft treading feet, that familiar combination of smells; that voice like nails, glass and bamboo splinters shoved beneath his nails, in his ears, eyes, and brain. And yes, he would admit, he was being somewhat dramatic, but a case like this justified it. This so-called girl, this - this somehow human being, this thing he was forced to be acquainted with, this deplorable excuse for a -! This - This - ! This plague -!

"Sherly!"

Sherlock's teeth were grinding so hard he couldn't even muster a reply beyond a sub-vocal growl, his fingers clenched unmercifully tight around the bow and neck of the unfortunate object that was subjected to his anger; his violin, the poor thing; his grip relented only when a slight, pleading creak was heard.

"Come now, don't look so sour," the girl, it seemed, was professionally oblivious to Sherlock's distress, as was proven by the bright grin she was sporting, sending a short wink his way before turning back to John - the one who had let her in. John! His trusted confidant! Apparently trusted no longer since he'd let this blight in unawares of what she... No... No, he was completely aware, he had to be, of course he was! The bastard, he was probably in on it with Mycroft! She stuck her hand, the one now void of an unseasonable glove, toward John while his brow continued to scrunch up in utter confusion. Yes, yes, just play like you don't know exactly what's going on, John, traitor, liar. Liars everywhere! Sherlock's inner monologue speculated.

Just before the second word of the girl's self-introduction could tumble off her tongue Sherlock stepped away from the window, back in control of his motor skills and vocal chords he crowed loudly for Mrs. Hudson. The elderly woman was just entering the lounge area of the second floor, startling when Sherlock shouted, she pressed a hand over her heart, but her eyes fell to the girl just beside John and filled with delight. The image of a petulant child and becoming more so with each welcoming action, Sherlock thrust his bow in the girl's direction, then made a sharp flicking gesture, "Mrs. Hudson, be a dear and escort Miss Holmes from the premises, please."

The way he practically seethed the name 'Holmes' was not lost on John, and the girl didn't look very impressed either. Mrs. Hudson waved Sherlock off, grumbling about him being ridiculous and extended her arms to the girl and hauled her in, welcoming and warm.

"Sorry, Miss Holmes, did you say?" John asked (and he had the gall to look perplexed). The former military man looked between the detective and the strange new girl that had roused such an alarming reaction from the former; looking back and forth between them four times until finally his hand rose and gestured with a single finger pointed in the direction of 'Miss Holmes', "Is she your -," he swung his gaze to her, his finger switching to point at Sherlock, "Are you his - his wife?" The idea was astounding and preposterous but John supposed lots of people, especially Sherlock, had peculiar pasts. Skeletons in the closet, so to speak. What was a secret marriage among those skeletons? Something John totally expected Sherlock never to mention.

But by the way both of them scoffed, one in disgust accompanied with a more scolding than anything else sort of tone, "Don't be ridiculous, John," and the other with a snorting laugh of amusement, he figured no. As was further proven correct when the girl spoke again with that less than posh accent of hers, "He wishes." To which Sherlock once again puffed indignantly, crossing his arms and turning partially to throw his gaze out the window.

"It's been a while, hasn't it, brother?"

John himself felt physically struck when Sherlock whipped his icy eyes back around, glaring hotly at the girl; John glanced back and forth between them again, unconsciously looking for similarities, but mostly to make sure the girl hadn't actually been killed by his flatmate's deathly stare. Literally if looks could kill. But the girl was fine, she was still breathing, still standing, still smirking; grinning, in fact, like an absolute Cheshire cat. This girl. This girl who was... Sherlock's sister?

And here John thought he was immune to Sherlock-induced/related (quite literally in this case, it seemed) surprises...

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Note: This story has been revised as of January 17, 2017 – it was in desperate need of a revision anyway, and I think while revising it will help me to continue with the actual story! I advise all followers of this story to reread once again!