"Yes," said Dr John Watson. "Yes of course. I'm not sure how Sherlock will react but he's got a suspected Psychopath who hired a cabbie to murder him, so I think he probably will have more interesting matters to attend to."

"Oh, brilliant! How was your date with Jennifer last night?" His younger sister Catherine replied, chuckling.

"How did you... Oh I give up. You're bloody Sherlock all over again." John sighed, and put down the phone. It vibrated and flashed up a text from his sister.

Don't you dare hang up on me EVER again. Oh, and by the way, go to Covent Gardens tonight. Much more romantic than Pizza Express.

CW

"Bloody hell," said John to no one in particular. "Him and her together? Might as well have thrown myself off the roof of St Barts. They even end their texts the same way." He sighed and scratched his temple, turning to look in the mirror. There behind him, clad in black, stood Sherlock Holmes, doing what John had christened 'The Look'

"Oh, do enlighten me. Why are we having suicidal tendencies yet again." He sighed, and raised his hand to silence John, who opened his mouth to protest. "No, allow me. Your phone lies millimetres away, and you just sighed. Call from your sister. Twitch at the corner of your mouth. You aren't telling me something. Suicidal tendencies. She's coming here. But you wouldn't have offered Harriet help, so that must mean..."

"Yep," said John, smiling at the fact Sherlock had missed something else. "You missed her. Catherine. Cathy. Works for Mycroft, actually. Well, she's just been dismissed from her post in Grenada, at a bit of a loose end. So I said she could stay here. Because, you know Sherlock, that's what normal siblings do. They don't call each other arch enemies, and they don't see London as a battlefield. They do fight, but then they offer help. Go to the cinema, too, and out for dinner sometimes if they're feeling particularly kind. They definitely aren't like you and Mycroft..."

"Not many people are. In fact none are." Sherlock snapped. "Now, onto Catherine, or should I say Cathy. Works for MI6. Grenada. Dispute there in the eighties, something to do with communism. Not risky now, mainly touristic, got their first gold in 2012, generally respectable. But I highly doubt Catherine's there for a beach holiday. So maybe Myc... Oh! She's there to keep an eye on Santos and Nicaragua. Not sure why he brought her back. Soon, somebody's going to blow their top. Idiot. Always knew I was the smart one. But back to Catherine. She's younger than you, thirty one I'd guess, and she reminds you of me. But why? Is she rude? Arrogant? Dashingly handsome and smart? All of the above?"

John, who had been trying to interrupt for some time now, yelled

"Shut it Sherlock!" Sherlock raised an eyebrow in surprise "Yes, she's smart, she can deduce things like you. She reads people like a book and she can tell stuff from your tone of voice. She looks like you too, black hair and greyish eyes. And before you work this out from the rhythm of my snores or whatever it is you do, she and I don't talk too much, she's usually working. But she's better at people stuff. Even though she still hates them. She knows about you actually, not just from me, but also from Mycroft. She tends to organise his files. Including yours. She thinks you're a bit of an arse head really, leaving eyeballs in the fridge. I think she's forgotten..."

"The time she tried to microwave your goldfish's corpse when she was six. What?" Sherlock questioned as John glared at him. "Oh, sorry. Your story. I do forget this stuff. As you say, Mycroft and I didn't exactly have a normal childhood. When is she coming?"

John looked up from his latest update on his blog, the Blind Banker. Why on God's earth would Sherlock care?

"Erm... At about eight tomorrow morning. I'm out with Jennifer tonight, so I probably won't be up. I'm leaving you to greet her." John said. "See how much she needs a flat." He murmured to himself. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go and change."

***********The next morning************

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson called from the bottom of the stairs. "This lady at the door is getting quite impatient! She told me she was John's sister and needed to come and get settled in..."

"Yes Mrs Hudson..." Sherlock placed his violin down on the armchair and ambled towards the stairs and began to descend in his camel dressing gown. "Sorry Johann Sebastian," he murmured, "but you are just going to have to wait." He turned on his phone and checked his messages. John, Mycroft and an unknown number. He smiled and deleted Mycroft's. 'He never texts if he can talk,' Sherlock thought, his eyes flicking over John's reminders that Catherine would be arriving at about eightish, and looked at the message from the unknown number. It read:

So. The famous Mr. Holmes. What an honour. I'm flattered. Now get your arse down here and open the door and I'll be even more so. I'm sure that Johann Sebastian won't mind.

CW

He smirked and looked towards the old black door. Then double took and looked back at his phone. So she knew he couldn't bear to leave Bach. She was better than he thought.

You better thank your lucky stars it wasn't Ludwig

CW

Sherlock grinned and walked to the door.

It hadn't been a good flight.

Catherine Watson hated flying at the best of times, and, flying in Mycroft's high speed RAF jet, had just made her phobia a whole lot worse. They'd twisted and turned, as if they were playing tag with the ocean, and she began to regret the large breakfast she'd had that morning.

"Not used to this, are you Miss Watson?" Mycroft teased from the seat behind. "Not used to the 'high life' it may seem…"

"I distinctly remember having twenty four hours to book my own flight on my way out here," Cathy snapped back through gritted teeth. "How's the diet, Mycroft?"

He dismissed her comment with a wave of the hand.

"Oh, Sherlock is going to love you! You just stole his trademark comment. You're lodging with him and John. I hope you like toenails in the fridge." And with that, Mycroft turned over, signifying the end of the conversation.

Catherine sighed at this comment. She hadn't realised John had a flatmate. He'd 'forgotten' to mention, she was sure. She made use of some of what Mycroft called 'basic luxuries' and emailed John.

I'm sorry. You have a flatmate? Who'd want to lodge with you?

She sighed. Looked like John's lying was improving more the longer she was away. Opening MI6's notable files, she searched 'Sherlock Holmes'.

Name: Sherlock Holmes

Age: 35

Residence: 221B Baker St.

Younger brother of Mycroft Holmes. Highly functioning sociopath. Possibly suffering from Schizoid Personality Disorder (SPD). Highly skilled in deductions. Consulting detective. Has an assistant by the name of John Watson (Retired army doctor) Unidentified enemy, calls self Moriarty.

Her grey eyes scanned the report. But they only picked up one word. Moriarty...