Every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain.
That's what our father used to say. He loved his stories: Arthur, Cinderella, Snow White. I loved the stories too and used to write them down, just as Papa told them. James, my older brother, used to smirk when he saw this. He liked puzzles better, I think. He used to share them with me, challenging me to beat the ones he created or create one that could defeat him. We only had this one thing in common, but we still enjoyed the thrill of stumping each other. So, yes; puzzles were more his thing. Still, he would listen when my father talked, if only because he liked that one quote my father was so fond of.
Every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain.
James loved that. He even quoted it, long after he stopped talking to our parents. Long after he'd proven that making a mess was far more important to him than any silly familial connections.
In the end, that villain was my brother.
But I guess it wasn't my fairy tale.

Ann Brook walked quickly down the street, head tucked down as she sheltered a newspaper with her body. She really should have brought a thicker coat… but then she also really shouldn't even be here. Shivering, the young woman walked more quickly down the chilly streets, still reading and rereading and yet again reading the article over and over. She had it memorized but it still nagged at her. She was missing something. Or they were missing something. It was irritating.
She glanced up again and then swore to herself, turning around and heading back to the door she'd walked past. 221b. Baker Street. No surprise she'd ended up here. The question was, did James know? And would he care if he did? She hoped he would. Ann knocked on the door and rolled her eyes: of course, James knew. He might not be watching her or her career, but he was watching Sherlock. He probably found it incredibly entertaining and knew exactly how this visit was going to end. She should have done some research, should have made some guesses herself, but there was no time.
The door opened and Ann smiled, hiding the irritation she always felt these days with the traditional mask of charm. The older woman smiled back, stepping aside to give Ann room to enter.
"Hello, dearie. Here with a case for Sherlock?" Ann nodded and the older woman shook her head. "Shame. Don't like to see a girl like you in trouble. Then again," She laughed," I had plenty of it when I was your age… Oh, just up the stairs, dear. He has the door open."
Trouble. Ann considered this as she headed up, tucking away the newspaper in hopes it wouldn't give her away before she'd sized up this detective. If anyone was in trouble, it was blasted James. She'd make sure of that.