"He had two sisters, one of which is now deceased." Calmly stated a gentleman with slightly wavy black hair in a white shirt and black dress pants, his green eyes piercing the individual sitting opposite him.
"I would like to see you try to prove your point." Sneered the other man. He had short curly black hair, green-blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, and was wearing a purple shirt tucked in black dress pants. The world knew him as the most competent—and the only—private consulting detective: Sherlock Holmes.
Both males were currently sitting in the living room in the detective's flat—Sherlock on his armchair, and the guest on the couch—and were seemingly in the middle of a brain battle.
"Can you prove that he didn't have a second sister?" Holmes's discussion partner raised a brow.
"No, but can you prove the opposite?" The detective shot back the curt reply.
"No, but it doesn't matter as long as you can't prove your point either." The other male shrugged nonchalantly.
However, before Sherlock could even think of a witty reply, a short man with sandy-white hair, dressed in jeans, a shirt, and a jumper, entered the room with a sigh.
"Debating on something again?" He asked, already knowing what the answer will be.
"Obviously." Sherlock said, confirming the man's theory.
"You had a second sister, didn't you?" Bluntly asked the other male, turning to face the slightly plump man.
The latter's completion darkened and sadness became prominent in his features. He made his way to his armchair and fell in it, head in his hands.
"Perhaps that was a bit too straightforward." Sherlock said awkwardly to interrupt the uncomfortable silence.
"Says the sociopath who would've probably done the same thing." The green eyed man said flatly, not even sparing him a glance, his eyes fixated on the ex-army doctor.
"Maybe with others, but this is John." Confessed the detective, avoiding the guest's piercing gaze which now settled on him.
"I knew you cared for him, Sherlock." The man addressed the detective with his signature half-smile which seemed genuine.
"Yeah, right." Holmes shifted a bit in his seat, "Anyway. John, do you want to...talk about it?"
"No, it's alright. James is right, I used to have two sisters—one you already know about—the other was called Y/n. A smart fellow she was, with lots of charisma. That was until one day she committed suicide—jumped off the morgue's building—you know Sherlock, that hospital you always go to—and I have never seen her face again." Watson sighed as he recalled the tragic events.
"You mean they didn't let you look?" James asked curiously, sitting up a bit.
John nodded, "Yeah, I only got a glimpse of the body lying on the pavement before they took it away." He paused for a bit before adding, "I think they didn't want us to see it—the body, I mean—with all the blood and bruises—thought we'll get traumatized."
Sherlock looked at his flatmate comfortingly, "Perhaps."
John smiled at the detective, glad that the latter tried to help him in his own way.
James, on the other hand, seemed far more interested in the event itself than John's feelings; his green eyes seemed to be glowing and his face showcased deep thought as he sank deeper into the sofa, closing his eyes and intertwining his fingers. After a moment, his eyes opened abruptly and he jumped up, grabbing his black trench coat from the couch's armrest.
"I should go, I just had a brilliant idea." He said vaguely before running off.
"What was that about?" Watson asked, confused.
Sherlock just shrugged, trying to make sense of James's sudden actions.
--
John was just preparing evening tea when James returned, dropping down on the couch immediately as he intertwined his fingers once again, assuming his usual thinking position.
"So, did you manage to do whatever you needed to do?" Asked John, setting the two cups of tea he prepared for Sherlock and himself on the table, and sitting in his armchair.
"Hmm? Oh, yeah." James said, not sparing John even an ounce of attention as he was too absorbed in his thoughts.
As the doctor was thinking of what to say or do, Sherlock entered the room, dressed in only a sheet.
"Hey." John greeted him.
The latter nodded, keeping his eyes on the slim figure sitting on the couch.
An awkward silence settled in the room, the only sounds heard being the three males' breathing.
Suddenly a knock was heard on the entrance door, and Sherlock shouted.
"Mrs. Hudson, the door!"
"Not your housekeeper!" She yelled back but went to open the door anyways because why not.
James stood up and went to stand next to Sherlock.
In a few moments, a neatly dressed man carrying an umbrella entered the room.
"Hello, brother." He addressed Sherlock, "Good evening, John." He nodded at Watson, "And...who do I have the honor of speaking to?" He asked, facing the third person present.
"James." The latter bowed lightly, "James Finns."
"Mycroft Holmes." Replied the man, "Sherlock's older brother."
"I figured as much." Hummed James.
"How so?" The elder Holmes raised a brow.
"You gave it away as soon as you entered, calling him 'brother'. As for the age, you do look a bit older." Explained the emerald eyed male.
"I should've guessed." Replied Mycroft.
"Can we get to the point?" Asked Sherlock irritatedly, interrupting their conversation.
"Right, I forgot I had a very impatient brother who hates small talk." Holmes rolled his eyes.
Sherlock contented himself with giving his older brother a glare.
"Alright, alright, I'm getting to it." Chuckled the other.
"Take a seat first." Said James politely, indicating the couch.
"Thank you." He sat down and straightened his costume.
Sherlock raised an expectant brow.
"A woman in a masquerade mask visited me earlier today, and said that I have to give her a billion pounds, otherwise she threatened to kill you, brother." He explained, keeping it short and simple.
"Hm, interesting." Mumbled the younger Holmes.
"A billion pounds!? What the hell would she do with that?" Asked a shocked John as he jumped up from his armchair in fury.
"Calm down." James said, seating the blogger back down.
"Her motives are unknown, but I want you, Sherlock, to track down this woman and find out." He told his brother.
"I suppose I might." Shrugged the latter.
"Good. That's all. If there isn't any questions, then I shall take my leave."
"I have one." James raised his hand.
"Yes?" Mycroft asked as he stood up and picked up his umbrella.
"Is there any information on this woman?"
Holmes shook his head, "Sadly no, not even a little clue. That's why I came here."
"Obviously." Sherlock nodded, taking a seat in his armchair.
A smile crept on James face, "Then I wish you luck, Mr. Detective." He addressed the younger Holmes.
"Thanks, Mr. Weirdo."
"Sherlock, that wasn't nice." John said in a serious tone.
"Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Holmes." James politely told Mycroft, "May I accompany you to the door?"
"That wouldn't be necessary, thank you very much, Mr. Finns." The elder Holmes shook his head as he made his way out of the room, "I hope to hear from you soon, brother." He said over his shoulder.
"Yeah, whatever." Sherlock grumbled at his older brother's disappearing figure.
As soon as the front door was heard closing, he jumped up and rushed upstairs to his room, reappearing literally seconds later, dressed in his signature purple shirt and black dress pants, a pair of shoes on his feet.
"What are you waiting for, let's go!" He said excitedly, "Finally a case! Yes!" And he sauntered down the stairs, a childish grin on his face.
"Is he always like that?" James looked at Watson with a raised brow.
"Only when an interesting case presents itself to him." Clarified the blogger.
"John, come on! Where are you? We don't have any time to lose!" Sherlock's voice was heard from downstairs.
"Coming!" Watson replied, sighing right afterwards, and addressing James, "Let's hope he doesn't make me run around much today."
The latter shook his head with a little laugh, "I wouldn't think so if I was you; you know how Sherlock is."
"Right."
"John, hurry up!" The detective yelled from downstairs once more.
"Yeah, yeah, no need to shout."
The sandy-white haired man made his way to the door of the living room and threw one last glance at James before disappearing down the stairs.
