𝐋𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐚 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞 || 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ⵊ

'*•.¸♡ Rumours ♡¸.•*'
*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

The invisible Homles, that's all you were. The one that your brothers would never share with the world. Always locked in the bloody flat, alone. Days after days you'd grown tired of being locked up, and why? Because you had something the world wanted. You could tell if someone was lying by the twinkle in their eye.

You remembered your older sister, the one that shielded you from the world. The one who Mycroft claimed was dead, killed in the stupid fire when you were children. Eurus wasn't dead, and you knew it. Mycroft always had become uncomfortable when the topic was brought up, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. 

Mycroft insisted you stay in the flat with Sherlock for your own safety, which was utter bullshit. He believed you'd turn out just like Eurus if you were exposed to the rough streets of London. He feared the day he'd lose his other sister because he knew of the man who would corrupt you into something much worse than she ever was.

You were to be trapped inside the cluttered flat of 221B Baker Street—forever. Windows were covered and locked; the door was always bolted shut; you had no way to connect with anyone outside of the flat. As you barely had any entertainment, eavesdropping on Sherlock's conversations was the most riveting thing to do. Client after client always complained about some issue that could be easily solved by the police, considering Sherlock deduced what happened in half a second.

You had grown tired of snooping into Sherlock's work until a man appeared at the flat unannounced. He'd broken in and began examining the flat. He was nearly silent as only the quiet pitter of his footsteps could be heard. You wanted the mystery man to unlock your door, to set you free, but Sherlock entered the flat before he could.

"What are you doing in my flat?"

"Only came for a chat." The man's voice was muffled through your wooden door, but you could hear the smugness in his tone.

"Then talk." Sherlock's voice was demanding, obviously fed up with the man's charades. You rolled your eyes at Sherlock's dramatics.

"I've heard a little rumour recently..." He paused, most likely grinning at my curly-haired brother. "Of another Holmes."

John's voice quickly entered the mix as he stomped up the stairs. "Sherlock! I've got a lead for the—"

"Hello, John." The man's sulky voice enveloped John, most likely as he stood frozen by the door.

"What is he doing here?"

"I was just leaving," he stated, grinning with his footsteps retreating. "Catch you on the flip side, Sherly!" The door to the flat slammed shut, with Sherlock banging on your door mere seconds later.

"Open up!" he demanded, his fist rapping against the wood.

You unlocked your door, cracking it slightly as your brother shoved it open. "What the hell?!"

"Xavia, we need to talk," Sherlock paused before grumbling, "with Mycroft."

"How many times must I tell you this before you listen? It's Y/n. Not Xavia. Not Belle. Y/n!" You shouted at your brother, whose expression stayed frozen. "I'm not a diva like the rest of you."

Sherlock sighed and leaned against the doorframe. "We need to go."

You scoffed, plopping down on your bed. "Give me a reason, and maybe I will."

"Bloody hell, Xavia! It's about your safety!"

"Oh, my safety?" You challenged, fed up with the lies. "Y'know, you've locked me away for my whole damn life! I really couldn't give a shit less about my bloody safety!"

"We're leaving," Sherlock growled as he grabbed your wrist, dragging you out of your cage-your room. "Mycroft will be picking us up in ten minutes. Go cover-up," he ordered, dropping your wrist.

"Nobody even knows what I look like, Sherlock!" you spat as you shoved past him to examine the living room. Sherlock's clutter sprinkled around the room, multiple bullet holes in the wall, his violin propped up in its case, and John typing away for his blog you shouldn't know of. "Mother would be devastated to see this flat."

John turned to face you, not having realised your presence before. "Oh, hey, Y/n!" The greying man smiled as he not-so-subtly closed his laptop. "He let you out?" he mumbled, motioning to Sherlock.

You forced a laugh as you spoke, your words glazed in sarcasm. "Just for a walk, then it'll be back to the kennel." You walked to Sherlock's chair before falling into it, but it didn't smell like Sherlock; someone else had sat there. "Who sat here?"

John's eyebrows furrowed. "Only Sherlock except—"

"He's here," Sherlock interrupted as he watched Mycroft's sleek black car pull up in front of the unit through the curtains.

"No shit," you deadpanned. "Who else is that dramatic when picking someone up?"

He grumbled under his breath before running to the hall closet. He tossed a dark coat and scarf at you, motioning for you to put them on. "It's below freezing; wear something warm," Sherlock ordered.

You looked down, your PJs smiling back. "Fine." You quickly put on the coat and wrapped the scarf around your neck, nose, and mouth. "I need shoes." You didn't own any shoes. You had no use for them other than to collect dust.

"Wear one of mine," Sherlock grumbled whilst placing on his hat. "I hate this bloody thing."

"The people don't," John muttered, mindlessly typing away.

You snickered when Sherlock's features formed a frown. He shot you a glare, which turned your giggles into a smirk. "We leaving or what?"

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose and mumbled, "How are you a Holmes?"

"I'd be able to answer that if I could, y'know, actually live a life." You shoved past the curly-haired man and began descending the stairs. "Pick up the pace, Will!"

"That's the equivalent of me calling you Xavia," he mumbled as he skipped down the stairs, his coat flowing behind him. "Follow me."

"Yeah, yeah," you grumbled while Sherlock unlocked the door.

The door flew open, the crisp winter wind holding it in place. Snow fell from the grey clouds as it waltzed with the wind. You had only touched the essence of winter a few times, most being before the age of seven—before Eurus was locked up.

Sherlock walked into the frozen streets of London, you following closely behind. You rushed to the car as the winter kissed your skin, your face redding from the cold. A few steps were left before you reached the car when you tripped, falling face-first into the snow. "Damn boots," you grumbled, pushing yourself back up. You waddled the last few steps as your borrowed footwear-Sherlock's shoes-flopped against the snow. 'Thankfully,' no one had seen your accident.

But someone did, and he was grinning ear to ear as he had found the rumoured Holmes he'd been searching for—you.

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*