The sister... [Recently edited]

Chapter 2: And Smoking (EDITED)

I smirk at John's obvious attempt to break the tension.
Sherlock mirrors my expression before stretching out on the sofa once more. He closes his eyes, fingertips pressed together beneath his chin as if deep in prayer.
Or deep in thought.
With Sherlock, the two were probably interchangeable.

John hands me my coat before leading me back outside. Together we walk to the nearby supermarket, picking up groceries for both flats. Once we're back at Baker Street, I carry my shopping upstairs, unpack everything, and take a long, much-needed shower.

Half an hour later, I wander back downstairs, rubbing a towel through my damp light brown hair.
Sherlock is exactly where we left him.
Still lying on the sofa.
Still with his eyes closed.
Still muttering quietly to himself.
I settle into the armchair beside the fire, enjoying the warmth as it dries my hair.

"That's my chair," Sherlock says without opening his eyes.
A pause.
"But, of course... you already knew that."
I smile.
"I did."
His eyes finally open.
"Clever, Sherlock."
He raises an eyebrow.
"The cigarettes are under the skull."
I point towards the mantelpiece just as he absent-mindedly scratches beneath one of his nicotine patches.

Without a word, he walks over, lifts the skull and retrieves a cigarette.
"I knew that," he replies.
"No, you didn't."
He glances sideways at me.
"Don't lie. It doesn't suit you."
Picking up the newspaper from the coffee table, I begin scanning the job adverts.

"Column four," Sherlock says almost instantly. "Second advert. Personal assistant to Mr Mycroft Holmes."
"I'd already found it."
He snorts quietly.
"I somehow doubt that."
I lower the newspaper and look at him.

"What's your brother's personal number?"
Sherlock narrows his eyes.
"Why do you want it?"
I stare at him.
"To discuss houseplants."

He says nothing, blinking slowly at me.
"What do you think, Sherlock?" I sigh dramatically. "I want to speak to him directly instead of being filtered through his secretary. Speaking to him personally gives me a much better chance of getting the job."

"You don't wear sarcasm particularly well."
Despite his comment, he tosses me his phone.
I catch it easily.
Sherlock wanders over to the window, lights a cigarette and exhales slowly into the night air.
Finding "Mycroft" in his contacts, I press call.

The phone barely rings once.
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," an impeccably posh voice answers. "Do not telephone me. I telephone you. Kindly refrain from making this a habit."
I bite my lip to stop myself laughing.
Sherlock's full name.
That was priceless.

"You and Sherlock don't get along then," I reply cheerfully. "Good to know."
Silence.
"Who is this?"
"Mykala Watson. I'm calling about the personal assistant position."

Another pause.
"Oh... and Mr Holmes?"
"Yes?"
"You should probably cut down on the cigarettes. Twenty a day isn't exactly beneficial."

Across the room, Sherlock smirks around the cigarette between his fingers.
On the other end of the line, Mycroft coughs.
"Miss Watson..." he says carefully. "How did you-"
"You were smoking when you answered," I interrupt. "Your voice gave it away."

Another silence.
Longer this time.
"I assure you that if I become your assistant, I'll know every time you light one."
A faint sigh crackles through the receiver.
"I see."
"So... shall I report to your office on Monday morning?"
Another sigh.
"Nine o'clock."
"I'll be there."

I end the call before he can say anything else, I walk to Sherlock handing him the phone and take the cigarette from him, taking a drag of it myself.
"You hung up on Mycroft."
"I did."
"Brave."
"I've been called worse."

Sherlock lets out the smallest hint of a laugh before taking his cigarette back and taking another drag of it.
I head upstairs to my flat, already planning the morning ahead.
If I remembered correctly, Sherlock had wanted my help with a case before deciding against asking.
Knowing him, he'd ask anyway.

Which meant I needed an early night.