The Disgrace

The Related Stranger

Verity rapped her knuckles painfully on the front door of 221B. She sniffed and wiped her nose on her battered hoodie sleeve as she absentmindedly stared up at the brass numbers right above the knocker. The knocker. Verity kicked herself once again for missing the obvious.

She shuffled on the step uncomfortably, trying to escape the gaze of strangers. Verity shoved her numb hands into the pocket on her hoodie and fiddled with the dirt under her fingernails, trying desperately to make herself presentable. She needed this.

At the door stood a sweet-looking old lady who Verity knew she would like if her brother accepted her. "Hello," said Verity as innocently as possible.

"Hello," the lady answered. "Who are you?"

"I'm Verity Holmes." She stuck out her hand for a handshake. She noticed how dirty and grimy it was, and she quickly retreated it, embarrassed. "I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, he's just up those stairs," she smiled. "I'm Mrs. Hudson, dear." Verity nodded, smiling back and hurrying into the welcoming warmth of the building. She stopped abruptly at the bottom of the old white stairs. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to take a step as a violin began to play the most wonderful melody she had ever heard. It made her feel melancholy and beautiful and strong, and when she reached the door, she dared not disturb such excellence. So, after an hour of waiting, Verity slid to the floor and fell asleep.

• • • • •

Verity jerked awake what she assumed many hours later. It took her a moment to realize that she was lying on a seemingly leather couch. She looked around her at the flat she was in. The wallpaper was an off white and black Victorian pattern, and on one wall was an animal skull with bulky white earphones fitted to its sides.

Her brother strode from a room somewhere and sat at a desk, opening a laptop and beginning to type rapidly. Verity was interested, but her body wouldn't permit her to move.

"What time is it?" she asked instead.

"Noon," he answered.

"Oh." Verity did not want to seem like a lazy person to Sherlock, but that was exactly how she thought he perceived her. "What was that you were playing yesterday?"

"It was for a woman," Sherlock answered shortly.

"It was beautiful."

Sherlock stopped typing abruptly and stared at her. "What do you want?"

"You already know."

"Hmm. Yes. We haven't spoken in two, almost three years, so you're desperate for something. I can smell the alcohol on your breath from here. There are still marks on your wrists from handcuffs, and you have bags under your eyes: obviously you were busted for underage drinking--again. Mother and Father have surely thrown you out by now. You want to stay here, at 221B. Correction, you need to stay."

"I didn't tell you to show off," she hissed. Verity composed herself. "So will you let me stay?"

Sherlock seemed to think about it for a moment. "What makes you think I have a vacancy?" he said, rising from his seat and pacing back and forth.

"I don't know you very well, brother, but you just seem wrong. Like you're missing a part of yourself." Sherlock stopped suddenly and whipped his head towards her, curls momentarily flying. Verity felt uneasy under his unbroken gaze. Sherlock's eyes fell to a comfortable looking armchair across from his. Then his eyes moved back to his sister.

"Do you have anything with you?"

"What?"

"Belongings," he snapped.

"No. Nothing."

"There's a room down the hall, take it. Don't get in my way," he said quickly. Verity nodded and headed to the room.