John Watson walked into 221B hauling bags of groceries with each hand. He fought the door open and shut it with his foot, grumbling under his breath about Sherlock never helping with the groceries. He made his way to the kitchen and set the bags down on the already crowded counters; he started putting the eggs away when his entire body froze. He walked back out to the sitting room. There was a girl laying on the couch texting.
“Um.” He cleared his throat, “Who are you?”
“Hi.” She waved a hand in his direction. He couldn’t see her face behind her phone.
“Hello. Can I help you?”
“Not really.” She said.
“Are you a client?”
“Nope.” She said, popping the p.
Just then, Sherlock came out of the loo, hair a mess and dressed in pajamas. John gave him a rather distressed look and gestured to the girl. The taller man looked at her with little interest and then back at John. The doctor sighed.
“Move your legs.” Sherlock said casually to the girl. She pulled her legs closer to her chest so he could sit down then she rested them in his lap.
“Alright, am I missing something?” John crossed his arms.
“Yup.” The two on the couch said in unison.
“What is it I’m missing?”
Sherlock sighed, “John, this is my sister Enola. I thought I told you.”
“No…you didn’t…”
“Well I was thinking it. Why couldn’t you hear?”
“People can’t read minds, Sherlock.” Enola set her phone down and sat up. John was taken aback by the resemblance the two shared. She had the same curly, dark hair and blue eyes. While her face was structurally softer, her nose was pointed like his. She had thin lips like Mycroft and a sprinkle of freckles she didn’t share with either of the two men.
“It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Watson. I’ve been reading your blog.” She stood up and shook his hand. She was obviously younger than Sherlock by about ten years with a small frame and gentle hands. John was about to reply when her phone signaled her to a new message.
“Is that Mycroft?” her brother asked, checking his phone as well.
“Yes, he’s having a fit. Seems he doesn’t want me to move in downstairs.”
“Well of course he doesn’t. It’s not a very good idea.”
“You’re moving in downstairs?” john asked, “Wait…why isn’t a good idea?”
She shrugged, “I’m twenty-three years old. He can’t tell me where to live, British Government or not.”
Enola’s eyes looked over him as she realized he’d asked her a question. Obviously right handed, the fingers were calloused. Small shadows under his eyes, trouble sleeping, probably from Sherlock experimenting late at night. One of the experiments had even singed a little part of John’s eyebrow off. He’d gotten a haircut the day previously. He’d lived in a colder area all his life because he’d forgotten to put sunscreen on the back of his neck and the corner of his nose. He didn’t know about the sunburns yet but it was going to get worse over the next couple of days.
“221C.” she nodded.
“The basement? No one’s ever lived in there.” Sherlock scrutinized.
“Exactly.” She pushed dark hair out of her face, “I’ll be sleeping in your room until my furniture gets here. I doubt you’ll mind since you’ve been sleeping on the couch or in the bathtub for the last two weeks.”
“How did she know that?” the doctor frowned, looking from one Holmes to the other.
“It’s a secret.” The two said in sync and he wasn’t sure if he could live under the same roof as two of them.
