Chapter Text
“Toast,” Rosie said matter-of-factly, perched on John’s lap like she owned the place, which—given the cheerios she’d artfully ground into the carpet—might have been legally arguable.
John didn’t look up from buttering a small square of toast. “Yes, Rosie. That’s toast.”
“Again.”
“That’s the third one. If you keep eating like that, you’ll outgrow your pink dinosaur pajamas by Tuesday.”
“Again,” Rosie said with finality, stuffing the piece into her mouth and smearing jam across her cheek in the process.
Sherlock sighed dramatically from his armchair without glancing over. “Are we quite finished feeding the child?”
“We’re not all fueled by pretension and nicotine gum, Sherlock,” John muttered, then turned back to his daughter with a quiet smile. “You’ve got jam on your cheek, sweetheart.”
Rosie offered no resistance as John wiped her face, her eyes already drifting toward the stack of wooden blocks that had recently been overtaken by a mysterious stuffed bear invasion.
Across from them, Sherlock clicked the next file shut.
“No. Boring. No. Lies. Bad acting. And oh look, another one claiming her cat was abducted by the ghost of her ex-husband. We’re scraping the bottom of London’s delusion barrel today.”
“Maybe the cat case has merit,” John offered dryly. “Ghosts are very in right now.”
Sherlock gave him a sidelong glance, mouth twitching faintly—what might almost pass for amusement if you squinted. “Please. You and I both know the real horror is in poor sentence structure.”
John chuckled softly, finishing Rosie’s plate and standing to set it in the sink. He moved with that practiced domestic rhythm now, quiet but certain, in the space they’d both grown into without ever discussing it.
There was silence for a moment. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, steepled fingers pressed against his lips. He hadn’t mentioned John’s continued presence at Baker Street for over a year now—nor the way John had never officially moved back in, but left little pieces of himself behind: a jacket slung over the stair rail, Rosie’s teething giraffe by the kettle, a novel opened and forgotten on the sofa’s arm.
Sherlock didn’t mind. He catalogued every object without speaking of them. Emotion, after all, was not his specialty. He understood traces. Not motives.
He was just reaching for the next case file—reluctantly, almost lazily—when a knock echoed sharply from downstairs.
Mrs. Hudson’s voice carried up before either of them moved. “You’ve got a visitor, boys! Bit young, this one. Got a look in her eyes, though. Like she’s about to rearrange the whole flat if you don’t let her speak.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “That sounds promising.”
John handed Rosie a block and gave Sherlock a warning glance. “Please try not to scar this one.”
“She hasn’t even entered yet.”
“That’s usually when you start.”
The door creaked open and in stepped a girl—no more than sixteen, wearing boots far too scuffed for fashion but too purposeful to be careless. Her dark hair was tied back in a practical braid, her jacket was patched with mismatched stitching, and slung over her shoulder was a guitar case with a sticker that read: Well-behaved women seldom make history.
She stepped in like she already belonged there.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” she said, her voice clipped but controlled. “I need your help.”
Sherlock blinked. “How unfortunate. So do most people.”
John cleared his throat, instinctively stepping in with a kind smile. “And you are?”
“Enola Stevenson. And I have two things to tell you.”
She met Sherlock’s eyes, and there was a crackle in the air that neither man could quite place.
“First,” she said, “I want you to help me find my mother. She vanished three months ago without a trace.”
“And second?” Sherlock asked, already leaning forward.
“I’m your half-sister.”
There was a pause. Rosie burped softly in the corner.
Sherlock stared. “Come again?”
“Your father,” Enola said crisply, “got drunk seventeen years ago after an argument with your mother. He ended up at a bar in South Kensington. My mother—Dr. Margaret Stevenson, a scientist and activist—was giving a lecture the next day. They met. They drank. They slept together. Nine months later, I was born. The math is simple.”
John blinked. “You’re saying you’re—what—his illegitimate sibling?”
“Yes,” she said. “Half-sister. I’m not asking you to knit me a birthday jumper. I want help. In exchange, I’ll give you proof.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Do go on.”
“I solve things,” she said. “Mum always said I was dangerous when bored. You have a current case? Take me. If I solve it in under six hours, you help me find her. If not, I disappear.”
Sherlock laughed. It was rare. It was not kind.
“You expect me to bring a sixteen-year-old amateur to a crime scene to prove bloodline?”
“I expect you to recognize a mind equal to yours,” she snapped.
John winced slightly. Sherlock froze.
Rosie stacked another block.