The Holmes' Sister

Time

As each day passed, there was always a large amount of arguing over a countless number of different things.  I glance at the walk clock quickly, then at Sherlock.  He sees me then his eyes narrow, he asks softly, "Why, why did you fake your death.  Why were you so inconsiderate of other people." 

I shake my head,  doesn't he realize?  "What do you think I did when you apparently 'died'?!  I mourned you Sherlock, then I moved on because I had to.  I had to hold up the family image, and that apparently includes not mourning in the public eye.  I was eight Sherlock, and I had to stand stick straight with cold hard eyes as they lowered your coffin into the ground.  I was inconsiderate?  I didn't have a younger sibling who looked up to me." 

"You looked up to me?"  Sherlock replies with big eyes, I nod a little.

"We are practically identical Sherlock.  From hair to eye color I am pretty much your look alike, except I'm a woman."

"Makes you much, much more dangerous."  He mutters under his breath.

"What was that."

"Nothing."  He replied quickly grabbing some sheet music beside him to stare at, and I glare at him but a small smile forms on my lips.  And we sit in silence, the silence I can't stand.

"Sherlock.  Everyday, every single day you yell at me for no apparent reason.  Why do you continue in doing so?"  I bluntly ask, and he finally tears his eyes away from his beloved sheet music to look at me.

"Because you're the only one in this family that matters to me."  He says roughly back.

--

That was the he last time he talked to me in months.  So I keep replaying that conversation again, and again in my mind not wanting to lose it.  We never got up either, Sherlock in his chair and myself in the older chair I now call mine.  John would come by every day or so to make sure we were well, making us eat, and talk to him.  Right now he's trying to talk to Sherlock, John is always so nice.  I will never know why he still sticks around us.  We're belligerent, derogatory, blunt, and rude, that's just who Holmes are.  My hand clenches into a fist, I can't take John's annoying talking anymore, no matter how nice he's being.  I stand up startling John, Sherlock's eyes open and drift to mine curiosity clear in them. 

"It's not like I'm a talking rock.  I'm just going out."

"O-out?"  John stutters, and I nod my head annoyed with his amazed state that I'm actually capable of moving. 

"I am capable of moving around you know."  I leave the room and shut the door behind me, only the pop my head into the room again, "Oh, and if either one of you follow me there won't be any nook for either of you to hide in that will shield you from my outrage."  I add threateningly. 

----- 

(Many hours later)

Truthfully I just wanted to walk around, get some needed concealer, and well, some fresh air.  I have never been the best at avoiding bullets, or hand to hand combat, and that had to come into play when I was 'dead' but that's where the concealer comes into it all.  To cover the only things the bullet wounds in my arms, legs, and gut left behind; scars.  I quietly open the door and tiptoe into the flat.  John is sitting in my chair, well to be fair it was his.  And Sherlock isn't in his chair, probably getting some much needed rest he's been refusing.  Typical.  Realizing I bought and put on a short sleeved shirt, I dash to my room, my scars I didn't cover up are visble.  The scars themselves are a shiny whitish color, I made sure they were clean well at all times before they became scars. 

"Anistyn?"  A voice I know as John's croaks sleepily.  I turn around slowly folding my arms behind me.

"Yes?"

"Where were you."  Sherlock hisses as he storms into the room. 

"Out." 

"Why do you have your arms behind you."  My brother demands, and John is fully alert now.  But unfortunately for John, he doesn't know what side to pick: the interrogator, or the captive.  He looks back and forth between us,  coming up behind me he starts to force my arms to my sides.  But he sees the scars, and he looks at them.

"Gunshot scars?"  The doctor asks in horror, and I nod discreetly.  I can feel Sherlock's eyes burning into me, finally looking up he drifts his glare to my arm. 

"When I was 'dead' I had to fight lots of people, bad people.  Had to dodge lots of bullets too, but I was never quick enough.  I carry the scars from those confrontations.  Don't pity me.  I hate it when people do that because, I'm not a hurt puppy, I'm a fully capable adult woman."

"Just barely an adult."  Sherlock mutters underneath his breath.

"You, you took the bullets out yourself?"  Comes John's still horror filled voice, I roll my eyes.

"Of course I did, if I went to a hospital or a clinic it would be all over the papers; Journalist is found alive with multiple gunshot wounds.  And if someone recognized me somehow as Anistyn it would have been worse."  I state the obvious, I look over to Sherlock who has a bored look on his face.

"Boring, I noticed it when you came out of the bathroom with your freshly dyed brunette hair."  Comes Sherlock's incredibly bored, and tedious statement.

And once again Sherlock decided to be a child and give me the silent treatment.  But I guess that would make me a little bit if a child too since I didn't try to talk to him either.  Days, weeks, and months past again and just like before John would check up on us, and we would be unmoving statues.  Well that's what John mumbled one day when he walked in, then I zoned him out. 

"Day 107.  And we still haven't spoken a word."  Sherlock sighs, once John is gone.

"You just did, and so now have I."  I point out much to his disliking.  I did sleep, every couple nights I would close my eyes and drift off, I can't say the same for Sherlock though since I never caught him resting. 

"A couple of letters.  Paper, that's all I had to remember you by.  That's all Anistyn."  My brother suddenly remarks, almost making me jump, but I wasn't paying attention that much.  Now I am though, my eyes snap up catching his.

"Your still angry about that?"  I shake my head slowly, he'll never let it go will he.