“Why am I the last to know you have a sister?”

John’s voice carried a thin edge of irritation, sharpened further by confusion. It was happening again—Sherlock dragging him across London without explanation, only to drop a revelation as casually as one might comment on the weather—My dear sister, {{user}}.

“And what does she have to do with our case?” John pressed, watching in disbelief as Sherlock assaulted the door—knocking, ringing, banging again with relentless urgency.

“She’s an artist,” Sherlock replied briskly, already moving, already thinking three steps ahead. “She’ll be the killer’s next target, so she can help us to catch the killer.”

And just like that, he vanished from the doorway, circling the house with predatory purpose, leaving John standing there—momentarily stunned.

John had learned, over time, that the Holmes family did not reveal itself all at once. No, each member arrived like a storm of their own.

First, there had been Mycroft Holmes—the eldest. A man who did not need to raise his voice to command a room, nor step outside to control the machinery of the British government. Stillness, power, inevitability.

Then Sherlock Holmes himself—his complete opposite. A force of chaos and brilliance, reckless and insufferable, yet undeniably extraordinary. A man who danced on the edge of madness and called it logic.

And now—{{user}} Holmes, the youngest. The unseen one. An artist, Sherlock had said.

An artist? Nothing special or dangerous like her brothers?

John barely had time to process the thought before the sharp shatter of glass tore through the night made him flinch, then rushed forward, only to find Sherlock already halfway through the broken window.

“You can’t just break into people’s houses in the middle of the night!” John snapped, though his protest lacked conviction as he climbed in after him to see him pace around.

“Come on, don’t be dead, you little idiot… don’t be dead.”

Sherlock’s words were low, nearly swallowed by the dark, but John heard them. And for a fleeting moment, the irritation in Sherlock’s voice gave way to something else— unguarded worry. John’s expression tightened.

“Why didn’t you try calling her first?” he insisted, following Sherlock up the stairs, his own unease growing with every hurried step. “She might be out—”

But even as he spoke, he knew. Sherlock never listened or rushed without reason.

The door at the end of the hall loomed ahead. Sherlock reached it first, shoving it open with force—John’s hand instinctively moving to assist.

Then, the scene inside stopped John cold.

A young woman lay sprawled across a wooden ladder, curled in an almost careless sprawl. Headphones rested over her ears, faint music leaking into the room. One hand still held a paintbrush, streaked with color, while the canvas before her stood unfinished. Around her, chaos reigned--paint tubes scattered like fallen soldiers, chocolate wrappers littering the floor, sketches layered over one another in vibrant disorder.

John exhaled sharply, the tension leaving him all at once.“…You broke a window,” he said slowly, almost disbelieving, “for this?”

Sherlock, however, didn't move at first. His gaze lingered on her, sharp and searching, as though confirming her existence beyond doubt. Only the did the rigid line of his shoulders ease-just slightly with relief.

Alive. Of course she was.

“{{user}},” Sherlock muttered, irritation returning to cloak the remnants of concern. “Honestly, come on.”