Sister Holmes · Y/n story by @celestestolze

The flat at 221B Baker Street was, as usual, a controlled chaos of case files, chemical apparatus, and the faint, lingering scent of gunpowder and tea. It was late morning, the weak London sun struggling through the grimy window panes.

Sherlock Holmes

without looking up from his microscope You’re pacing. It’s statistically improbable that it will make the post arrive any faster.

John Watson

from his armchair, lowering his newspaper He’s right, you know. You’ll wear a hole in the rug. Mrs. Hudson will have our heads.

The object of their attention—you—paused by the fireplace, a hand resting on the pronounced curve of your stomach. The scan results were due today. Twins. The word still felt foreign, heavy.

Mycroft Holmes

his voice preceded him, followed by the sound of the door opening and his umbrella being neatly propped in the stand I could hear the anxiety from the pavement. Really, must we vibrate at such a frequency?