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Out With the Old

A/N: You ask, and I deliver. Henry as Sherlock, set 6 months after the events of Enola Holmes, with reader as her sister! The fluff is wild, guys, but there’s a lovely amount of hurt/comfort, too. Enjoy!

Gif belongs to the wonderful @anya-chalotra !! <3

Name: Out With the Old

Summary: Shakespearean insults are the best way to rile a private detective. Or, better yet, coax him into chasing you around his living room.

Words: 3038

“Seventy-five multiplied by sixty-three.”

“Four thousand, seven hundred and twenty-five.”

“Ninety-two multiplied by six hundred and three.”

“Fifty-five thousand, four hundred and seventy-six.”

“Very good! Now… how about seven thousand, three hundred and eighty-eight multiplied by… four thousand, seven hundred and fifty-six?”

“Thirty-five million, one hundred and thirty-seven thousand, three hundred and twenty-eight.”

Sherlock stopped in his pacing, lowering the mathematics book he’d picked from his mother’s bookshelf. An eyebrow raised, he turned to face you, sat languidly on a chair, an extremely unimpressed look on your face.

“That was… surprisingly quick,” he said.

You shrugged. “You can do it.”

“Yes, well-” His right eyebrow rose to meet the left, and he crossed his arms over his chest- “I don’t blurt out the answer a mere second after I’ve heard the question.”

You attempted to remain composed under his scrutinising gaze, but you hadn’t had enough time to master that ability just yet, and, well, he was Sherlock Holmes.

If it was at all possible, your brother’s gaze hardened, and you looked away, tapping your foot on the ground, before he cleared his throat and you rolled your eyes, heaving a sigh and falling back against the chair. “Mother always said my eyesight was better than anyone’s,” you told him submissively. “I can see the answers in the book from here.”

Swiftly, Sherlock whirled his eyes up to the ceiling and shook his head. He shut the book with a resounding slam and placed it on the table beside him before spinning back to face you.

“Stop cheating,” he said.

“It’s not cheating,” you insisted, standing to your feet, “it’s finding a loophole.”

“There’s a difference between being smart and being lazy.” He watched, turning around as you walked past him and over to the vase of chrysanthemums on the coffee table. You’d taken it from your mother’s room at home when Mycroft had started to clear it out. Home wasn’t home without chrysanthemums, and it was all the better that you knew they were hers.

“If it makes the job go faster, why shouldn’t I cheat?” you asked, believing it to be a genuine question. Your hand reached for one of the pink petals lying on the wood below the flowers. It was browning at the sides, and you twisted your lips in a thoughtful manner as you dropped it back in the vase.

“For the same reason you wouldn’t cheat at a school exam,” Sherlock replied. He walked up to you and lightly rapped on the top of your head, the corners of his lips curving upwards when you swatted at him. “Mental stimulation.”

You turned, leaning against the table and staring up at him. “I’m not sure that’s the reason you’re not supposed to cheat in a school exam, but alright.”

Sherlock chuckled lightly. He found it endearing how many differences there were between you and Enola. While she was still out there, strolling around London, lodging wherever she liked with the condition that he knew where, you had decided to take up his offer of returning to his home and staying with him. In all honesty, he likely would have insisted, considering you were about a month shy of fifteen at the time, but he’d still been surprised that the both of you were so willing to leave each other.

Watching you now, as you fiddled with another of the fallen chrysanthemum petals, he wondered over the past six months. He definitely preferred being the older brother as compared to the younger one. You were a force to be reckoned with, one thing you definitely had in common with Enola, and you often kept him on his toes – especially with these lessons he had taken to teaching you in replacement of his mother – but you were incredibly sweet, and he’d learnt as much from you as you had from him during your time together.

A smile still tugging at his lips, he reached for another book, flipping it open. “If you want to work with me, you have to learn to do things the proper way. There’ll be nothing for you to cheat on when we are out there being detectives.” Your shoulders dropped in defeat and he pat your back. The Holmes blood ran through you as proud and true as it did all three of your siblings, and you typically enjoyed these daily sessions, so why you were acting so resigned, he wasn’t certain, but he would get there eventually. He always did.

“Come,” he said, sounding as encouraging as he could manage. “Shakespeare. Our favourite!”

You heaved a sigh. “I do desire we may be better strangers,” you mumbled more to yourself, but Sherlock heard, and he turned, a look of satisfaction on his face.

“As You Like It,” he remarked. “Good. Now, concentrate, Y/N.”

“I’ve been concentrating for two hours!”

“Correction: you have been attempting to concentrate for two hours.”

“Thou cream-faced loon,” you said, louder this time, and he nodded, brows raising and lips pursing in clear pride.

“Hamlet.”

“A pox o’ your throat,” you continued to quote, lifting your arm in the air, a sly smile on your face as you performed like you were on stage, “you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!”

Sherlock frowned, averting his eyes in thought. “I’m… beginning to think you aren’t just quoting Shakespeare.”

Once you reached the fireplace in the room, you whirled around, tilting your head to the side as innocently as possible. “What makes you say that, thou lily-liver’d boy?”

At that, Sherlock made a face of realisation, and he held the book in one hand while pointing a finger of the other in your direction. “Now, Y/N-”

“Out of my sight!” you called dramatically. “Thou dost infect my eyes!”

Sherlock placed the book on the chair you’d been sat on not five minutes ago. “I’d prefer if you didn’t use famous lines from the wonderful William Shakespeare to insult your older brother.”

“I bite my thumb at thou!”

“There will be no biting of thumbs, thank you.”

“Thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows!”

“Well, then your elbows must be very intelligent.”

“You are as a candle, the better burnt out!”

“I remember you doing this as a child, now that I think about it.”

“Thou damned and luxurious mountain goat!”

“You would run about the house in your little night gown, quoting lines from Oliver Twist like a glorified stage actor.”

“More of your conversation would infect my brain!”

“Do you know what else I remember from your childhood?”

“Foul spoken coward, that thund’rest with thy tongue-”

“You were particularly ticklish.”

“-and with thy weapon nothing da- what?”

Sherlock’s smile broadened into a rare grin, and he crossed his arms over his chest, likely revelling in the way the words had stopped so suddenly on your tongue, hands halting in mid-air. When your wide-eyed, open-mouthed face turned to stare at him, he briefly waved an arm, shaking his head. “No, no, please do continue.”

You continued to stare at him, ready to run and more than ready to punch him in the face, but he just stood there, as though expectant of something, and you weren’t entirely sure whether you should continue in your Shakespearean rampage or give in to his attempts to teach you and simply let your damn brother have his way.

Nevertheless, despite the differences between you and Enola, there were many similarities… one of those being neither of you knew when enough was enough. Apparently.

“You are not worth another word-” you started daringly – perhaps you wanted to dare – watching with an ever-growing grin as your brother’s eyebrows ventured to reach his hairline, and his head dipped dangerously lower- “else I’d call you knave.”

He blinked once. Twice. Then he jolted forward, and you let loose a little yelp before jumping away from him, leaping over a couch in a way that would have had Mycroft writhing on the floor from a heart attack at having seen such a thing. Thankfully, this was Sherlock, and if your mother’s stories and the fact that he vaulted over the couch immediately after you were anything to go by… he wouldn’t be collapsing on the ground anytime soon.

“I’m glad to see you take after me with your love for literature!” he called out as he chased after you, stopping only to quickly grab the vase of chrysanthemums you’d accidentally knocked before it wobbled off the edge of the table. “Though perhaps you should lessen the enthusiasm!”

“Never!” you shouted back, the grin on your lips impossibly wide. You couldn’t remember ever having this much fun with someone who wasn’t Enola or your mother. And you’d never dreamed of Sherlock, the supposedly work-oriented, anti-fun detective, being the one providing this entertainment. He was racing after you, in his buttoned shirt, trousers and dress shoes, you in an old pair of his breeches and a loose blouse (he allowed you to flout society’s – and Mycroft’s – standards of young women wearing dresses and bows in their hair when he knew nobody was expected at the house that day). Abnormal grins were on your faces as you ran circles around the large room, you giggling uncontrollably and him with determination glittering in his eyes.

“You might as well stop running!” he called. “I always captured you and Enola in the end!”

“Nut-hook, nut-hook, you lie!” you yelled, twisting to stick your tongue out at him and squeaking as you tripped over a pile of unnoticed papers laying haphazardly on the floor. You stumbled, trying to regain your footing, until you felt two strong arms encircle you and trap you against a hard chest.

“I think you’ll find that I do not lie, little Shakespearean,” Sherlock said, eyes devoid of the previous determination and now sparkling with mischief as he turned his head down to look victoriously at you. You laughed, pushing at his arms.

“Away, you scullion! You rampallian! You fustilarian! Away, you three-inch fool! You- ah! Sherlock! No!” You threw your head back in laughter as you felt his fingers dig into your sides.

“Go on,” Sherlock encouraged, “spew your insults. I am all ears.”

Listening to your contagious giggles, the man found himself close to beaming. Doubtlessly you would not remember the times when you and Enola had been young – no more than four and five years of age, respectively – and would adorably cajole him into chasing you both around the house, receiving well-earned tickles in the end. Mycroft had called it childish. Mother had called it sweet. Father had shouted at them to keep the noise down. He hadn’t much cared for their opinions at the time and he knew he wouldn’t now.

“Sherlock!” you screeched, bending over his arms as he let his fingers trail quickly up to your ribs. “Stopitstopitstopit!”

He shook his head fondly at your chaotic laughter, wondering briefly how he’d ever lived so long without it.

“Ninety-three multiplied by one thousand and sixty?” he asked casually, simultaneously wiggling his fingers into your neck and chuckling as you scrunched up your shoulders.

“SHERLOCK!”

“Tell me the answer. Show me how clever I know you are.”

“Uh- uh- wait! Nihine- ninety-eight thouhouhousand, five hundred and eiGHTY! I said it! I SAID IT, Sherlock, STOHOHOP!”

Sherlock stopped immediately, retracting his hand and keeping you upright as you fell back against him, residual giggles spilling from your lips while you panted for air. “So you did,” he agreed, patting your stomach twice. “Who needs cheating when you have a brain as intelligent as yours, hm?”

You raised your head up to stare at him. “That was…”

His eyes narrowed, daring you to quote Shakespeare again, and you smiled in defeat. “Terrible,” you finished. “Simply awful. If that’s what big brothers make a habit of doing, I might just leave here forever and stay with Enola.”

He chuckled again, releasing you and walking to pick up a stack of papers that had flown from his desk as he’d zoomed past just minutes before. “Ah, but then, who would keep me company?” he asked, offering a warm smile as you collapsed on the couch.

“You’ve lasted long enough by yourself,” you told him.

“Being alone can become routine, yes, but that does not mean you should have to like it.” He neatly settled the papers back and turned to face you, leaning against the wooden desk, hands braced behind him and one ankle crossed over the other. You glanced up as he spoke. “I have enjoyed having you here, Y/N. I must say it’s been easier for me to get out of bed each morning.” You dropped your eyes again, a hint of a terribly suppressed smile gracing your lips. “Anyway,” he said. “I think we’ve had our sufficient fill of Shakespeare today. What about Oliver Twist? Think you can remember some lines?”

At your lack of response, he frowned and absently bit his bottom lip, staring at your bowed head as you fiddled with a stray thread of the couch’s armrest. He glimpsed the clock on his desk. Half-past twelve. You’d worked longer and harder than this before and enjoyed it all immensely, so why you weren’t so keen now, he still wasn’t sure.

He pursed his lips. “You’re usually eager to solve these problems. What has you so unmotivated today?”

“It’s nothing,” you told him immediately, and he nodded slowly. He’d learnt in his line of work that it was always better to ask more questions and persist, but there was a limit with everyone, and he hadn’t quite explored those limits with you just yet. Nevertheless, as he readied himself to rephrase his question in an effort to figure out the cause of your lack of drive today, you spoke again.

“I just… I miss Enola,” you told him quietly, obviously relenting, and he moved forward to settle himself in the armchair next to you. “And Mother. That’s all. We used to do these things together. And I suppose… I have so loved doing them with you these past few months… but, sometimes, I get bombarded with memories, of times when she and Mother were still here, and they make me sad.”

He entwined his fingers together and nodded, glancing away for a moment. “I understand.”

You hated yourself for it, but you hardened your gaze enough to make your face look the slightest bit irritated. “How can you understand? You don’t know what it’s like to miss a sibling.”

His face fell the slightest bit, and you blinked, shaking your head. “Sorry,” you told him, “I didn’t mean it.” And you didn’t. Not really. But there were times when you thought about how easy it had been for Sherlock to take the train down to your house in the country, and how he had never taken advantage of that beforehand. You could already confidently say you had learnt to love him in the six months since he’d taken you in, and you were sure he felt the same.

But why couldn’t it have been sooner?

“I did think of you both.” You flicked your eyes up again when he spoke, soft and clearly considerate of his words as he placed his interlaced hands on his lap and stared at them with furrowed brows. After he sensed you’d looked up, he lifted his own eyes and nodded once. “Often. Just… well. I think perhaps I left it too long, and then each time I thought about coming to visit, I worried perhaps you wouldn’t want to see me.” He breathed a quiet chuckle and heaved a deep breath. “A weak and foolish excuse, I know, but I was a weak and foolish man. If I could go back and change the way I acted, I would. I would write to you, as Enola suggested, and come to visit as much as I could.” He glanced up again and sent you a sad smile. “It was two wonderful relationships wasted, and I apologise from the bottom of my heart.”

You felt a sort of relief at his words. Finally, after years of wondering, after years of waiting… sitting with Enola on your mother’s bed as you looked through the clippings of all your brother’s cases, and talked together in hushed whispers about what he might be like… you had an answer. It wasn’t the best answer, and a part of you doubted you would ever fully understand it, but you had it, and that was more than you’d possessed a minute ago.

“You’re here, now. That’s what matters,” you told him, offering your own smile, and he mirrored it.

“And, for what it’s worth, which I’m sure is a lot,” he said, leaning towards you, “I am one hundred percent certain Enola and Mother do not go a day without thinking of you, too.”

“Likewise,” you told him, feeling your heart warm, and he gave you another smile before he reached across for a small blue ball on his desk, throwing it in the air. Perhaps you’d be more inclined to play a game instead.

“Shall we return to your lessons?” he asked.

“What if I cheat again?” you asked, your lips curling up into a smirk. He chuckled, standing to his feet.

“Ah, well, you see, I know now how to curb that…”

You desperately shook your head, putting your hands up in surrender. “I’ll tell Mycroft on you!” you threatened, and the look he gave you made you burst into laughter after three seconds of pure silence. The both of you knew you wouldn’t speak to Mycroft if you could help it, and, to be quite honest, neither would Sherlock.

He threw you the ball as you made to stand up, chuckling when you yelped after seeing it coming towards you a little too late, struggling to hold it properly.

“Enola’s twice as good at these things,” you told him, tossing it back to him. He caught it easily.

“Well, if she’s twice as good, then you’re just good. And, often-” He aimed the ball in your direction- “all you need is a good person to get the job done. As dear William says… brevity is the soul of wit. Catch!”

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