Brilliant {A BBC Sherlock Fanfic}

Games of Life and Death

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE: GAMES OF LIFE AND DEATH

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to the wonderful Renner_Addict135, and I apologise for it being short in comparison to the other chapters but the next few chapters will be entirely original content and you'll understand why I ended it here (here's a hint: OH MY GOD SHERLIA!!!) That's all. Now on to the chapter.

~Two months later~

Amelia rolled her eyes as the doorbell rang, neither John nor Sherlock got up to answer it. “I’ll get it why don’t I?” She said sarcastically, shooting both of her flatmates a stern, disapproving glare.

“Tetchy,” Sherlock muttered, flipping the page of the Daily Star, a bold headline emblazoned across the front reading “How Was He Ever Acquitted?” with a large picture of Sherlock and Moriarty underneath.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” Amelia hissed through her teeth, her eyes glinting dangerously, “watch your tongue.” Sherlock promptly stuck his tongue out, trying to look at the tip with his eyes crossed which caused Amelia to sigh tiredly heavily, “Sherlock. Please.”

She trotted down the stairs, opening the door to the flat only to meet a pair of curious blue eyes. Amelia let out a yelp, quickly slamming the door shut. She leaned against the door, locking it once again with one hand before going back upstairs.

“Who was it?” John asked in mild interest, eyes flicking up from Amelia’s copy of A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream.

“That is mine,” Amelia said, snatching it out of his hands and placing it on the side table, “and no one.” She turned round to Sherlock as he opened his mouth, ready to deduct who was downstairs. “Sher, just-just don’t.”

He harrumphed indignantly, burying his nose in the newspaper just as Amelia’s mobile phone—which just happened to be on the armrest of Amelia’s chair—rang out, vibrating furiously. Sherlock dove for it, beating Amelia to the phone, and answered the call, the screen displaying an unknown number.

“Good evening, may I ask whom I am speaking to?” Sherlock said formally, ever the polite gentleman. He nodded to something the person said on the other line, turning on speakerphone.

“Amelia Laura Watson!” Her mother’s nasally voice shrieked in fury, “How dare you shut the door on my face?! I thought I brought you up better than that.”

“You think wrong,” Amelia said, glowering in anger at Sherlock for answering the call.

John laughed, “Hello, mother. I didn’t realise it was you downstairs.”

“Hello, dear.” Mrs. Watson said kindly, breathing in sharply as Amelia let out a loud snort, recalling that her mother had always preferred John to Amelia. “Amelia, do come downstairs and answer the door. It’s rather nippy out.”

“John will get it,” Amelia said flippantly, sitting down on her seat with a loud huff and crossed arms. She hadn’t spoken to her mother in over a year as the two had gotten into a disagreement over Amelia’s safety of her job. Although her mother believed her to be working with the UN, not MI6. God forbid she ever found out what her youngest daughter was doing.

Moments later, John came back up to the living room, an elderly woman with grey-blonde hair which curled in to frame her thin face at the ends, grey-blue eyes that were a combination of both Amelia and John’s, and she wore entirely pink.

Amelia scowled at her mother’s fashion choice, cringing as her mother enveloped her in a tight hug, nearly choking on the stale scent of her mother’s perfume. Her mother turned to Sherlock, “And this must be your fiancé! You never told me you got engaged—I’m ashamed of you.”