Falling Stars and Cigarettes

Fairytale In Her Mind

At times like this, Sibley hated silence. It was a cliché, but at times like this, silence was louder than the London traffic outside of the cab. Silence was louder than Sherlock Holmes irritating breathing. Silence was loud. She tried to focus on anything other than the man next to her. Anything other than the thought of her mother and the new turn of events. She watched the cars pass by like shooting stars. Imagined who might be in them. Families, with a mum and a dad and siblings who bicker but never let anyone else mess with the other. Imagined them going by a daily schedule. Back home to have a quiet family dinner. To tell stories and have bed time.

That story, the fairytale in her mind, was far different than the situation at hand. Sure, she was going home with her father, but this was far different. They would get there and finally have a conversation at one point or another, John would probably shake his head at Sherlock and be the welcoming one, then she would go to bed without being told goodnight and wondering why she was there in the first place. Why the man who had been yelling at her several hours earlier and being a complete pick was now taking her into his home.

She thought back to the scene they had just been at. Cops crawling around the place, looking for all of her mothers drugs. Sherlock and Greg waiting for her. They explained that her mother had been arrested and upon further investigation and realizing Sibley had been the caretaker in the house for years, decided she was unfit to be the guardian even after she got out of prison. Then they told her she'd be moving in with Sherlock, he'd be fostering her until he was approved for adoption. She didn't want this. She didn't need to be taken care of. Especially not by Sherlock. He hadn't told anyone why he was taking her in and she kept her mouth shut as well. Why he was taking her in when he clearly didn't want anything to do with her, she wasn't sure.

The cab pulled up outside of Baker Street and Sherlock instantly climbed out. She just stared up at it. She would be entering it as an official resident now. With this intriguing, infuriating, prideful, man. She didn't want too. Before she had wanted nothing more, but now? She couldn't bring herself to move. Sherlock turned upon realizing Sibley was not behind him and he sighed, irritated, walking back to the cab.

"Do take your time," he snipped. She blinked and looked over at him.

"If you have such a problem with me, let this cabbie take me back home," she insisted. He let out another frustrated huff.

"It's a bit too late for that, isn't it? Come on," he ordered. She grumbled to herself as she pushed her way out of the cab and stormed up to the flat, throwing the door open without bothering to knock and stomping upstairs. Yes she had raised herself. Yes she could be incredibly professional and act like a little adult, but she could also act like a child, and right now, she had no problem with that. Maybe he'd get tired of her and kick her out if she acted up enough.

"Oh, hello Sibley," John gave her a sympathetic smile, knowing he situation as he had made Sherlock keep him updated.

"Where am I staying?" she asked tiredly.

"Oh, yes, I'd imagine you'd like to rest, come on, I'll show you." he moved to show her another room just as Sherlock finally got up the stairs. She rolled her eyes and walked into the small room slamming the door behind her.

She wasn't sure why she was so annoyed. This had been what she wanted originally. When she first found the picture of Sherlock she imagined moving in with him so she could continue school and eventually go to college. Now she was just pissed. He wasn't what she wanted. This wasn't what she wanted.

John turned to his friend after the moody teenager had disappeared. He was surprised. She was so sweet and mature he had forgotten her age while they had worked together. Just then, though, there was no doubt in his mind she was a teenager. He imagined she didn't often let herself act like that, so his initial assumption was Sherlock had done something.