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"She's your... sister? You never told me you had a sister, Sherlock!" John ran his hands through his hair, exasperated.

"You never asked."

"For goodness' sake, Sherlock," Mycroft muttered, "Does your family even matter to you?"

"Of course they matter to me!" Sherlock snapped, startling the pair of men. John looked uneasily at your sleeping form.

"How did the surgery go?" He asked uncertainly, trying to change the subject.

"Fine." Sherlock looked over in your direction, Mycroft doing the same. Your breath came shallow and barely visible. You would be discharged from the hospital tomorrow, and would need to keep weight off both ankles for six weeks, and crutches for another six. You were very lucky not to have been more seriously injured—but your brothers of all people knew how unhappy you were going to be with the situation. And your wrist—it was your right wrist. You wouldn't be drawing for a couple of months. Lord knows how furious you would be about that one.

"Brother, how long has she been asleep?" Mycroft asked idly.

"It's been six hours since the surgery. She's probably awakened since then, but she's tired. Her work, most likely." Sherlock looked at his watch.

"I don't get it—what's so important about her job? What does she do?" John pressed, his brow furrowed.

"That would not be my place to say, Dr. Watson." Mycroft informed him. John's face looked even more confused, but he dropped the subject.

A nurse rushed into the room to check vitals and deliver a late afternoon meal. Your eyes fluttered open as she fiddled with knobs next to your IV line.

"What time is it?" you asked, your voice sounding much less groggy than anyone had expected.

Sherlock didn't bother to check his watch again. "It's 2:30 in the afternoon."

"Oh, alright. I've been asleep for hours. My ankles are sore... probably because I went and landed on them like a bloody idiot." You pushed a button on a remote from your bedside and the bed was brought up to a sitting position. "Hey, Myc! How's everything going? And do YOU know why I was in London?"

Your cheerful demeanor, while unexpected, was certainly usual for you. You joked that you had to make up for your brothers' lack of emotion sometimes.

"It's good to see you too, (f/n). And no, I haven't the faintest idea why you were in London." Your face fell in slight disappointment.

"Oh, well. I'll figure it out eventually. And you must be... John? Watson? Sherlock told me you were his flatmate and that I have you to thank for getting me to the hospital so quickly." You grinned at the blonde man, who looked at the ground.

"Well, you would've gotten here all the same; there was quite a crowd." He smiled back at you for a moment. You noted that he was fairly shy, possibly because of the fact you were a woman. You certainly didn't have your siblings' observational skills, but growing up with them instilled habits of reading a person.

"Well thank you all the same, John. I'm sure putting up with a bleeding mess was rather frightening." You laughed, and so did he.

"No, not at all; I'm a doctor, you see, so being squeamish isn't a problem." Your face darkened for a moment at this new revelation.

"A doctor? Well, I can hope you're a nice doctor. I hate most of them; these places are the worst," you grumbled, gesturing around the blank hospital room. To your surprise, John actually nodded in agreement.

"I never much liked staying in hospitals either. Even doctors hate other doctors."

"Really? That's good to know." You laughed again, this time a little louder. The nurse, who had finished fiddling with the IV and catheter, began making preparations for you to eat. She flipped a sort of tray from the side of the bed over your lap and set a tray of food in front of you.

"Thanks!" You looked down hungrily at a limp ham sandwich, a canned peach-half, and some jello. "Hmm. Yum."

As soon as the woman had left the room, Sherlock almost reluctantly pulled out a bag of gummy bears. Your eyes lit up with a sort of child-like glee.

"Gummy bears?! Oh, Sherlock, you're the best!" You reached for the bag of your favourite candy, but your brother pulled it back.

"Eat something healthy first. Then you can have gummy bears."

"Okay..." You frowned and poked at your sandwich with your fingers. John laughed, which prompted a faint smile on your part.

You opened up the sandwich and inspected the lettuce. It was about as limp as the hand of a dead body. Perhaps the hospital recycled unidentified bodies into their food, like Sweeney Todd.

You considered yourself to be rather morbid.

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"She's your... sister? You never told me you had a sister, Sherlock!" John ran his hands through his hair, exasperated.

"You never asked."

"For goodness' sake, Sherlock," Mycroft muttered, "Does your family even matter to you?"

"Of course they matter to me!" Sherlock snapped, startling the pair of men. John looked uneasily at your sleeping form.

"How did the surgery go?" He asked uncertainly, trying to change the subject.

"Fine." Sherlock looked over in your direction, Mycroft doing the same. Your breath came shallow and barely visible. You would be discharged from the hospital tomorrow, and would need to keep weight off both ankles for six weeks, and crutches for another six. You were very lucky not to have been more seriously injured—but your brothers of all people knew how unhappy you were going to be with the situation. And your wrist—it was your right wrist. You wouldn't be drawing for a couple of months. Lord knows how furious you would be about that one.

"Brother, how long has she been asleep?" Mycroft asked idly.

"It's been six hours since the surgery. She's probably awakened since then, but she's tired. Her work, most likely." Sherlock looked at his watch.

"I don't get it—what's so important about her job? What does she do?" John pressed, his brow furrowed.

"That would not be my place to say, Dr. Watson." Mycroft informed him. John's face looked even more confused, but he dropped the subject.

A nurse rushed into the room to check vitals and deliver a late afternoon meal. Your eyes fluttered open as she fiddled with knobs next to your IV line.

"What time is it?" you asked, your voice sounding much less groggy than anyone had expected.

Sherlock didn't bother to check his watch again. "It's 2:30 in the afternoon."

"Oh, alright. I've been asleep for hours. My ankles are sore... probably because I went and landed on them like a bloody idiot." You pushed a button on a remote from your bedside and the bed was brought up to a sitting position. "Hey, Myc! How's everything going? And do YOU know why I was in London?"

Your cheerful demeanor, while unexpected, was certainly usual for you. You joked that you had to make up for your brothers' lack of emotion sometimes.

"It's good to see you too, (f/n). And no, I haven't the faintest idea why you were in London." Your face fell in slight disappointment.

"Oh, well. I'll figure it out eventually. And you must be... John? Watson? Sherlock told me you were his flatmate and that I have you to thank for getting me to the hospital so quickly." You grinned at the blonde man, who looked at the ground.

"Well, you would've gotten here all the same; there was quite a crowd." He smiled back at you for a moment. You noted that he was fairly shy, possibly because of the fact you were a woman. You certainly didn't have your siblings' observational skills, but growing up with them instilled habits of reading a person.

"Well thank you all the same, John. I'm sure putting up with a bleeding mess was rather frightening." You laughed, and so did he.

"No, not at all; I'm a doctor, you see, so being squeamish isn't a problem." Your face darkened for a moment at this new revelation.

"A doctor? Well, I can hope you're a nice doctor. I hate most of them; these places are the worst," you grumbled, gesturing around the blank hospital room. To your surprise, John actually nodded in agreement.

"I never much liked staying in hospitals either. Even doctors hate other doctors."

"Really? That's good to know." You laughed again, this time a little louder. The nurse, who had finished fiddling with the IV and catheter, began making preparations for you to eat. She flipped a sort of tray from the side of the bed over your lap and set a tray of food in front of you.

"Thanks!" You looked down hungrily at a limp ham sandwich, a canned peach-half, and some jello. "Hmm. Yum."

As soon as the woman had left the room, Sherlock almost reluctantly pulled out a bag of gummy bears. Your eyes lit up with a sort of child-like glee.

"Gummy bears?! Oh, Sherlock, you're the best!" You reached for the bag of your favourite candy, but your brother pulled it back.

"Eat something healthy first. Then you can have gummy bears."

"Okay..." You frowned and poked at your sandwich with your fingers. John laughed, which prompted a faint smile on your part.

You opened up the sandwich and inspected the lettuce. It was about as limp as the hand of a dead body. Perhaps the hospital recycled unidentified bodies into their food, like Sweeney Todd.

You considered yourself to be rather morbid.