# A New Beginning

Phoebe walked into 221B Baker Street with a bright smile illuminating her face, the spring in her step unmistakable as she entered the familiar room.

"You're in a good mood today, Phoebe," John commented, glancing up from his newspaper with genuine curiosity.

"My bakery is officially open! Well, sort of—the first day for business is later this week!" Phoebe explained, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she gracefully moved across the cluttered room to see what Sherlock was working on. The scent of her light lavender perfume drifted through the stale air of the flat.

"Really?" Sherlock whipped his head around, his usually stoic face breaking into a rare, genuine smile. "Can we come?"

"Of course you can, Sherly," Phoebe replied with a melodious giggle that brought warmth to the room. "Anyways, any new cases today?"

Sherlock's smile dropped dramatically as he hung his head, dark curls falling over his forehead. "Only boring stuff. Love affairs, missing animals, petty thefts," he said with palpable disdain. "I need something more... substantial."

"I'm sure something will come up, Sherlock," Phoebe reassured him, her voice gentle yet confident. "Theo is coming over in a little bit. He's excited to see you again, not that he really remembers you at all."

Sherlock chuckled lightly, a rare softness appearing in his typically analytical eyes. "Is he still as spritely as he was as a toddler?"

"I'd say so," Phoebe replied with a fond smile, memories dancing behind her eyes. "He takes after you with loving pie."

"Kid's got taste," Sherlock retorted with a smirk, a hint of pride in his voice.

John looked between them with confusion etched on his face, feeling like an outsider to an inside joke. "Sorry, but who's Theo?"

Phoebe turned to John, her silk dress swishing softly with the movement. "He's my baby brother. He's coming for the weekend. We've always been close, despite our age difference."

"Oh! How old is he?"

"He's fourteen," Phoebe replied as she began to pick up some of the papers strewn across the room, knowing full well that Sherlock wouldn't bother with such mundane tasks as tidying.

"He was three last I saw him, right?" Sherlock questioned, his remarkable memory for details ever-present.

Phoebe nodded, a hint of nostalgia crossing her features. "He's as tall as me now," she added with a mixture of pride and melancholy at how quickly time had passed.

"That's not a surprise," Sherlock commented with a mischievous glint in his eye, earning himself a swift elbow to the side.

"Watch it, Holmes," Phoebe grumbled, though there was no real malice in her tone. "I'm not that short."

Sherlock held his side with an exaggerated grimace. "So that's why you always wear heels."

Phoebe's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Just because I'm shorter than you doesn't mean you can bully me for it! I'll have you know that my wearing heels has nothing to do with my height!" Her voice rose slightly with each word, color blooming on her cheeks.

"Holmes, perhaps you should just leave the subject alone," John warned as he observed the tension building between Phoebe and Sherlock, recognizing the signs of an impending storm.

"Whatever," Sherlock grumbled as he looked away with a theatrical huff, though his eyes still sparkled with mischief.

"At least I'm not a giraffe," Phoebe mumbled as she turned around, pretending to arrange books on a nearby shelf.

Sherlock couldn't let her have the last word—he never could. "Giraffe?! Well, at least I'm not a potato! I don't need a stool to reach the cupboards!" His voice resonated through the small flat.

"I don't need a stool to reach the cupboards! Just the top shelves!" Phoebe defended herself, whirling around to face him. "It's not bad!"

Sherlock leaned down until his face was mere inches from hers, his imposing height on full display. "You're just upset that you need help getting onto the carriage step."

"That's exaggerating! Not all carriages have high steps!" Phoebe's voice trembled slightly with indignation.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he delivered what he thought would be the final blow. "You being so short makes you look weird! It's no wonder you made no friends since I left."

The words hung in the air, heavy and painful. Something flashed across Phoebe's face—hurt, genuine hurt—before hardening into anger. She raised her hand to smack Sherlock, but someone caught her wrist before she could make contact.

"Will you two stop bickering! It's absolutely childish!" John shouted as he positioned himself between them, his military authority coming to the fore. The room fell silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.

Phoebe and Sherlock huffed simultaneously and turned away from each other with crossed arms, a perfect mirror of stubbornness.

"I can't believe you two are friends," John mumbled under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief.

"That's questionable," Phoebe grumbled as she sank onto the loveseat, smoothing her dress with trembling hands.

"Both of you apologize," John ordered, looking between them with the stern expression of a schoolmaster dealing with unruly children.

"But—" Sherlock began to complain, indignation clear in his voice.

"It wasn't a request," John said sternly, his tone brooking no argument.

Sherlock stood there, having a silent stare-down with John. After a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, he gave up and sighed, reluctantly sitting beside Phoebe on the loveseat. The cushion dipped under his weight, causing their shoulders to touch briefly.

"I'm sorry, Phee," Sherlock spoke softly, his usual bravado absent. "I don't think you look weird."

She looked up at him with eyes that glistened with unshed tears. "Really?"

"Yes," he said with unexpected gentleness. "I actually think you look quite beautiful." Then, as if uncomfortable with the raw emotion, he added quickly, "Although beauty is merely a construct based on childhood impressions, influences, and role models."

"Thanks?" Phoebe quirked an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "And I'm sorry for calling you a giraffe."

"Well, I'm not really sorry for calling you a potato," Sherlock admitted with a returning grin. "You're our potato. Right, John?" He draped an arm around Phoebe's shoulder with casual affection.

She grimaced a bit but couldn't suppress her smile from breaking through. The tension in the room dissipated like morning mist.

"A very useful potato, yes," John agreed, relieved that the storm had passed.

"Indeed, a very useful potato. A smart one too," Sherlock added, his voice softening.

Phoebe's expression grew more serious. "And by the way, I did make friends after you left. There was a girl I met, but she's usually pretty busy." A hint of defensiveness lingered in her tone.

Sherlock was about to reply when Mrs. Hudson's voice called up the stairs, interrupting the moment.

"Phoebe! There is a little boy here to see you!"

Phoebe leapt off the couch with a bright smile, all previous tension forgotten. "Coming!"

Sherlock chuckled as he pushed himself up, following Phoebe down the stairs, his curiosity piqued.

At the bottom of the stairs stood a lanky teenage boy with a mop of brown hair and familiar intelligent eyes. "Phoebe!" Theo exclaimed, rushing forward to embrace his sister with unbridled enthusiasm.

"You made it!" Phoebe returned the hug warmly. "Here, give me your bags. I'll take you into my flat." She gestured toward the door marked 221C Baker Street.

"Hey, kid," Sherlock said as they both followed Phoebe into her new flat, John trailing behind.

Theo's eyes widened in recognition. "Mr. Holmes?" The boy's voice was filled with awe as he recognized the detective from the news articles about Lord Drebber's murder case.

"That's me. Just call me Sherlock." He crossed his arms with his signature self-assured grin.

"And this is Doctor Watson," Phoebe added. "The lady at the door was Mrs. Hudson. John, Sherly, this is my little brother Theo."

"You've really sprouted since I saw you last," Sherlock remarked, casually picking up an apple from Phoebe's table and taking a bite.

"PheePhee told me all about you and Mycroft!" Theo said excitedly, practically bouncing on his heels. "She even taught me some of the stuff you both taught her! And she told me that you're a detective now! That murder you just solved the other week was so cool!"

"Maybe if your sister permits, you can join me on a case," Sherlock offered, ignoring Phoebe's immediate grimace.

"Please! I wanna help solve a murder!" Theo begged, turning to his sister with pleading eyes that were hard to resist.

Phoebe sighed deeply, shooting Sherlock a quick glare that promised retribution later. "I guess. But only if I'm there with you, and it's not potentially dangerous or too gruesome. Understood, both of you?"

"Yes, ma'am," they replied in unison, like chastised schoolboys.

Phoebe's expression softened. "I have some pie baking in the oven. It should be ready soon if you all want some."

"John, you are in for a treat!" Sherlock announced, dramatically rushing to the table to claim his spot.

"I'm sorry I didn't make enough when I made it for the Irregular boys," Phoebe apologized as she checked on the pie. "It's apple, if that's alright."

"That's perfectly fine, and don't worry about it," John replied with a warm smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

While they waited, Theo bombarded Sherlock with questions about his favorite cases, which the detective was more than happy to answer, embellishing details with theatrical gestures.

The sweet aroma of baked apples and cinnamon filled the small flat as Phoebe carefully removed the golden-brown pie from the stone oven and fanned it with a towel.

"Let it cool down a bit and then we'll eat it," she instructed before turning to her brother with a conspiratorial wink. "Don't tell Mother you're having dessert before dinner."

"Our secret," Theo agreed with a childish grin. "Is it ready?"

She laughed lightly as she skillfully sliced the pie. "It's still a bit hot, but if you want a slice, be careful. That goes for all of you."

After serving each of them a generous slice, Phoebe sat down beside Theo, across from Sherlock. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow over the cozy scene.

Sherlock and Theo immediately started to devour their treats with enthusiastic appreciation.

John took a bite and his posture straightened in surprise. "Wow! This really is delicious, Phoebe! Where did you learn to bake like this?"

"My mother and I would bake all the time when I was younger," Phoebe explained, a fond smile playing on her lips. "Father was almost always busy, so we found ways to entertain ourselves. Baking became one of my favorite things." She took a delicate bite of her own slice. "I've wanted to open a bakery for years now."

"Well, it's a good thing you're pursuing it. You'll definitely have a loyal customer in me," John replied sincerely, savoring the perfect balance of tartness and sweetness in the dessert.

"I'll get started on dinner in a little bit. Don't fill yourselves too much. There's always time for more pie later," Phoebe reminded them, ever the practical one.

The four continued to eat while Theo occasionally peppered them with questions about different cases, his excitement never waning.

---

The evening had settled comfortably over Baker Street when Phoebe, humming softly to herself, was cleaning up her kitchen. The rhythmic clinking of dishes provided a soothing backdrop to her thoughts until her door suddenly burst open.

"PheePhee! Sherlock just got a telegram! There was a murder! Can we go?! Can we go?!" Theo exclaimed breathlessly, his eyes wide with excitement and anticipation.

Phoebe sighed deeply, not entirely thrilled at the prospect of taking her fourteen-year-old brother to investigate a murder scene. But a promise was a promise, and she knew how much it meant to him.

"Okay," she conceded reluctantly, "but I will only allow you to help after Sherlock and I have seen the body first. Do you know if John is coming as well?"

"Yes! Doctor Watson is coming too!" Theo nodded vigorously. "Sherlock told me to tell you that you shouldn't dress 'poofy.'"

"Alright. Go tell Sherlock I'll only be a moment and then I'll join you," Phoebe replied, setting down her cleaning rag.

"Thank you, Phoebe!" Theo rushed forward to hug her tightly, his gratitude palpable.

"If at any point you get scared or I think you are in danger or you feel too queasy, I'm bringing you home immediately," Phoebe warned, her tone serious. "I don't need Mother having my head for traumatizing you."

"I understand," he promised, his expression briefly solemn before his excitement returned. "I'll go tell them you'll be up soon!"

Phoebe watched her brother dash out of her flat, his footsteps thundering up the stairs. With another sigh, she turned toward her bedroom, pulling out some equestrian riding clothes from her wardrobe.

She was acutely aware that a woman of her standing should never be seen in public in such attire—it could be interpreted as cross-dressing, inviting scandal and gossip. However, practicality demanded it. The possibility of a chase meant she refused to be handicapped by a billowing dress that restricted movement. Some rules were made to be broken, especially when lives might be at stake.

When she arrived upstairs a few minutes later, she found Sherlock enthusiastically showing Theo various investigative tools, the boy hanging on his every word.

"Alright, I'm ready to go," Phoebe announced, and all three men turned to face her.

Sherlock's eyes briefly widened at her practical attire before his usual composed expression returned. "Then let's head out."

Outside, the cool evening air carried the distinct London scent of coal smoke and damp stone. Hansom cabs clattered past on the cobblestone street.

"We should take two carriages so it's less cramped," John suggested practically, and Theo immediately perked up.

"Can I ride with Sherlock?" the boy asked eagerly, looking between his sister and the detective.

"That's up to him," Phoebe replied, glancing at Sherlock questioningly.

"Sure!" Sherlock agreed with surprising enthusiasm. "I can talk him through what we'll likely be doing."

Phoebe smiled gratefully. "Alright. Then I'll ride with John."

They hailed two separate carriages, though Phoebe and John's arrived slightly later than Sherlock and Theo's. As they settled into the plush seats, the carriage lurched forward, beginning its journey through London's winding streets.

"So, I've never really asked—how did you and Sherlock meet?" John inquired, breaking the comfortable silence. "Yesterday he said something about 'after he left,' and it made me curious."

Phoebe's gaze turned distant, as if looking into the past. "My parents knew his parents. They weren't close friends or anything, but they introduced me to Sherlock when we were children. At first, I desperately wanted to be friends with him, but he's very stubborn, as you've probably deduced for yourself." A small smile played on her lips. "He left for university when we were sixteen, though, and I didn't see him for eleven years."

"The way you two interact made it seem like you've been very close friends for a long time," John admitted. "He won't let me touch the photograph of you on the mantel or the letters."

"Mrs. Hudson said the same thing," Phoebe replied, genuine surprise coloring her voice. "I don't really know why he's so defensive of them, but I find it almost sweet in a peculiar way. However, I'm not really sure what my relationship with Sherlock is. I would love to call him a friend because we are quite close, even though we only reconnected a little over a month ago, but he is undeniably a thorn in my side at times."

"But you couldn't bear to lose him again, could you?" John surmised gently.

"I'd be lost," Phoebe confirmed without hesitation, her voice soft. "It sounds pathetic, I know. However, I feel like I'm sixteen again whenever I see him." The vulnerability in her admission hung in the air between them.

"You do seem to care for him a great deal," John observed. "I will say, it is a bit surprising that you moved in so quickly. Though, I am one to talk," he added with a self-deprecating chuckle.

"I will admit, I was actively looking for a suitable place for myself," Phoebe explained, her gaze drifting to the passing streets outside the carriage window. "I love my family, and I do not take being of noble blood lightly, but Theo is the heir to our family name as the eldest son. I would like to forge my own path, create my own legacy. I love my brother dearly, but if he is to inherit my family's estate, I wish to have a place I can truly call my own. It also gives me the opportunity to pursue the bakery I've always dreamed of."

"I think it's admirable of you to take your future into your own hands," John said with genuine respect, his warm smile illuminated by the passing streetlamps.

She appreciated his sincerity—John's straightforward nature provided a perfect counterbalance to Sherlock's complexity, and Phoebe found herself grateful for his friendship.

"Forgive me for prying," John continued after a moment, "but has Sherlock always been this... brash?"

Phoebe laughed, the sound brightening the dimly lit carriage. "Always! He insisted on not making friends because they would be 'useless' and 'boring.' He used to call people out on their faults constantly, which made him very unpopular with the local children." Her expression softened with fondness. "And he was always incredibly intelligent and witty. It was one of the reasons I stayed around him for so long. There were other reasons as well, but it was largely due to how much he would consistently impress me with that brilliant mind of his."

"It surprises me that he didn't want to be friends with you," John remarked. "From what I've seen, he greatly admires you and now insists that you are friends."

"It actually baffles me, if I'm being honest," Phoebe admitted. "He used to be so adamant that I was only a nuisance and that we were not friends. I do appreciate the change, though it will forever confuse me. However, I suppose people do change, even Sherlock Holmes." She leaned against the back of the cab and smiled to herself, lost in memories.

They continued to make pleasant conversation for the remainder of the journey. When they finally arrived at their destination—a modest townhouse cordoned off by police—they found Sherlock and Theo engaged in an animated discussion about different methods of murder.

"Please try not to corrupt my brother, Holmes," Phoebe called out, alerting them to their arrival.

"Ah, you made it!" Sherlock turned, his eyes bright with excitement. "Per your instruction, I have not let Theo see anything, mum," he added with a teasing grin. "Shall we take a look then?"

"Thank you, and yes. Let's go," Phoebe agreed, and the four of them made their way into the house where Inspector Lestrade and Assistant Inspector Gregson were waiting.

"Ah, a pleasure to see you again, Assistant Inspector," Phoebe greeted Gregson with perfect politeness that barely concealed her true feelings.

Gregson glowered at her before setting his disapproving gaze on Theo. "So we're just inviting everyone now, are we?" he asked acidly.

"I'd say he's probably just as capable of solving a murder as you are, Gregson. If not more so," Sherlock defended sharply, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

Gregson scoffed, his disdain evident. "Please. He's still a child."

"Yes, and he is the brother of the smartest woman I know," Sherlock countered, his voice cold. "Now, if you will kindly shut your mouth, I would like the inspector to explain the situation to us in full." He turned pointedly to Lestrade. "Inspector, if you would please."

Lestrade cleared his throat awkwardly, clearly trying to defuse the tension. "Right, well, we received a request to look into a man's missing wife after neighbors reported that she wasn't home. After a few days of searching, the husband actually found her in their attic." He shook his head grimly. "We questioned him, but he had been away on business for the week. The only reason he knew she was missing was because of the neighbors who had gone to visit her. We have no leads at the moment. The neighbors appear to be clean, and the woman's husband has a solid alibi."

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, placing a knuckle to his chin—a gesture Phoebe recognized as his thinking pose. "Interesting. I would like to speak to the husband if possible. I just have a few questions I need answered directly from him."

"Of course. He's currently in the kitchen with one of our other officers, being further questioned," Lestrade explained.

"Perfect. I'd like to see the body first," Sherlock replied, and Lestrade nodded curtly.

"Right this way."

As Lestrade led them toward the attic, Phoebe walked beside Theo, concern etched on her features. "Are you absolutely sure about this? You can still wait outside if you prefer."

Theo looked up at his sister with determination. "I'm sure. I'm a little scared, but I'm more excited than anything!"

"Alright," Phoebe relented with a sigh. "Let's go."