Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John Watson was angry. He blew out his breath in a huff.

"Sherlock, you're being insufferable."

"Am I, now?" Sherlock asked, the picture of innocence. He typed some more into his phone.

"You know what I mean. The secrets. Last time you got secret texts, you jumped off a building, IN CASE YOU'VE FORGOTTEN!" He let the words space out, harsh and fragmented.

"I didn't exactly jump," Sherlock muttered tersley, knowing it was a sore subject.

"Well, it was rather traumatic for those of us on the ground."

"We've been through this, I said I was sorry."

They were quiet for a few moments. Then Sherlock ventured, "I really can't tell you about these messages, John."

"Why not? You know everything about me. It's- unnerving."

"I'll tell you when the time is right. I can assure you the secrecy is not purely theatrical."

John was preparing to return home when Ms. Hudson came bustling in. "Mail call, boys."

She beamed at them. "How nice, John. You've been invited to a conference for doctors or something tomorrow, look. I can't believe that they're still sending your mail here. And Sherlock, you got a letter too. I'll just set the Telegraph here..."

John quickly scanned the invite. His therapist would certainly say he should go, and it actually sounded mildly interesting. Not as exciting as crime, though.

"Sherlock?"

"Go to your convention, I don't expect any cases," he said without looking up from his letter.

More than a little upset, John stalked out. Sherlock could be so cold sometimes. Perhaps a little break was what both friends needed.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was reading his letter with varying degrees of dismay.

Mr. Holmes, the letter read in a cool, formal style he knew so well.

Perhaps you remember me. My name is Rose Smith, and I worked for Ms. Elsie Raymond's family while you were courting her. After you two married, Elsie's furious father annulled the marriage, as you well know. You tried vainly to reach Elsie, using all your detecting ability, but eventually gave up. I cannot blame you - you weren't even of age(21), after all. Her father, I believe, wrote a cold, brief epistle to you informing you that Elsie died.

Ms. Elsie's parents are now dead as well, and it is my duty to inform you of something rather painful. Elsie' s father neglected to tell you how she died.

Mr. Holmes, she died from complications after giving birth prematurely.

The child still lives. The child is currently fifteen years old and living at the old Raymond Manor with money from the Raymond estate furnishing tutoring and living expenses.

However, the child has no surviving relatives, and will be sent to foster care unless you decide to open your home.

If you should, please do not hesitate to call.

There was a number and a signature.

"My God," he said a little blankly. The child still lives. The words seemed to appear in the air in front of him, and he waved them away with an angry hand. 

John reappeared in the door. "Sherlock, I'm leaving now."

"Oh," he said snapping out of his daze. "Goodbye, John."

He turned back to the letter, hearing the door slam.

His phone beeped again, another 'secret' text.

"Why won't you come play?" J.M

He no longer cared about Moriarty and his cryptic messages. Now was the time to venture to his mind palace and concentrate, to think of the things he'd pushed away for so long.

He'd been in love with Elsie Raymond, a heiress from a prestigious old family. They had met in their first year of college, and she had been...wonderful.

Girls did not vie for young Sherlock's attention. He was at college just as he was now - cool, unfriendly, dedicated to deduction.

But Elsie had been different. Yes, she was refined and quiet, deeply religious, but she was also determined to throw aside her stuffy family's rules and become a forensic investigator. Her quiet convictions, very unlike his own scientific mind, had still set her apart from the other students there to party and shirk learning. 

A year spent in courtship - long hours in the anthro lab poring over fascinating cases, her dragging Sherlock to volunteer at all sorts of missions, awkwardly dodging vapid classmates, vying for top grade in the osteology finals - and one day, he proposed. He began to open up, to bloom towards this light. The hard corners of his mouth had not yet set- he was not then wholly jaded, as he was now. He let himself believe, in a small , secret part of his heart that there could truly be someone for him.

He did not inform his family, nor did she. They eloped.

They spent a beautiful summer holiday  together in a little house, high in the Dales. But one day her father showed up, convinced Sherlock was after her money only.

Since they were just 18 at the time, he had their marriage annulled, and he took Elsie back to Raymond Manor. Sherlock tried vainly to find her, but her father used all his influences to keep him away.

The bloom crumpled , trampled underfoot. It had been so unlike Sherlock, so rare to find another kindred soul. No one in his family would have believed it possible. For him love would never grow again.

So Sherlock ordered his extraordinary mind to forget, and nearly forget it did - until now. 

Leaping up, he scrambled wildly with his desk drawer, pulling it until a secret compartment popped. He picked up the first thing that fell out- a faded Polaroid of a beautiful young woman, enormous blue eyes fixed lovingly on a much younger version of himself. Her brown hair was gathered into a ponytail, and she wore a sparkly headband. It looked so outdated and cheap now. He'd been so proud to buy her that bauble, at a Piccadilly shop. Her, wearing his knock off jewelry while she had access to millions. Picking his refuse over her family's treasure.

His finger brushed over her her face, lifting a thin layer of dust off the photo. It served as a reminder of how well his mind place stayed uncluttered. Leave sentimental memories to the dust; store them deep away and never take them out. 

Now he stared at his phone, then snatched it up, breathing hard.

He dialed the number from the letter.

Chapter Text

"Raymond Manor, this 'eres Rose."

His long fingers tapping patterns into the desk, Sherlock said, "This is Sherlock Holmes."

An excitable, high voice with a pronounced cockney accent replied, "Mr. 'Olmes! Thank goodness you called. I suppose you want ta' know more about the child before you make a decision?"

"Stop saying 'child', " he said irritably. "Is it a boy or girl?"

"It's a girl, sir. A fifteen year old girl."

"I assume she has a name?" Sherlock asked sarcastically, trying not to look at the snapshot on his desk, trying not to wonder if the girl looked like Elsie. He could not believe THIS was what love and sentiment got you- a dead wife and surely annoying teenage child. A defect found on the losing side indeed. 

"Yes, Mr. 'olmes-" She was off on a tangent of stories again. He hated prattle. Hurry up, woman. She continued, "- the girl's name is Felicity Grace."

Felicity Grace. Blood roared in his head. Now he had a name; a faceless, named creature who apparently needed him.

"Spittin' image of 'er mum, Mr. 'olmes. All we need is a bit of paperwork and she's yours. You do want her?"

"Uh. Well, actually I have a bit of a reputation. I wouldn't want her in any dangerous situations..."

What would he, Sherlock, do with a child? He continued to make excuses, but the chattering woman would not shut up.

"Listen 'ere, Mr. 'Olmes," the woman's voice lowered conspiratorially, "The week after the birth,w hen Ms. Elsie was dyin', she was a-cryin' and beggin' her father and mother to take the baby to you.

'He'll love her, oh please, bring her to him or bring him here. You'll blame her for my dying; Sherlock won't. Oh, Sherlock!'

"They wouldn't, of course. They'd just lost their only daughter and they weren't about to surrender their only granddaughter. But now's your chance to make good on her last wish. In a strange way, old Raymond and his wife did blame little Lissie for her mother's death. Poor girl, I don't think that they ever told her they loved her."

Elsie- crying out for him as she died. He swallowed hard. "Does the girl know about me? I mean, that I might take her in?"

"Yes, sir. The Raymond's did their best to pollute your name while they were alive, but I'm pretty sure the letters did their work."

"Letters?" Sherlock was curious.

"Yes, Mr. 'olmes. A week's a long time when you're dying, and Ms. Elsie used every second her parents weren't around to write secret letters to be given to Lissie on her birthday. In each letter she mentioned all the things she'd loved about you and how Lissie was to find you as soon as she could.

She wrote sixteen letters, poor thing, and I've been opening them and reading them to Lissie on her birthday ever since. Oh, how Ms. Elsie loved that child. She died holding it, you know."

He could feel a hot, burning sensation in his throat and struggled to control his emotions. How long had it been since he had felt this raw? Perhaps the last time has been fifteen years ago at the news of Elsie’s death.

Fifteen is old enough to take care of herself. She'd be at school while you were on cases, perfectly safe. She wouldn't cause any trouble...

His mind palace was betraying him, filling with images of Elsie.

"Mr. 'Olmes? Are you still there? I said, perhaps we could meet at a coffeehouse? I'm heading into London this afternoon."

He made a few arrangements and hung up.

He worked his fingers into a steeple, thinking hard. Abruptly, he rose. "Ms. Hudson? I'm going out."

"Do be careful, Sherlock. I'm going to a bridge meeting, so the house will be locked when you return."

Sherlock and Ms. Hudson had been gone less than an hour when a window at 221B cracked open.

"Sherrrrlock?"

Jim Moriarty looked about disappointedly.

"No one to play with. I need a new pawn," he mused aloud. "Sherlock can't refuse a game then."

Might as well snoop about, he decided. His eyes fell on the letter, and he picked it up curiously. Sherlock had torn the part with the number off, so the general message was unreadable, but Moriarty caught and deciphered a few words.

Your daughter

When you were courting

"Well, well. Looks as if this pawn has fallen into my lap." Sherlock must have been truly upset to be so careless! He rose, and left the flat, excited. "I'd better get busy."

Sherlock hadn't known where he was walking, just that he was going to think along the way.

Now he stopped in front of a bookstore and gazed in. He loved books. Would the girl like books? What was her nickname? Oh, Lissie.

In a rash move, he stepped inside the store and headed for the teen fiction section.

"All rot," he muttered, surveying the paranormal romances.

His eyes found a bookshelf filled with boxed sets of the Anne of Green Gables series.He purchased a set, without really knowing why. Now it was time to meet Rose.

A horrid violinist was playing in one corner of the coffeehouse, and he stopped to wince before hastening to Rose.

She'd brought him an old Polaroid. "It's you and Ms. Elsie," she supplied helpfully. "Found it in Elsie' s drawer."

He pocketed the photo and studied Rose for a few moments.

Divorced or something- there's an imprint where a ring was on her hand. At least fifty. Excitable. Drinks a bit on the weekends. Seems like she really cares about the girl.

Rose seemed truly concerned about Lissie. "I don't want ta' think of that child in a group home, Mr. 'Olmes. They wouldna' understand her."

"How so?"

"She's either very quiet or she talks paragraphs. Either she's making friends wherever she goes or she's sitting about reading. She's not overly emotional, but she likes ta' imagine things about her mother.

'Did she really die holding me?', she'll ask, then change the subject all abrupt-like to something perfectly cheerfull. No way for a child to be raised. I think Mr. Raymond really made her feel responsible for the death."

"And she's not," he said hotly. Sudden, righteous anger at the old Raymonds spurted in him. He'd hated them once, for taking his Elsie away. Now he hated them again, for what they'd done to Lissie. His daughter. How foreign the words felt.

"Don't look at me that way, Mr. 'Olmes, I know she isn't! Anyhow, she's always finding people to help. Oughta be a doctor."

He felt someone watching him and looked up suddenly. There was no one there. He remembered Moriarty's texts and hoped he wasn't being followed.

Chapter Text

Rose was dreadfully persuasive. Sherlock found himself in a car headed to Raymond Manor within the hour.

He wanted to see Felicity and at the same time, he did not. Purely detached curiosity, he told himself, but he couldn’t believe his own lie. Why the hell am I anxious?

For the first time ever, he wished he wasn't always alone. He needed someone to talk to, to ask advice. What was he to do with this child? Bring her back to his flat? Leave her here?

What if she hated him? Or, what if he hated her? What if she was a spoiled little brat?

He pressed his lips in a thin line and stared ahead.

The girl paused as she neatly wrote her name.

Felicity Grace _

For fifteen years - her entire life - she'd caved to the pressure and scrawled 'Raymond' as a last name.

Never again. She was tired of feeling like some sort of illegitimate love child. The name Holmes was nothing to be ashamed of, after all. He was a brilliant mastermind, from the blogs she'd read and articles she'd clipped. But when she wrote Felicity Grace Holmes, it didn't look right, either.

She sank to her knees , brushing a lock of hair away.

"Who am I?", she whispered.

She was in her special place, the attic of Raymond Manor. No one dared venture up there, and she'd built a false wall of boxes , furniture and old bricks a stone mason had left years ago. Open the door on the bottom right cabinet and crawl through the 'wall', and you had made it into her spot.

Sunlight filtered through an uncovered window, and she had an excellent view of the grounds below. She liked knowing all the goings on. It made her feel safe.

Sometimes she brought books from her room up here, or her journal. Other times she came here to think, or pray. She stored all her newspaper clippings here too, stories of Mr. Holmes.

Currently, though, she was beginning a new journal, and she had no idea what name to write inside the cover. She pressed her trembling hands together in an effort to still them.

She had never been this shaky and nervous before. Her entire body was trembling with anticipation and pent-up worry. And a need to know who she belonged to.

Why?

All because she had a feeling her father would come today. She couldn't explain it, just that she felt it, deep inside. There had been whisperings amongst the staff - a frenzied excitement that was more than the usual Highlands gossip. 

A commotion outside made her look up. Rose's green sedan, pulling slowly into the long driveway.

Someone was with Rose. Their shape was indistinguishable, but instinct told her it was her father.

As if in a trance, she crawled out of her spot and walked to her room, giving herself a once over in the mirror.

Did she look loveable- or at least presentable? Faded navy sundress, cardigan with sleeves rolled up. Ponytail with wavy ends. She pinned back a few wayward curls. What a terrible day to only wear mascara! She looked like a Victorian waif.

Well, maybe she was a waif- or at least as lonely as one. Oh, how she wanted him to like her, to love her, to approve, somehow.

She had heard the reports- he was cold and sarcastic- but she did not care. She only wanted to know what he thought of her.

Would he look like her? The newspaper and blog posts rarely showed his face, and her grandparents had clipped his picture out of every photo with her mother.

She put her hand in her dress pocket and found her mother's most recent birthday letter. She'd forgotten she'd left it there.

Opening it, she reexamined it for words of support. Her eyes fell on the last lines.

I hope you have met your father by now. If not, keep trying.

He will love you - and if he knows about you, he loves you now. He may not be aware of it, but he loves you.

From her bedroom window, she saw the top of a man's head exit the car.

Tingles surged through her body, and suddenly she felt she might be sick. What if he couldn't stand her? Had she built it all up too much, only for the dream to come crashing down, the moment they met?

Ohhh. Help me, God.

She walked downstairs, across the Persian rug and into the parlor.

Sherlock looked up and for a moment, he thought his mind palace was playing tricks and he was seeing Elsie. Sunlight reflected off the girl's brown hair, and illuminated her slender figure.

She stood in the doorway, waiting. Her blue eyes were enormous in her pale face, which was unusually white against her tanned arms and legs.

Chapter Text

Sherlock's long legs ascended the steps easily. He was beside Lissie in a moment, studying her.

"Mr. Holmes," she began nervously, unsure of what to call him. Rose had vanished; they were alone in the ornate, stuffy old parlor. 

"Sherlock' s fine," he said coolly, still scrutinizing her.

"Sherlock," she tried again, brightly with renewed courage. "I'm Felicity, but all my friends call me Lissie. Even some of the teachers do. I'm so happy to finally meet you."

"Yes, yes," he murmured.

Most girls would have thought him rude and brisk, but somehow she understood that this was just his way. It did not mean he hated her - at least, not yet.

She wondered why he kept staring at her. Perhaps he was deducting things? She'd read somewhere that he could study a person for a few minutes and learn much about them.

"I've read a blog about you," she ventured.

"Oh," he groaned. "You aren't a fangirl, I hope. We've had a few odd ones around ever since John started that blog."

She smiled a little. "No, I'm not a fangirl."

"Good." He turned away and looked around.

Lissie tried  not to “talk his ear off,” as Rose always said she did. She thought wildly for something conversational. "Have you been here before?"

His eyes narrowed somewhat. "Yes."

She could tell volumes from his expression. "I guess your experience wasn't pleasant. I'm sorry."

He looked sideways at her. "Don't be."

How very strange everything was! Her father was standing right here, and they were having a casual conversation as if he were a passing visitor. She wanted to run to him, to beg him to love her. But she willed herself to be still and stand there, leaning against the mantle. She heard the clock ticking faithfully away. It sounded very loud in the silence.

"Fifteen years is a lot to catch up on," she said slowly. "Should I fill you in?"

He gave a little nod. "If you wish."

She could feel hot tears burning. Did he even care? She knew that his way took time, but he could at least show some sign of interest.

Lissie wished she had something to interest him, or to shock him. Suddenly she remembered the letter in her pocket and withdrew it.

She found the lines where her mother talked about her father's love.

"I'm going to read something to you," she said, and read it, searching his face for a show of any emotion.

He stared impassively at her. Finally he spoke. "You look like your mother."

She blinked. "Thank you..."

"It's a compliment."

Why was he such a puzzle, an enigma? It was as if he spoke in riddles. She bit her lip.

"Do you think you can love me?" she asked.

He looked startled. "What?"

All her bundled up emotions spilled.

"You - you don't blame me for Mum dying, do you? It was my fault." Her tears suddenly spilled over and down her cheeks. She dashed them away, hating herself for this display of weakness.

At last he showed some expression. His brow darkened, and he looked angry. Still, he did not speak.

"You're mad at me?" she guessed.

"No, I am furious at whoever made you believe that it was your fault."

She froze, listening to the words she'd longed to hear.

Sherlock slowly said, "Lissie - it is not, was not, your fault. I do not blame you for a single thing. You can know that."

She sank to a chair. It did not matter now if he learned to tolerate  her or not - it was enough to know that he didn't blame her. She could rest on that. Lissie was not sure what he had deduced about her; she knew practically nothing about him, and she didn't need to. Again, it was enough to simply know he didn't blame her. 

His phone beeped and she could see the text.

Feel up to a case? Old friend in trouble.

John

He looked eagerly at the phone, began typing, then remembered her and put it away. She knew it had been a struggle.

"You'd better pack a few things," he said.

It was her turn to query, "What?"

"Trial run. I called my landlady on the way over here and she said I should bring you out to London for a few days if I found you agreeable."

So I'm not going to live with him. Just visit. Her heart sank a little, but it was hard to be too despondent when the thought that he didn't blame her was still fluttering in her.

"I'm agreeable?" she questioned, daring to push.

He laughed. He had a nice laugh when it wasn't sarcastic. "Somewhat. Pack now, it's a bit of a trip back to London."

She fairly danced up to her room. He watched her go, already worried. What would he do with the child in London? What would John and Mary think? Could you leave fifteen year olds alone? Surely you could. 

Mrs. Hudson had been shocked, then adamant. "Bring her here," she'd said. She had wanted the girl to move in, but he wasn't so sure. A week sounded like enough time to get to know Lissie.

"You don't blame me for Mum dying," Lissie's tremulous voice echoed in his brain. Poor girl.

There had been a time he would've blamed her, but it was long past. Mr. Raymond was at fault, not Lissie. He'd taken Elsie away from Sherlock, breaking her heart, and kept her here with no contacts. What difference did it make if they gave her all the material things she wanted? They ignored her dying wishes.

Sherlock looked up and saw a portrait of Elsie smiling serenely. Did she know he'd met Lissie?

Lissie reappeared with a small suitcase. "I'm ready, Mr. H- er, Sherlock."

This was really happening. She’d packed so swiftly he’d had no time to rethink it. 

Back home to London, then.

Chapter Text

"You were married?" John removed his phone from his ear, stared at it, then returned it to his ear.

"You have a daughter?" He blinked and wondered if he really had went crazy in the 'Stan. Had the Guinness at the hotel bar been spoiled? The pour had been less foam-y, hadn’t it? There was no conceivable way he was hearing these things for certain. Surely he was going mental.

"Ye-es, John, even I can have lapses in sound judgment-and I wish you'd stop repeating everything I say. You sound like a bloody parrot," Sherlock informed him.

"Sorry, sorry. It's just, well, startling, to say the least." John was on the train back from his convention. "How long ago did you, er, was she, uh... How old is she?"

"Fifteen," Sherlock responded crossly.

The doctor sought to soothe. A cross Sherlock would not be fun to deal with. "Oh, that's not too bad! She can practically raise herself. Mary has a sister that age, and she's quite nice-"

"John."

"What, Sherlock?" He could not handle anymore surprises!

"She's coming to stay for a week. Ms. Hudson's orders. What am I going to do for a week to babysit a fifteen year old girl?"

"I don't know! Here, I'll call Mary and call you back. All right? And can you take a look at those files I sent you? This new case sounds interesting."

He hung up, shaking his head in disbelief. Sherlock, married! And he'd thought Sherlock had no romantic secrets - well Irene- but not the marrying type. Not Sherlock. Did wonders ever cease?Quickly, he dialed Mary. She was not going to believe this! All that prattle about being alone and unsentimental, and here was Holmes eloping freshman year of Uni!

When he called Sherlock back, he was greeted with a torrent of words.

"Slow down! Most civilized society uses the word 'hello', you know."

"John, she wants to know if we're going to church tomorrow. And Mrs. Hudson told me she'd take us to her church!"

"Sherlock, what's so bad about church? Mary and I go, and I like it. You don't strike me as a heathen."

Instantly, he regretted his words when Sherlock said, "I haven't gone to church since... Elsie...died. I don't go to church."

John pressed, "Why?"

"Look, I'm the one with the questions, not you. John, I don't want to go to church."

"Then don't go!"

"Lissie told me she's been "praying for this moment". Ms. Hudson's ironing my suit."

"Oh. Then I guess you don't have a choice. Listen, Sherlock, you aren't mad at God for Elsie' s death, are you?"

"..."

Slowly, deliberately, he attempted, "When I was in Afghanistan, I...didn't understand how God could let the stuff that I saw occur happen. I still don't. But Sherlock, you have to believe that somehow, God has a plan-"

"I have to go. The girl's calling me."

As soon as Sherlock had pulled up to 221B, Ms. Hudson had enveloped Lissie, and he'd slunk away to call John for the first time.

Me. Hudson had shown Lissie the flat, (she'd found the skull and experiments fascinating, to the housekeeper' s horror) and then Lissie had popped the church question. Now Ms. Hudson was beaming and ironing furiously.

"Sherlock, dear, show the love to her room."

"Oh, right. You have John's old room, it's got a nice window."

"We need to decorate it up," Ms. Hudson said cheerfully.

Lissie looked hopeful at the mention of something long-term, and he hastened, "This is only a trial run."

He picked up Lissie' s suitcase and she followed him down the hall.

"Not much, just an empty bookshelf, wardrobe, bed and a little bathroom. I suppose you had better at Raymond Manor."

"Oh, it was missing something," she affirmed.

He raised an eyebrow. "Hm?"

"You," she laughed.

"Oh, clever. Don't think you can flatter me, now. "

He handed her the suitcase and left, returning with the Anne of Green Gables series. He set them on the bed.

She gave a squeal. "I love those! I was so sad when I realized I'd left mine at the manor. And these are such beautiful editions!"

Earlier shyness vanishing, she gave him a hug.

He stood there, taken aback. She stopped hugging, freezing up again. "Oh, sorry..."

She began hanging up her clothes neatly. Shutting the wardrobe, she then set her new books on the shelf, beside a devotional journal. A makeup case went to the sink, and all manner of hair tools.

He watched her work, silently.

She looks like her mother, but she has my eyes.

What? Where were these thoughts coming from? She was certainly a polite, friendly child, but he had no intention of letting her stay. She really would interfere with cases. If this week went well, though, he might have her here for a few weekends when school started up. Wasn't that what the divorced dads did? He really didn't know.

Backing out of the room, he suddenly noticed something was amiss with the window. And his papers were out of order.

Perhaps he was being paranoid, but he checked through the papers. His intuitions were usually right. Yes, they had been disturbed.

" Ms. Hudson? Did you move these?"

"Of course not, dear. I'm not your housekeeper."

He refrained from pointing out that she was ironing his suit. Frowning, he began searching for signs of a forced entry.

Lissie made her way in.

"May I go for a walk? I've never been to London."

"Too dangerous, alone, dear," Ms. Hudson said. "Sherlock, why don't you take the love?"

They walked.

When they left the flat, they did not see a camera trained on them. Had they seen it, they still wouldn't have known Moriarty was tracking them on a series of cameras.

Eyes on the screens, Moriarty muttered, "How interesting. Sherlock really must have some relation to this girl, or he wouldn't be with her."

"Yes, he's not the mentor type," one of Moriarty's henchmen replied dryly.

They watched them walk.

At the corner, Sherlock paused and waited for Lissie to drink it all in.

"That's the river Thames. It's always grey like that."

He was in his element, now, pointing out places and telling bits of history. Lissie watched him and saw that his eyes lit up when he talked, just like hers did.

Chapter Text

Later that day

Sherlock opened the refrigerator and dug past the experiments to pull out a carton of what he'd thought was milk. It was cream, and he stared at it hopelessly.

How was he supposed to prepare a real meal? Ms. Hudson had left, and he was alone with Lissie. They'd returned from their walk rather late, and now it was time for supper.

Again he searched the kitchen and took inventory of his food supply. Noodles, parmesan cheese, cream, flour and sugar, potato crisps, parsley, peas, crackers, salad dressing and a bag of carrots. There were also plenty of condiments- too bad mayonnaise, ketchup, mustard, and pepper weren't exactly meals.

He began to peel carrots with a vengeance. Could carrots and Ranch count as a meal? He would have to get some sort of takeout to accompany. God, Speedys' had picked the perfect week to close for a wedding.

Lissie wandered in. "What are you making?"

A trifle exasperated, he told her, "Well, carrots, and..."

"Do you want me to cook something? I like cooking. Our chef taught me a lot of tricks."

"Have at it. Good luck," he said, pointing at his ingredients.

"Let's see...Oh, I can make something with the cream, noodles, and cheese. Ooh, parsley too! You have everything for fettucine Alfredo."

Within minutes she had prepared two large plates of pasta in a creamy white sauce.

He tasted it suspiciously. Surprised, he managed, "Why, this tastes like the Italian restaurant's, but better!"

She was pleased. "It's fun to cook for you."

After dinner, he told her he needed to work on a case for John's friend.

"Oh, I'll read my new books. May I sit here, though? I'll be very quiet, won't bother you a bit."She turned a hopeful face to him.

"Why?"

"Well, now that I'm finally here with you, I want to make the most of every second." Her tone was light, but her eyes were worlds of their own.

They both sat down. From time to time he looked up from his work at her. When she read, her hair fell down over her face in brown waves, and her eyes widened or darkened as she reacted to story events.

For an hour, until nine, they each worked at their projects. Presently he heard her get up and run water for a shower.

She reappeared a little later. "Goodnight, Sherlock..."

He adjusted his microscope. "Hmm? Oh, good night."

She left a little disappointedly, and he felt she had wanted something. He racked his brain. Hadn't his mother always 'tucked him in'? And when he was a little older, she'd sit on the edge of his bed and talk to him.

Well, he'd go in and tell Lissie goodnight in a minute.

When he finished his work nearly an hour later, he found her already asleep. Well, it had been a long day.

The covers had slipped off the bed. Almost timidly, he tucked the blankets back around her. Quietly, so as not to wake her up, he switched the lamp off.

Tall but thin for her age, she looked rather small and forlorn in the semi-darkness. He touched her hand gently and returned to his work. He felt as though he’d earned the new patch he put on after all these displays of sentiment.

"I don't understand why you want us to do all this."

Moriarty frowned at the speaker, his hitman, then turned to his group of assembled 'professional criminals'.

"Do I pay you to ask questions?"

"No," they managed nervously.

He laughed. "That's what I thought. Now, the girl looks like this, for those of you who haven't seen the videos. Her name is Felicity Raymond-Holmes, nickname ‘Lissie’.

"Ah, I do love how easy it is to find teeny boppers.  They put all of their information right there in their profiles. "

Sherlock awoke with a start. He must have fallen asleep at his work, again. Shifting and stretching from his cramped position, he realized it was early morning. Rays of light were filtered through the dusty blinds, creating patterns on the wallpaper.

He saw his violin, looking forgotten. He picked it up tenderly and began to play, softly. There was something about early mornings that made him want to play music.

He played high and low, putting his feelings and problems and emotions into the music, eyes closed. When he stopped and opened his eyes, Lissie was standing there, in her plaid pajama bottoms and faded blue tank top.

She applauded, and he gave a little bow.

"I hope I didn't wake you up," he told her.

"Oh, no. I'm an early riser."

John looked across the pews and nudged Mary. "Look!"

A slow smile spread across her face. "Well, should we say hello, then?"

"It might embarrass him."

Sherlock, looking uncomfortable, was standing beside Ms. Hudson and a girl who had to be Lissie.

"She looks very like him," Mary whispered.

"Well, she is his daughter- he says all the dates match."

Mary made a face at John and turned back to her spying. "Oh, she seems sweet. I'm happy for Sherlock. I can't believe he never told us anything about being married."

"Sh, the vicar' s starting."

The music began, but Mary was already planning excuses to work her way across church come greeting time.

Chapter Text

It's gone pretty well. I survived this week, and she goes home tomorrow! Sherlock was surprised to feel a little twinge at the thought of Lissie leaving. The week really hadn't seemed that long.

He looked at his phone and saw that a client in John's case had agreed to meet with him in an hour. Perfect!

"Lissie, you'll be alright by yourself for a few minutes, won't you?"

"Yes."

As he scrolled through old messages, he saw the old ones from Moriarty. Perhaps he was being overly cautious , but…

He pulled up Moriarty' s mugshot. "If you ever see this man and I'm not with you, call me. "

Curious, she started to question him but he realized he needed to leave. He dashed into the den to get his paperwork.

She was standing wistfully by the door as he left. Something about the pitiful figure guilted him. Uncharacteristically, he gave her a little side embrace. "I'll be back soon, okay?"

"Okay," she said, delighted at the show of affection.

He left, and she locked the door behind him.

Trudging upstairs, she flopped on her bed and stared about the room blankly. So she would have to leave, after all. It was crushing, to have found her father and then have him slip through her fingers, but...at least she had found him.

Restless, she picked up Rilla of Ingleside , and began to read. Minutes slipped by.

An odd creaking noise startled her. Instantly alert, she slid off the bed and snuck noiselessly down the hall.

She nearly shrieked when she saw an enormous man standing in the kitchen. He was not the man - Moriarty - Sherlock had warned her about, but he looked dangerous.

Thankful he had not seen her, she backed away, planning on running upstairs, locking herself in her room, and calling police and Sherlock.

She backed into something cold and metallic.

Stupid, she berated herself as a man holding a gun to her head marched her into the living room. Still, she was a courageous, resilient girl, and not one to give up easily.

"I don't believe you have any bullets," she cried in a show of spirit.

The man holding her fired. A nearly - silent shot, and a bullet thudded into the wall behind her.

So he had a silencer! She'd hoped the firing would alert someone. Too bad.

She yelled. Weren't you supposed to yell a man's name so burglars thought you weren't alone? "Help! Sherlock! He-"

The larger man twisted her arm painfully. "You be quiet or I'll give you something to shut you up." Both men wore gloves and surgical hats and booties. It was obviously so as to not leave a shred of evidence.

He pushed her towards the window and fire escape, ordering the other man, who he called Mutt, to call and inform "Boss".

Shoving her down at the table, he began to dig in his pack. "Keep your hands on the table where I can see them," he ordered.

Perfect. The table was covered in a thin layer of dust. Good old Ms Hudson had forgotten to tidy again.

2 men, she scratched. Guns. Whatever else could be vital? If only she could leave some clue.

Unfortunately, she was dragged up before she could finish. They did not notice her writing.

Mutt held a syringe. She tensed, ready to fight, to run, but the big man had her in an iron grip. "I suggest you relax your arm. It will be some much easier than a struggle." Mutt shoved the syringe in her arm.

It hurt. Her whole body went limp, and before she succumbed to the drug she felt herself being lifted out onto the fire escape.

When she awoke, she was in the back of a car. She squinted her eyes and hoped they hadn't noticed she was awake.

By twisting and turning, she determined she was in a car with darkly tinted windows. A partition separated her from the front seats. Her head hurt. How long had she been here? It felt like hours. What did they want from her? Could these be the enemies Sherlock had mentioned?

The car was turning. It came to a screeching halt. Her door was jerked open, and a blindfold put around her eyes.

She was being dragged somewhere. But where was she? She focused all her energy on listening. Bird song and wind in trees. A sheep bleating. Somewhere rural.

She had been able to feel the sun on her face; now she felt cool darkness. Were they indoors?

Steps.

She pretended to stumble and felt about. Stone. Hmm.

Rather unceremoniously, she was flung to the ground. Her blindfold was removed.

She was in what resembled a dungeon or a prison. Stone walls, cell doors. It was a small and empty cell block- four cells. But she was not in a cell - not yet, anyway.

Sitting in front of her was a man with eyes that bugged out. She recognized him.

"Moriarty," she whispered.

Struggling to her feet, she faced him.

He was smiling, a creepy, pleased smile.

"What is your name?"

She didn't answer.

He frowned. "What is your name? Come now, don't make this hard for yourself."

She stated at him in silent challenge.

Beckoning, he summoned over Mutt.

Mutt pinned her arms behind her back and waited.

"What is your name? Who is your father? I need a little confirmation before we play our game."

When she didn't answer, Mutt slammed her down into the stone. Her entire face felt like it was on fire. Was her nose broken? She wiggled it gingerly. No. But her lip was split and bleeding.

Before he could hurt her again, she said, "I'm Lissie."

Moriarty smiled. "Ahh, now you play along. What is your last name? And your father?"

"I don't know my last name," she told him truthfully. "Really," she added as Mutt advanced.

"Lucky. I believe you. But who is your father?"

She could not, would not bring Sherlock into this. They had to be holding her to use against him in some way. Thinking fast, she said, "I don't know. Currently I'm posing as Mr. Holmes' daughter to help him with a case- he needs to pose as a father to get into a school."

Moriarty' s eyebrows twitched. Did he believe her?

"She screamed for Sherlock when Jock grabbed her," Mutt supplied helpfully.

Oh, she had forgotten that. Where was Sherlock? She hoped he was alright.

"We shall see," Moriarty said finally. He walked over to a desk in a dark corner. "Bring her here, Mutt."

"I better get paid for this," Mutt grumbled.

He pushed her into the dark chair. Moriarty sat on the other side. He pushed pen and paper towards her.

"Write Dear Sherlock," he told her.

She complied.

"Now tell him you're in trouble, and bad old Moriarty has you," he laughed. "Feel free to be more expressive. You can't possibly give him any clues.- unfortunately, you haven't inherited his powers of deduction."

"I'm in a manor house in Dorset county," she said aloud.

His face contorted. "How-"

"The distance from London. The sheep noises. The soft ground from rain. Old stone walls."

"He - Sherlock- taught you," Moriarty snarled.

"No, really I didn't know I could. So my guess was right?"

"Write what I say."

She knew whatever she wrote would be used to lure Sherlock here, and she hated every word.

"Your letter will be delivered to Sherlock with clues as to your whereabouts. Eventually, he will come here. You will be my own against him."

"Why?"

"When a criminal is the cleverest in his field, slipping past authorities and brilliantly planning things, what does the government do? They'll accept his offer to show them how it's done.

It's all an act, see. Using information your Sherlock gives me, and my already brilliant mind, I'll seem to have a knowledge of all crime in England. By helping the government, I will be in close contact with influential people. Eventually, I will bribe some, threaten some. Then, using my power, I can access any government item in Britain. I have a network of 'friends'. I can easily erase their pasts. I can do whatever I want, appoint whomever I want, as the most powerful man in England."

You're telling me this because you expect me to die," she said slowly.

"You don't miss much. Perhaps you are more like your father than I realized. And yes, once your father has been persuaded to talk, I won't need either one of you. Back to the boring side of the angels."

"You're mad."

He sneered in her face, shutting the cell door.

"Don't worry, I'll be back."

She sank to the stone floor. "Sherlock," she cried. She remembered how he'd embraced her this morning. "He was learning to love me, and Moriarty ruined it all."

Chapter Text

John took one glance at all the police cars and pounded the knocker again. Finally the door swung open.

"Sherlock! I came as soon I heard the news," John panted.

But the man who opened the door at 221B wasn't Sherlock. It was Scotland Yard Inspector Greg Lestrade, looking very grave.

"John, can you tell me what you know about the marriage? I don't want to press Sherlock right now."

"Of course." Quickly John outlined the situation.

"Hmm! I must say, I never saw this coming."

"Me neither. How's he taking it?"

Lestrade ran a hand through his graying hair. "Rather...bad. A letter came from Moriarty - he obviously forced the girl to write it. But come in."

Inside, John saw Sherlock staring at the table, hands jammed in pockets. He, too, could plainly see the words Lissie had scratched in the dust.

"I'm going out," Sherlock said abruptly, not bothering to acknowledge John.

Lestrade put a hand out and stopped him. "Oh no, you aren't. We both know you're going to follow the clues in that letter."

Sherlock snorted. "He has my daughter, Lestrade. What am I supposed to do, sit here and wait for the police to catch up? I don't have years."

Lestrade's features softened. "Listen, Sherlock. I have kids, too. I'm sure I'd be going crazy if something happened to them. But man, you of all people should see that this whole thing's a bloody trap! Moriarty even specified you come alone!"

Sherlock moved restlessly. "Of course it's a trap. But better me trapped than Lissie."

Lestrade grabbed his coat lapels and gave him a little shake. "Sherlock Holmes, quit that nonsense-"

"There's a bullet hole in the wall here, sir," Anderson called. Lestrade released Sherlock and rushed over.

John hadn't known it was possible for Sherlock to turn any paler than he already was. If Sherlock' s deductive powers hadn't instantly noticed that hole, he must truly be frantic, John mused,heading over to inspect the hole. Ms. Hudson fluttered about nervously.

Suddenly the door slammed shut with a bang, and Lestrade cried, "Sherlock, no!"

It was too late. Rushing outside, they saw Sherlock leaping into a taxi.

Lestrade closed his eyes and leaned his head against the brick wall. "God help us."

"Taxi," John called, desperately waving his arms.

The older man opened his eyes. "John, it's no use. He figured out the clues in the letter; we didn't. Moriarty obviously planned it that way. We have no idea where Sherlock's going."

Anderson had followed them out. "We can trace the bullet to a gun," he said hopefully.

"I suppose that might help," Lestrade sighed. "But they're clever; they'll have probably disposed of it."

Other police milling about began to whisper. They had never seen the famous Scotland Yard leader so distraught and hopeless.

The taxi dropped Sherlock off at a rental car place. He rented a powerful-looking but unassuming black saloon and set off.

I lost Elsie; I won't lose Lissie as well.

Eventually, he had narrowed his search down. The last place on his list was an old castle-house outside of Dorset.

Built by an influential family with ties to the Tudors, it had once housed a dungeon where those in the way of the throne were exiled.

He ignored the calls from John and Lestrade, feeling slightly remorseful but determined. He wavered at the call from Ms. Hudson, but eventually ignored it,too. Mycroft was next. Sherlock had no trouble not answering his, at least.

He parked the car a good distance from the manor and felt for his automatic. It was a nice little gun, given to him by an arms dealer he'd helped out of smuggling charges.

Now he grasped it in his right hand and waited for twilight to fall. He used his time to plan. He'd sneak in, scope out the place, and free Lissie if possible. If not possible, he'd hide and wait for her guards to leave before freeing her.

It was a crazy plan. The normal careful,caculating Holmes was gone, frantic Sherlock replaced him.

Slowly, the darkness began to creep in, accompanied by fog, thick and eerie.

He snuck to the house. The side door was locked, and he used a long strand of wire from his pocket to pick it easily.

He froze in the huge hall. Someone was coming. It was a man, his hand bloody.

"The little brat bit me," he shrieked.

Sherlock smiled with grim satisfaction. So Lissie was holding her own. He waited for the man to pass, then headed the direction the man had come from.

Down a set of stone steps, the air grow colder. Some sort of underground room - oh, right, the dungeon.

Now he must tread carefully. He tightened his grip on the pistol and crept slowly in.

Chapter Text

MEANWHILE

Lissie had been left alone for some time, and she'd used her time to make a thorough examination of her cell. There was a drain, but it was not wide enough to escape through. There were no windows. A single lightbulb dimly illuminating the cell seemed to add to the gloom.

She sat down, feeling the cold stone through her clothes. She pulled her knees to her chest and hugged them in an effort to get warm.

Would Sherlock come? A selfish part of her wished he would. However, she knew he should not walk into this trap.

Moriarty had seemed very sure Sherlock would arrive. She wondered about this. Sherlock hadn't really shown any affection to her, had he? Would he risk his life to track her down?

Will anyone miss me when I die? Poor Sherlock, he'll have lost two now.

They were morbid thoughts, but then, she had grown up in the shadow of her mother's death. Her grandparents had also recently died- she was quite familiar with the subject. Lissie comforted herself with the thought that she would see Mum again. Would she like heaven?

Her lip was still dripping blood. It was beginning to congeal, though, and she pressed her hand to stop the bleeding.

The man named Jock opened the door and began to pull her out. She lunged at him, sinking her teeth into his palm. He yelped and shut the door, cursing and screaming for Moriarty.

She knew fighting was futile and foolish, that it would only bring her more pain in the long run. But she would not go down without a fight. Moriarty would not destroy Britain easily if she could help it.

The room empty again, she rested her head on her knees and tried to quell her worry. She felt so very alone in this vast stone emptiness. She heard faint noises and tensed. Someone was coming.

It was Moriarty. He hummed to himself, stopping in front of her.

"You think you're clever, because you can stop those simpletons. Well, I've got an entire network of dangerous people, and I'll let some of them have a go at you. Then we'll see how you like it, hmm?"

She made a face at him. He laughed. "You are boring, Lissie. Just like Sherlock, you are so determined to protect your dear little friends and family. You're practically little angels; it's boring. I'm tired of this."

He smiled his creepy smile again and clapped his hands. "I know! Let's have some fun!"

She tried not to show her fear as he advanced.

"The real fun starts when your precious Sherlock gets here, but..." He punched her so hard her head snapped back, and she saw bright spots.

"Didn't know old Moriarty had it in him, did you? Thought he had people to do all his dirty work?"

She struggled not to cry. In her head, she began thinking. "When I am afraid, I will put my trust in Thee..." God, could you please come through? Not asking for much here.

"You are familiar with chess? Should I explain it to you? It has a fascinating history."

"School's out," she said with more bravado than she felt.

He nodded. "No more history, then. You know what a pawn is?"

She said, "Yes."

"Good. That is what you are. My little pawn for Sherlock."

A man came in with a bucket. Moriarty took it from him. He placed it on the ground amend looked excited. "Now for the fun." He forced her head in. She gasped, feeling the cold water. Lissie held her breath as long as she could, but two minutes in she began flailing about. Her lungs tightened, and dizzy fear overcame her. Was this man going to let her drown?

Someone cried "Moriarty! Stop!"

Choking and coughing, she was pulled out and shoved to the side. Who was her savior? She struggled to sit up, throat burning.

It was Sherlock. He had a gun pointed at Moriarty, his other hand balled into a fist. His coat swirling about him, he looked quite the hero.

"Lissie, are you alright?" he asked urgently.

"I'm okay," she sputtered. Then "Sherlock!"

He spun around, but it was too late. The room was filling with Moriarty' s men, all clutching guns.

"It is amazing, whom one can hire," Moriarty laughed. "Now, Sherlock, be a good boy and drop your gun. You and Lissie are about to play a little game with me. But first, a few questions."

He directed them to chairs and had Mutt tie them both up, across from each other.

Mutt was rough, and the rope dug into Lissie's arms. She winced and looked at Sherlock. His eyes met hers, silently willing her to be strong.

"Sherlock. We meet again."

"Cut the drama, Moriarty."

"Anything for you. How fitting; you said 'cut'. Now, what I have here is a knife. Should you two play along, I will not have to use it. Understand?"

"I understand," Sherlock said, eyes still not leaving Lissie's face.

As he watched,Moriarty drug the knife across the girl's arm.

"Naughty Sherlock. You didn't tell me you had a daughter. Oh! Perhaps you didn't even know. Did you have an AFFAIR?" His eyebrows wiggled.

Sherlock' s voice was calm, but his hands uncharacteristically shook. "I was married."

Moriarty feigned shock. "Oh,my. A woman loved YOU? This is your daughter?"

"Let her go! She has nothing you want."

"You didn't answer me!" Moriarty taunted.

Lissie struggled not to cry out. She watched as jagged red lines appeared on her skin. When Sherlock was silent, the knife dug harder.

A little cry of pain escaped her, and she pressed her lips together in an effort to hold it in.

But Sherlock had heard. Quickly, he said, "She's my daughter."

Moriarty set the knife down. "Well. See how easy cooperation is?"

Sherlock' s eyes blazed wildly. "Moriarty!", he cried forcefully.

"Yes?"

Passionately, he choked out "Listen to me. Do whatever you want to me; I don't care. I'll tell you anything and everything. But let the girl go. She hasn't done anything wrong. She is nothing to you."

When Moriarty didn't answer, he added, "Please."

The evil man's whole face lit up. "I do like to see you beg. The famous consulting detective, reduced to...this."

He began to circle Sherlock, reminding Lissie of a vulture.

Chapter Text

Lissie watched in horror as they untied Sherlock and forced him to walk away.

"Where are you taking him?" she asked.

"Don't worry; he's just going to deduce a few things for us. At least, hope for your sake that he will."

One of Moriarty' s men locked her back in the cell. Alone and cold, she lay there and tried to bandage her arm. The cuts were dripping little rivulets of blood.

Though exhausted, she did not sleep. She waited for Sherlock to return. There was no clock or window, and she wondered what time it was. Late at night, probably.

They threw him in hours later. He found her in the corner, a shivering, bleeding mess.

Suddenly he was hugging her - a real hug - and she hugged back, getting warm.

"You're freezing," he observed, removing his coat and helping her into it. It fit her like a dress.

"Nice," he added with a little grin, as if it were London Fashion Week and not a damp dungeon in the middle of the night. She put her arms back around him, feeling comforted. His strong arms held her tightly.

She lifted a worried face. "Did they hurt you?"

"Oh, not too bad. Definitely not as bad as they hurt you." They hadn't harmed him much actually - it had been an almost jolly affair, him taunting Moriarty with his knowledge of the formula. He enjoyed a battle of wits now and then, and pain is temporary. He could retreat inward, to his mind-palace, and anticipate the blows or swings. But the thought of her here alone had been in the back of his mind, and he'd felt a bit - responsible? So he'd ended the game early and headed back to the dank cell.

"I'm okay."

They were both sitting against the wall, long legs stretched out. He kept looking at her in the coat.

"You're staring at me?"

"Oh, sorry... It's just, your mother, she was always wearing my coat." He smiled sadly. "I'd take her hand, and she'd be so cold... but she'd deny it until I draped my coat over her."

He was talking more to himself than Lissie, but she snuggled up to him and laid her head on his shoulder.

She must have fallen asleep like that, even with the light on, finally feeling safe and warm.

Sherlock had felt it first when he took her, freezing, into his arms, but it was when she laid her little head on his shoulder that he knew it with certainty- he loved Lissie. And he would do anything to get her out of this.

He was surprised their tormentors had left them alone for so long. No sooner had he thought it than Moriarty appeared.

Sherlock felt like crying, screaming, cursing...anything. But he looked up quietly and said, "What?"

Lissie was a light sleeper; she stirred and sat up. At the sight of Moriarty, she burrowed back into Sherlock.

Moriarty had a whip. And he was smiling.

"You wouldn't answer one of my questions earlier, Sherlock. I thought I'd give you this time to think it over before I pressured you," he gestured at the whip, "and Lissie."

Moriarty asked something Lissie couldn't quite hear, and Sherlock made a strangled sound deep in his throat. "Lissie," he said very quietly," telling him how to do that would destroy Britain."

Instantly she knew what he meant. He was afraid she would get hurt. "We can handle it."

He smiled at her before Moriarty grabbed him. She closed her eyes and heard the whip cracking, but Sherlock did not cry out.

"How?!" Moriarty screeched, still wanting an answer.

When the only sound was Sherlock panting, Moriarty elbowed him aside. "Have it your way. I didn't expect you to play along. Remember how the whip felt on your back? Imagine how it feels to -" he grabbed Lissie' s arm- "your daughter." He ripped Sherlock' s coat off of her and began to whip her through her thin dress.

It stung. Every little bit was ripping into her flesh, searing her. But she could not cry out. If she did, Sherlock would cave to save her, and England would fall.

She focused on happy thoughts. Sherlock hugging her. How warm and safe she felt with him.

The beating went on, and she realised that he was hitting her more than he'd hit Sherlock.

She looked at her father. His eyes were closed, and his fists clenched. Veins in his face stood out, blue testimonies to his agony.

"Don't tell, Sherlock," she gasped out.

Finally Moriarty stopped,enraged.

Lissie lay in a little heap and cried. Everywhere hurt. She was slipping in and out of consciousness, and she felt Sherlock tuck his coat around her before he was pulled away...

It had been at least two days since she had seen Sherlock, she was sure of it. Her back had not healed, rather, it seemed to be getting worse. Was it infected?

Once, when she'd screamed for Sherlock, Mutt had snapped her arm, and she thought it might be broken from the odd angle it hung at. If she moved it at all, it felt like a fire was starting in it.

She had been brought dry toast and water once. She ate and drank hungrily.

She barely moved from her corner, wrapped in Sherlock' s coat. It smelled like him, and she felt warmed by it.

She tried to say a prayer for Sherlock but the words didn't come. What were they doing to him?

Chapter Text

please review! I consider all suggestions and input!

"Anderson, I am never letting you drive again," Lestrade managed through clenched teeth as the young man whipped in and out of the hectic London traffic.

John, seated in the backseat, was scrolling through his phone. "Left here," he called, pointing.

Anderson swung accordingly, and looked back expectantly.

"Just a moment, Mycroft' s calling," John said, answering his phone.

"Again?" Lestrade sighed, thinking of their wild plan. They were currently hunting down every possible rental car place in the general vicinity - Anderson's idea. The young man was acting as driver while John navigated and answered Mycroft' s calls.

Two days with no word from Sherlock, two whole days in which anything could've happened.

Sgt. Donovan had led the rest of the elite force on her own personal search, and while her job might be easier, Lestrade was glad to be here with his group. He knew they all truly cared about Sherlock - and the girl.

"Yes, Mycroft," John was saying. "We'll call you when we have any news. Yes. Yes. Goodbye."

He hung up. "Sorry. He's a bit anxious. Take a right, now, and we should be there."

Sherlock had retreated farther into his mind palace. He was trying to focus on a violin sonata, but Lissie's worried face kept slipping in, juxtaposed with his own pain.

He hated feeling so utterly helpless. And bored. There had to be something he could do to help Lissie. Think, Sherlock.

He could not think of a single thing. And his body hurt from the most recent torture.

Hmm, what would Lissie suggest?

"Pray," he could hear her saying clearly in his mind.

He forced himself up on an elbow. Well, he'd give it a try. A little overwhelmed, he began,quietly, "Dear..."

All his emotions came rushing back; how he'd turned after Elsie's death, how he'd blamed God.

"I'm sorry. I'm angry with You ... if You're there could You just...save my daughter. Your daughter. She doesn't deserve to die like this..."

He hadn't realized he was this upset until a tear dripped off his nose. All the things he'd wished he could say to Lissie but hadn't. Had he been too cold? At the flat, when she'd tried to talk, to get to know him, had he ignored it? He hadn't ever even said "I love you."

Was Lissie in pain? She had to be, with her back. Without proper treatment, that could get dangerously infected. Had they continued hurting her with him gone?

Moriarty had left a sheet of paper in his cell, telling him that if he wrote the formula to a certain question, he could see Lissie.

Initially, Sherlock had refused, but now...He snatched up the paper and scribbled, yelling for Moriarty at the same time. The man must've kept his end of the bargain, for withing minutes Moriarty was draging Sherlock to the girl's cell.

Sherlock saw Lissie curled around his coat, one arm jutting out. There was a makeshift splint around it. Broken? What had happened?

Moriarty pushed Sherlock in. "Visitor," he chuckled dryly. Surprisingly, he left after that.

Lissie had somehow slept through it all. Remembering how easily she usually woke, he knew she must be exhausted.

He sank down near her, inspecting her arm. She'd used a rolled up newspaper and a hair tie to splint it. He arched his eyebrows. Rather ingenious of her. Gingerly, he pressed the arm.

She stirred and gave a little gasp. It was swollen and most certainly broken. What could he do for her? How could he help? He looked about. He saw a pile of newspapers - that must be how she'd made her splint. Leave it to Moriarty to provide reading materials for his captives.

She was waking, slowly. "Sherlock?"

"I'm here," he said reassuringly, still looking about for an escape route.

"I knew you'd come," she cried, rapturous.

He turned around and took her slim hand. It was burning with fever; probably an infection in the sores on her back. Was she delirious?

Again forgetting his own pain, he thought only of Lissie. He must get her out of here.

Looking up, he saw the single bulb, and an idea came to him. He stretched one long arm up and unscrewed it, flinching at the heat. Flinging it to the floor in one corner, he heard it shatter.

Now the shapes were dim and it was hard to see. He crouched by Lissie, took her hand again, feeling the pulse, and waited.

Soon he heard Moriarty order someone to check on the shattering noise. He caught his breath.

Mutt arrived, cursing. He shook the cell door. "Are you asleep?"

Sherlock tensed silently. Mutt was not the brightest, with a little luck Sherlock's plan would work perfectly...

"Fine," Mutt continued to himself, flicking the light switch.

He cursed again as the light didn't come on. "Bulb must have burned out."

Mutt dawdled, moving the key agonizingly slow. Sherlock watched his dim shadow unlock the cell door and move slowly in.

Now Sherlock bounced on the balls of his feet, waiting. Mutt came a little closer and...Sherlock sprang.

Mashing his hand into Mutt's mouth to silence him, he pulled at Mutt's throat till he stopped struggling. Was he dead or unconscious? Sherlock didn't know or care.

He pulled the gun out of the limp man's pocket, feeling satisfied with its weight in his hand. A little digging produced the key. Then Sherlock lifted Lissie up, onto his shoulder in a sort of fireman's carry.

The pain that shot through him was enormous, but he pushed it away almost angrily. Unlocking the door with his free hand, he shut the cell door quietly.

"I can try to walk," Lissie said feebly.

"Says the girl blacking in and out. I don't think that's your best idea," he hissed. Like John with the heroics, she was.

Shifting her back on his shoulder, he crept through the hall, hoping to go out the way he came.

Up the steps and ... Moriarty! Eyes closed, the man was listening to music on his iPhone, earbuds in.

Turning around, Sherlock searched for an exit. Finally, he found one, intending to head outside and to the car. How he wished he had his phone! He had left it at 221B so Lestrade wouldn't track it.

Staggering out, he took a few halting steps.

An alarm screeched, and he saw people flooding the yard. They'd have to run for it. A stretch of woods looked promising. He sat Lissie down and they began to run.

She tried; but a few steps in she fell, grasping her arm and crying. He scooped her up again and set off, desperately. Every step hurt from his own share of torture.

Chapter Text

Sherlock stopped to catch his breath, gasping for air. His lungs burned. By twisting and turning on the wooded trails, he'd managed to lose their pursuers for the time being.

He sat Lissie beside him. In a rare burst of clarity, she told him, "You could leave me here."

"And spend my whole life knowing I left you? Never."

"But Sherlock, you're important. People need you. Britain needs you. I'm a nobody."

"I quite need you, Lissie," he said seriously. She looked up, cradling her arm.

He brushed her hair away from her face almost tenderly, remembering how Elsie's curls would hang over her eyes.

"We'd better get going." They moved through the woods, limping along.

"You do know your shoulder's bleeding?" Lissie asked him.

"Yeah, they nicked me when they were firing earlier," he said as if it were trivial.

"You carried me with your shoulder like that?" She was stumbling along rather badly, and it hurt him to watch her.

He didn't answer, but his eyes locked with hers.

"Thank you." Lissie said.

He smiled at her, then collapsed.

"Sherlock!"

She nearly screamed before she remembered the need to keep quiet. Pulling off his coat with her unbroken arm, she used it to apply pressure to the wound on his shoulder.

One arm covered in scars, the other a twisted mess. Her back oozing and sore. What could she do for him?

"Go on," he breathed. "There's a main road, hail a passing car. It's not the safest, but..."

She kept her scarred-but-usable arm on the temporary bandage. "I'm not leaving you. You can't be the only heroic one."

Her tone was as light as possible, but the pain in her back was pulling her in, threatening to overcome her.

Hot. She was so feverishly hot. Her ears rang and her vision swam, and she knew she must be slipping back into delirium.

Coming through the woods, she saw people, but she was too exhausted to do anything but cling to Sherlock's arm and close her eyes, letting the fever and pain consume her.

She had given up. His hand closed over hers, and she left herself go, slipping away...

Dark. Everything was so dark. Yet it was not frightening; rather, it was a sort of cool blue darkness, sweet smelling and cozy.

Lissie could see a face in the darkness. She recognized the face from old photos. "Mother?"

The pretty, young woman didn't speak, but she smiled kindly at Lissie, through the misty darkness.

"Am I dead?"

No answer,so Lissie continued, "Sherlock found me... I think he's learned to put up with me, and I to love him."

The woman's smile widened, and she touched Lissie' s forehead

Now everything was white, and blurry. She was lying on something soft. Had the blackness and her mother been a dream?

She stared groggily.

Was she in a hospital? That explained the white walls.

Doctors were buzzing around her. Her arm and back hurt. One of them said "Bad infection and fever. Have to drain and stitch that up, and set the arm. The arm'll need surgery, too.." She was being pushed somewhere, on her bed.

How did she have infection? What had happened? Ohhh. Her head ached at the memories...

Everything was still so fuzzy. The doctors' voices were loud and frightening.

"Sherlock," she called frantically, but she couldn't form the words, just hear them in her head. He was nowhere to be seen, in the dizzying brightness.

A mask closed over her face, and she was out again, breathing in the anesthesia.

Sherlock

He had stayed conscious longer than Lissie, and had seen that people in the woods were not their pursuers but rather Lestrade, John and Anderson. He'd lain there, unable to get up.

"Thank God," he'd said, lifting Lisse up to them before he, too had succumbed.

Now he lay in a hospital bed, waking up from a surgery on his shoulder. As the drugs wore off, he asked Lestrade, who was loyally hovering nearby,

"Where's Lissie?"

"She's still in surgery. John's been sitting by her bed in case she wakes, don't worry, and Mycroft used his influence to find out some things the doctor's weren't telling..."

"Still in surgery? What's wrong?" Intuitively he knew something had happened.

"Well...", Lestrade drew the word out and looked at Sherlock, "They don't know what happened. You were in here a little while - 3 days- before they did your surgery, the anesthesia just made you forget."

"Don't you remember? You wanted to see Lissie, and you almost hit a doctor who said you couldn't get up-" Anderson began before Lestrade sent him away with a dark look.

The DI continued gently, "Your daughter's been out this whole time, practically in a coma... Sherlock, they're worried she might have brain damage from the fever."

Sherlock pressed the tips of his fingers together. "Anything else?"

Lestrade sighed "Not much else, she'll need therapy for her arm,it's a bad break. They think the scars will heal and disappear, except for one that's particularly deep."

Sherlock heard the words, but it took a moment for them to sink in.

"Now we just have to wait," Lestrade said, worried eyes scanning Sherlock's face.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, that's we'll do."

Chapter Text

"Sherlock?" Lissie dizzily tried to sit up.

A strange man with a kind face helped her lie back down. "Can't have you messing up those stitches in your back, now can we?"

"Stitches?" Lissie asked.

The man looked a little worried. "Yes. Your back got infected...Can you remember? You remembered Sherlock' s name..."

"Sherlock' s my father," she said slowly. "We just met, it's a odd circumstance-"

"I know," the man said quickly, "You don't have to explain that part. I'm Dr. John Watson, by the way. I'm a friend of your father's. You met me at church...?"

"Ohhh," she drew the word out. "Why is everything after meeting Sherlock so hard to remember?"

He asked a question instead of answering. "Do you know how you got hurt?"

She thought, screwing up her face. "A man named something with an M," she recalled. What had the man done? Was it good or bad?

Her head ached so badly. Perhaps if her eyes closed, just for a second, she would remember...

"It's no use," John told the blue-scrubbed young doctor outside. "She doesn't remember, and she's out again."

"Thanks for trying." The young doctor's voice lowered curiously. "Say, are you sure everything's classified-"

"Absolutely," interjected Mycroft, who'd been sitting outside the room. He had pulled strings and managed to get a large, private suite for Lissie. "That's why Dr. Watson asked the questions and not you."

"Alright," the young man said good-naturedly. He hurried off.

Mycroft passed a hand over his face and looked at John.

"My poor brother," Mycroft said slowly. "I knew he'd met Elsie, but I never dreamed ... imagine! My little brother, married."

"Everyone has secrets, even Sherlock, I suppose," John replied thoughtfully. "Lestrade texted. He says Sherlock's asking to see Lissie."

"It was very kind of Inspector Lestrade to stay with my brother. I'll go see to him now that I have details on the girl."

It was Sherlock who arrived then, stumbling along with his bandaged shoulder while Lestrade hurried after him.

"I want to see my daughter," he all but roared. At John's reproachful look he stopped and raked a hand through his hair.

"Sorry, it's just..." for once he was at a loss for words. He was not used to this, having people look after him. He was not accustomed to feeling so helpless and vulnerable.

"May I go in?" he asked meekly.

Mycroft explained, "She doesn't remember anything after she met you."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You lot wouldn't be so worried... I mean, from a security standpoint, you'd be glad she forgot her capture. You'd be glad...unless you thought she might..."

Lestrade nodded. "They're afraid she might have constant memory loss," he said gently. "We won't know until she wakes up for good."

John scanned Sherlock' s face, noting the resemblance to Lissie. He could read the fear and worry in his friend's eyes. It was so strange to see this side of the confident, calculating Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock!" A girl's frightened voice cut through the medical noises and muted laughter from the nurse's station.

Lestrade had never seen Sherlock move so fast, not even at a crime scene. The consulting detective flew down the hall and into the suite, contorting his bandaged shoulder at odd angles. That's got to hurt.

Lissie was lying in bed, hair streaming up the pillow. She had obviously tried to sit up and been hindered by her back. She waved her pink-casted arm in an expressive manner.

"It was awful," she was nearly crying. "I know it wasn't happening but it seemed so real," she quavered.

Sherlock perched on the edge of the bed. He seemed not to see Mycroft, Lestrade, or John.

With one long finger he traced the angry red scar on Lissie's arm. "It's alright," he said comfortingly, surprising himself with how sympathetic his voice sounded.

"No, I...I remember now. Moriarty and...everything..." She struggled to explain.

"You don't have to explain. Just that you know is enough, right, John?"

"Oh? Right, yes, sorry..." John had been watching the reunion with a little shock.

He and the other two men slipped away then, at Lestrade's bidding.

"I've been terribly silly, getting worried," Lissie told Sherlock, sniffling.

"No, not at all. You've been very- strong." He hated false praise and participation ribbons - compliments from him were so rare. She had been strong, gritty. He didn't know much about teenagers but he doubted any other - boy or girl - could have withstood something like that so bravely. He felt a little twinge of pride.

"Thank you."

He seemed to have run out of things to say. While she wished he would say more, it did not hurt her that he didn't. It was enough for her that he was there. Comforted, Lissie lay still, breathing hard.

He looked out the window at a grey lake and gray sky. At last her breathing regulated and quieted, and he knew she was asleep.

Her turned back to study her. Thank God, she had regained her memory. What was he to do now? When she was able to return home, should he bring her to 221B Baker Street for good? No, no. He'd have to really clean up his act then, and Ms Hudson would hang lace curtians. What about a nice girl's boarding school, then? She could come home weekends. She might like that, he reflected. Being tutored in that stuffy mansion had probably been pretty boring.

He rose and went out, peeling off a new patch as he walked. Mycroft was still sitting outside, but John and Lestrade had left.

"Mycroft, is Moriarty still at large?"

Mycroft winced. "Well-"

Sherlock cursed bitterly, then apologized. "Sorry. It's not your fault."

He felt like screaming. Moriarty was still out there, waiting.

Chapter Text

Two Months Later

"And you're absolutely sure no one approached the victim?"

Lestrade leaned forward. "Yes, Sherlock. Look, I'm on my lunch break; let's talk of something that's not related to deductive work."

"That's impossible for Sherlock," John put in snarkily.

"Is not."

"Is too," John said without thinking. They had met the Detective Inspector for lunch.

"Mates," said Lestrade, "I deal with Anderson already-"

"Sorry," John apologized. Sherlock looked unrepentant.

"Sherlock, how's Lissie faring?" Lestrade attempted to change the subject.

Lissie was attending an elite boarding school three hours out of London. In addition to ordinary electives and lessons, students could participate in a variety of outdoor sports like shooting, running, archery, and more. A huge library contained rare books. Many weathy Brits And foreign ambassadors sent their daughters there. At least twelve of the students were distantly in line to the throne.

"She likes her school - apparently she's popular there. She texted a picture of her cast- here, see. Absolutely covered in signatures."

"I know they put the cast on after surgery and setting. Does she get it off soon?"

"Two more weeks."

John watched Sherlock as he talked, and he saw the way his eyes lit and shone with- was it pride? Love? It was strange to think of Sherlock as a father and yet it suited him - another experiment for him to grow.

The only things to put a damper on the situation was the press and Moriarty.

They could only hope the press would not discover Lissie. Ever since Sherlock had seemingly resurrected, tabloids had a field day with Shelock stories.

Moriarty - well, that was another situation. Mycroft did not know where Moriarty was or how he had managed to escape the roundup of his henchmen. Both brothers and Scotland Yard were keeping a wary eye out...

But Sherlock knew Moriarty would return. He would discover Sherlock had lied on the last few digits of the formula and he would be angry.

All along he'd wanted the formula. He would not give up now, not so easily.

Lissie sighed and adjusted her sights. Normally she enjoyed the outdoor courses her boarding school offered, but today she could not concentrate. Tomorrow she would go to Sherlock's flat and spend the weekend.

It would be the first time she had seen him since leaving for school nearly a month ago, and she worried that she would be in the way.

Perhaps he would have cases to solve and not want her along. Maybe what had happened in that dungeon was traumatic bonding and they would never replicate it.

So when she arrived at 221B and rang the bell, she was a little nervous.

Ms. Hudson greeted her warmly. "Lissie,love! Come in, Sherlock's just gone out to see about a case, he'll be back..."

She felt foreign in the apartment. Wandering to the couch, she flipped through channels until she found Keeping Up Appearances, which was good for mindless watching.

"Oh, that's an old show," Sherlock said when he came in sometime later. "I watched it as a lad. Hyacinth and the rest?"

"Yeah," she said, giving him a little hug.

The phone rang and he answered it. "Yes. Yes. I'll be right there."

"Ms. Hudson," he called. "We're going out. There's been a murder."

"We? Don't drag the child along to a homicide investigation, Sherlock."

Lissie gave Ms. Hudson a peck on the cheek. "Don't worry about me, Ms. Hudson."

She grabbed her messenger bag and followed Sherlock. She was thrilled he had extended the olive branch and determined not to spoil it.

They met John at the station and walked. No questions were asked when Lissie followed Sherlock under the police tape and past the guards.

A man was lying in a pool of blood in his den. Sherlock immediately motioned for her and John to step back. He knelt by the body, eyes searching.

"Gunshot wound and blunt trauma..." He was muttering to himself when Sgt. Donovan waltzed up.

"No kids at crime scenes."

There was no answer, and she peered at Lissie as if she weren't there. "Who's the kid, anyway?"

Lissie pulled a notebook from her satchel. "Skull fragmentation, you said, Mr. Holmes?"

John played along. "Ah, this is Sherlock' s apprentice of sorts."

Sgt. Donovan looked distrustfully at Lissie.

"Um, yes, good observation," Sherlock said. He paced about. Finally he stuck his head up the fireplace and pulled out a gun. It had been duct taped to the chimney wall.

"Now, here we have our weapon."

Lissie recognized it. "A Beretta," she said. Sgt. Donovan made a huffy sound but she looked convinced as she walked away.

"Pretty good," John said admiringly. Lissie shrugged. "We have a range at school. If I could just hit the targets, I'd like shooting better."

"Do you like school?"

She beamed "Yes! The athletics and outdoor stuff are more of a challenge for me, and I like that. I've met so many nice girls. School itself is pretty easy, excepting math-"

"Do you two giggling school chums mind," Sherlock said crossly. They fell silent.

The detective began pacing around the body again, murmuring to himself. Then he clapped his hands.

"The British Museum!"

"Sorry, what?" John asked.

"Don't you see? The killer works at the British Museum. Ohh, this is so simple! He's right handed, stylish (but a bit old school- classic. A Beretta of this old a model, the user would be.) Tall, with short black hair...Middle aged...panicked after whacking the man, hadn't planned on shooting him so soon..."

John and Lissie exchanged slightly astonished, slightly beamused glances. They trotted after Sherlock, who hailed a taxi.

Chapter Text

Sherlock leapt from the taxi. He stopped on the museum steps to pull a few pounds from his pocket. John and Lissie hastened to him.

"The museum's closing, sir," a guard told them, gesturing to darkening halls and security gates.

Sherlock gave a shrug. "I can work as well in the dark."

"We're on a case for Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade," began John, feeling that Sherlock hadn't done the best job explaining, but the guard waved them through, looking bored.

"I know who you are, Mr. Holmes. Just please note that you'll be working in an almost empty museum, we've only two staff members tonight."

"Two staff? For that enormous place," John queried. The guard began explaining things.

Suddenly remembering Lissie, Sherlock turned around. "You'd better go back to the flat."

"What?"

"You don't need to be running about a dark museum after a murderer."

"Sherlock, what do you mean? You let me come on the investigation."

He looked pained. "That was - different. We don't know what's lurking in here."

"Who put you up to this? Ms. Hudson?"

He shook his head, and she rushed on, "Don't be so - fatherly. It doesn't suit you. You're young enough to be my brother, you know."

His eyebrows twitched, and she continued, "Nicole, my roommate - her oldest brother's 18 on years older than her."

"This is a subject I do not care to discuss with you."

John coughed delicately, and Sherlock wheeled back to him. "Let's go."

"Sherlock, can't I come?" Lissie felt betrayed as she watched he and John move up the steps. What had happened? Why had he changed his mind so quickly?

She made a final attempt, running up to him. "Please?"

He put his face close to her ear so only she could hear.

"I promised I would take care of you. Do you think letting you get kidnapped by Britain's No. 1 threat looks good on a guardianship application? You nearly losing your memory and breaking your arm? Being tortured?"

"No sir," she began, swallowing.

"Listen. There's a social worker looking into all this, as it's a transfer of guardianship, your grandparents' care to mine. I need to look less like a famous detective and more responsible. Make sense?"

"Yes, sir." She sighed. "You could've been less cold."

"Go now."

"Sherlock?"

"What?" He was exasperated.

"If a NHS worker's coming by the flat, much as this pains me, I think you'd best dispose of the eyeballs in the fridge."

She smiled mischievously, hailed a taxi, and vanished.

Everything had changed. For the worse.

The entire first week of spring break was awful, the worst of it centering around a conversation one night.

She began timidly enough, remembering how, in Moriarty's rented dungeon, he had talked a little about her mother.

"Why didn't you try to find Mum? When Granddad sent you away?"

"I don't think that involves you."

The question has always weighed heavily upon her; the whole nearly 16 years of her life.

"Sherlock. You're a detective. Surely you could have done something-"

"Felicity."

Her full name. She had hit a nerve, and she felt a twinge of remorse, but she knew her only chance for information was to keep pushing.

"Don't you think I have a right to know?"

He ignored her. Just when she thought he was too deep in though to notice her, he said,

"You're barely two years younger than I was then. What would you do if someone older, with money and power, told you to never return or they'd have you arrested? They vanished, traveling all over Europe. He had men watching me."

"I wouldn't leave my pregnant wife to die alone!"

"Lissie, I swear to God, if I'd known she was pregnant-"

They were both screaming now, Mrs. Hudson peering anxiously from the kitchen.

"How? How would that change anything? Either way, you just let them take her."

He turned on his heel, giving her a cold look that seemed to say he'd lost all respect for her.

She went to her bedroom and cried, knowing she'd been horrid but too upset to apologize.

Chapter Text

September 20. Lissie drew the red x over the day and blinked. She had turned 16 a few days ago, and today was a decidedly less jovial occasion. Sixteen years ago, her mother had died.

She wished she could go out to the grave and put flowers on it, and maybe leave a note. She had done it every day since she was old enough to walk. Maybe if she asked Sherlock nicely-

"Absolutely not. You go back to school tomorrow. We can't drive five hours away."

"I've done it every year, I don't want to stop now -"

"Lissie, she's in heaven, not at that slab of stone. We can go some other time, she won't mind." He was so calm, so brisk. He might have been telling someone the time.

"I know that, Sherlock," she said furiously. "I just wanted to go...sixteen years..."

He typed into his laptop.

Anger and hurt seethed in her. She knew this might be hard for him, too, but she wished he would show some emotion. Why did he have to he so cold?

She sniffed a little, clawed at her eyes, and turned to leave.

"We'll go."

"Huh?"

She followed him to the car, surprised.

They had driven an hour before he spoke.

"I went to the burial ceremony," he said quietly, and it took her a second to realize he was talking to her. Shocked, she stared at him.

"Right after the news of her death. I drove out there, but I was too late. All her friends and family were leaving; just Mr. Raymond was there, and they were lowering the coffin down. He said, "I ought to kill you, Holmes. You did this to her."

Sherlock passed one weary hand over his face, keeping one on the wheel. He continued, emotionless.

Flashback

#####

They made an odd picture , standing there, as men shoveled spadefulls of dirt over a coffin: the man-boy, nearly 19, and the old man.

Other mourners passed them, darting curious glances.

The boy had been crying, and he was trying to hide it even as the tears fell. He approached the man cautiously.

"I ought ta kill you, Holmes. You did this to her," the old man growled.

"No, sir," the boy managed quietly. "Heartbreak did. We loved each other."

The old man's face contorted. "Admit it, you bastard."

"Admit what?," the boy asked, shielding his eyes from the harsh sunlight that seemed to mock his pain.

"You wanted her money all along."

Mr. Raymond watched as the boy turned paler than he'd thought possible. "Never! I never wanted anything but her love, sir, you know-"

"Shut up. You're being ridiculously sappy. Funny, Holmes, I thought you didn't get all worked up?"

How could he be like this,at his own daughter's funeral? "You're drunk," the boy observed, knowing it wasn't a very hard observation and kicking himself for not noticing it sooner. "Elsie loved me, and you know it."

The man stepped forward and backhanded him, hard. The boy's head snapped back, and he staggered, raising fists. The man laughed.

"That's what I'm capable of doing. You know I am a powerful man. If you return here while I'm living, my associates or I will kill you, and your sniveling brother. Go."

The boy ignored the man, gazing at the dirt and listening to the THUNK it made against the coffin.

"She's in heaven," he yelled suddenly. "You'll never be there."

"Please. The side of angels is terribly boring." His hand slipped to his pocket, and the boy's keen eyes picked out the outline of a Colt .45. " I suggest, Holmes, you leave now."

#######

"So you see, I did go. But by the time I got to her, it was too late."

"Oh," Lissie said, feeling like a horrible person. "Sherlock, I'm sorry." The young, vulnerable Holmes was incredibly hard to imagine, and she knew it must have been difficult for Sherlock to open up to her. How could she have thought him cold? Why,he was protecting himself with coolness.

He didn't respond, and they just kept driving, through little towns or by green pastures and past grey stone houses.

They finally pulled down the long drive of the manor house she knew so well.

"You go first," she said quietly. He locked eyes with her. Suddenly shy, Lissie hastened, "I mean, I've had 16 years here. You have your time with Mum, and I'll come along in a bit."

"Thank you." He spoke simply, but his tone held meaning.

She watched him go, sliding slowly out of the car and taking gliding steps down the gravel path to the family cemetery. He stopped in front of Elsie's grave, framed in the glow of late afternoon sunlight.

To Lissie's surprise, he knelt at the headstone, long fingers tracing the words she couldn't see from where she sat. It was no matter - she knew the words inscribed in the marble well:

Elizabeth 'Elsie' Rose Raymond

November 14, 1979 ~ September 20, 1998

"Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord."

It seemed as if Sherlock was saying something. Whether he was speaking to her mother or praying, Lissie didn't know.

Then he put his head in his hands.

Suddenly, in one awful moment, she realized Sherlock was crying, truly sobbing like a brokenhearted child. Shoulders heaving, he emitted shuddering sobs. His face was ashen gray. She had never seen him like this, and she felt the need to do something.

Without knowing what she was planning, she slid from her seat, running down the little embankment to the grave. She stopped short beside Sherlock.

He was already swiping at his eyes, reaching in his pockets for his nicotine fix but the heaving sobs could not be controlled. "I'm sorry," he said, embarrassed. "I-"

She put her slim arms around him. "Sixteen years of grief is a lot to hold in. It's perfectly alright to let it out now."

"Lissie," he almost-whispered, "your mother would be proud of you."

Then she was crying, too.

"The letters stopped," she said. "She only had time to write sixteen. I was born the 13th, and she died the 20th."

"That doesn't mean that she loves you any less."

"I know, but..."

He held her tightly, then cleared his throat. "All right, then."

She smiled sadly at him, and rose. "Ready for the off?"

"Don't go yet! That was ever so touching," a mocking voice came from the trees.

Sherlock' s entire face twisted. "Not...here," he said. "Not at Elsie's grave."

"But why ever not?" Jim Moriarty queried with an evil smile as men with guns came into view.

Chapter Text

Sherlock needlessly flung an arm out to keep Lissie back. She blinked. What did he think she would do, run to Moriarty? 

Moriarty kept a gun aimed at Lissie as he walked slowly to them. "That's right, Sherlock. No need to look scared. This time you aren't the one getting hurt."

"I don't want to play games," Sherlock snarled. He tried to advance, but Moriarty moved towards the trigger and Sherlock froze, palms outward.

"Miss Holmes- Lissie, is it not? We weren't properly introduced last time."

"Yes," she said, trying to sound calm and bored.

"Sherlock, if you try to sneak up like that I'll have to pull this trigger, mkay? Now, Lissie, you are going to help me." Moriarty sounded as if he was speaking to a child.

Sherlock, who had been silently edging forward, stopped. They were all at the edge of the cemetery now, and the sun was beginning to set.

"Lissie, I am not going to try to get any information from your father. Isn't it weird, to think of him as a father? Hmm? Anyway, I am instead going to "- Moriarty, keeping the gun in his right hand trained on her, picked up a twig with his left- "break him." He snapped the twig in two.

"Come with me, children," he laughed, leading them to their car. "Sherlock, be a good boy and give me the keys. One of my men will keep a gun to Lissie so you don't try anything."

Sherlock told Moriarty exactly where he could go in no uncertain terms as he handed the keys over and was blindfolded.

They drove. The fact that Moriarty made no effort to blindfold her made Lissie nervous. Break Sherlock? Through her? How?

They arrived at a nondescript house. It might have been any working-class home in England. Moriarty led the way inside, a man pulling Sherlock along and another holding a gun to Lissie's temple.

"Did you tell your new cronies your last guys were arrested?" Lissie asked dryly. "I guess not. Good help is hard to come by."

Moriarty laughed again. "Ahh, the unshakeable bravery of the young!"

He took the gun now, and her captor tied her to a chair.

"Here we are again," Moriarty said as Sherlock, too, was tied. "Only this time, Sherlock, you will remain unscathed."

Sherlock had some idea what Moriarty meant. He would be forced to watch Lissie be tortured and die, then let free, thus 'breaking' him. He would be free; Lissie never would.

He knew pleading was absolutely useless and would further incite Moriarty, so he tried bargaining.

Let the consequences fall. He would betray Britian now, the United Kingdom, the free world. Goddammit, anything if it meant he could save Lissie. At least she was blissfully unaware, assuming they would somehow break free. He was glad his mind could work faster than others.

He made a weak offer. "The gate code for Parliament' s parking garage, Moriarty. All yours. Think of all the car bombs you could wreak havoc with."

"It's too late, Sherlock." The sadistic man stepped to a table and began to mix a white powder into a glass of water. Lisa is was trying to look at the bottle.

"Mycroft's ID."

"Borrring," Moriarty said complacently.

"A fake Canadian alibi, complete with a passport, birth certificate, and more."

"Sherlock, you sound like a commercial."

"I can get you into Sandringham House. A key to the dome of the American Capitol building. A Pentagon or M I6 ID. White House clearance."

Lissie watched this exchange with increasing dismay. It was becoming obvious Sherlock was bargaining for her. Her health or life ; she didn't know which.

Moriarty re-covered Sherlock' s eyes. "Just for a bit. I want you to imagine what's going on. It's so much more fun."

Sherlock heightened his other senses, eyes covered. His ears heard a terrible crunch, and a cry from Lissie. Then there was the sickly sweet smell of blood. A scraping sound. A little gasp.

I'm a horrible father, he thought. Elsie had thought he would keep Lissie safe? Instead, Lissie was being tortured on his account. He writhed in the chair.

"Sherlock," Lissie cried suddenly, and he already felt broken, though he knew the torture was just beginning.

"That's right," he heard Moriarty say. "Tell him how much it hurts. Tell him."

It must have been an hour later that the blindfold was removed and Sherlock, blinking in the light, saw that Lissie, her face and arm bloody, was sitting on a surprisingly nice bed while Moriarty carried her a glass.

"Don't drink yet," Moriarty cautioned, "Now, Sherlock. The powder I put in that glass will put the victim to sleep within a few minutes. You know what it is, I believe? Ahh, don't say it, it's more exciting when you don't know what you're dying from. Can you describe the death process, however?"

"You'll have about ten minutes of perfect clarity, then fall into a seemingly harmless sleep. Within a few hours, you will awake in terrible pain. It feels as though your insides are being eaten away. Then you die." Sherlock spoke quickly, emotionless so as not to give Moriarty any pleasure. He could envision exactly where he'd been at the London School of Tropical Medicine when he'd read the pages about the powder. It had been autumn, and the library dark- he snapped himself back to the present rudely. The mind-palace was such a safer place.

”It’s in the dioxin family,” Lissie said, perfectly unbothered as if Sherlock hadn’t just described her horrific death.
 
Both men started. Moriarty looked angrier than Sherlock had ever seen him. Of course she didn’t know what sort of dioxin- but to have narrowed it down from that. The chemical structure had been drawn on the bottle he’d stolen from the military lab - but how was he to know the little brat knew organic chemistry? She couldn’t even drive yet!  

So there is something of me in her. Sherlock was thinking. He felt a swell of pride that for a moment calmed him enough to beam at Lissie. 

Moriarty sought to regain their fear. “Yes- but far deadlier than your traditional TCDD. Which is saying muuuucho, considering Agent Orange is basic.  I'm very prepared, I even brought an antidote. It can save someone up to the last second. I'll sit it here, this shelf out of reach. Do you know what I'm going to do now? I'm going to give Lissie this poison, and you will watch her die, unable to reach the antidote. Then I'll come back, give you a shot, and you'll wake up at your flat!"

Sherlock leaned forward, still bound to the chair. Just like Lissie, he was calm.
"Moriarty, if you had a child, I would not attempt to get to you through harming them."

Kidnap or threaten, perhaps, he conceded. But this was such a cowardly move. 

"That's why you're so boring, Sherlock!" Moriarty handed Lissie the glass. She was about to throw it to the floor when he cautioned, "I’m afraid Mr Holmes will not remain safe if you don't drink."

"Don't do it, Lissie," Sherlock pleaded. The fun of deducting together was gone and the very real threat remained.

Moriarty snorted. "Believe me, I will still kill her, only with something less humane than poison." He made a move to Sherlock, and Lissie quickly drank. "I'll let you two spend your last ten minutes together alone, then." He vanished.

Lissie sat up and wiped her face. “Sherlock, will this dioxin really kill me? Maybe he’s wrong about the lethal dose and just wants you to talk-"

He was never one to hesitate. "It will kill you." No one knew where they were. How could he have been so stupid? Love made one weak, slowed them down. He had let his deductions slip.

For a split second he saw something like fear flicker behind her eyes. Then she said, "I've encountered more trouble in the six months I've known you than I've ever had. And it was actually pretty exciting."

"Minus the broken arm and memory loss?"

"Yeah, minus that.”

Less than ten minutes. What should he do, say?

"I'm not really scared, just sort of afraid of the unknown," she said slowly. "I know I'll be in heaven, but, well, I've never died before." She attempted a weak smile.

He took a bit to gather his swirling thoughts. Then he said, "You have been so brave, Lissie. Throughout everything. Putting up with the Raymonds, then me, holding on to your mother's memory - you've been exceptional." A little embarrassed, he stopped.

She was quiet. Had she already fallen into the fatal sleep? Panicked, he pulled at the ropes, but then he heard her.

"I love you, Sherlock," she said feebly.

Love. What a strong word and yet she truly meant it. Not many people loved the cold, complex Sherlock Holmes. Maybe it was true that sentiment was found on the losing side. That it tripped you up, distracted one from the game. But love was stronger than sentiment. You could love someone without even liking them, (him and My) or you could love someone so much it hurt. Unlike sentiment, you could become stronger for having it.  Hadn’t Lissie’s love for him kept them going the first kidnapping? When she refused to reveal anything? 

If per unitaem vis - then how much stronger could love be?

"I love you, too," he said then, for maybe the first time in many years. The words passed through white lips, knowing any second he would lose her. 

She gave an acknowledging smile that recognized his turmoil and then- her eyes closed, and she fell back onto the pillows.

His head bowed. Never since Elsie's death had he felt this way. It was as if all light had gone from the world. 

He had cried once today. And indeed, today must have been a day of firsts, for Sherlock Holmes , who never cried, never showed emotion, screamed. It was more like a grief- driven howl.

The antidote bottle sat there, tantalising. Moriarty returned, but Sherlock didn't care.

In two hours Lissie would be with her mother.

Chapter Text

221 B Baker Street

"Ms. Hudson, you're sure they weren't planning on spending the night? Lissie used to live there, perhaps the visit lasted longer-"

The landlady wrung her hands. "No, John. I'm terribly worried. Lissie wanted to go, and so they just went. Sherlock said they'd be back by dark. He doesn't stay somewhere he doesn't like long."

Mary's eyes flicked to the clock as she laid a reassuring hand on the older woman's arm. "We'll find them, don't worry."

(John and Mary had come in answer to Ms. Hudson's worried call.)

John paced about. "He's not answering calls or texts."

"I have Lissie's number," Mary offered. "Have you tried it?"

"She isn't answering, either," he muttered, staring at his phone as if he could will them to answer.

"It's late. Should we contact his friend at Scotland Yard?" Ms. Hudson peered nervously out the window.

"Greg Lestrade? Not yet."' As John finished speaking, his phone rang.

"Hello? Mycroft, good! Listen, Sherlock's not-what? Oh. Lord help us. Yes. Yes, of course. See you soon."

"What happened," Mary and Ms. Hudson asked in one breath.

"Moriarty sent Mycroft a text saying he's broken Sherlock or some nonsense like that. Mycroft's afraid Moriarty might really have them, so he's getting Lestrade and Donovan to meet him here."

"Break Sherlock? How," Ms. Hudson wondered aloud. To her it did seem as if the man was unyielding. What was breakable about him!

"Moriarty could hurt Lissie," Mary said suddenly, and John realized with a sinking heart she could be right.

"But he did that before, and hurt her arm, poor love," Ms. Hudson put in.

Sgt. Donovan burst in then. "So, the freak's run off again. What else is new?"

"Sally," Lestrade said warningly as he entered, shaking hands with John and noddimg to Ms. Hudson and Mary.

Mycroft could be heard straightening the knocker, then treading upstairs. He looked surprisingly worried.

"More texts?" Lestrade queried, hand moving for a pack of cigarettes. Donovan slapped at his hand. "I only have one when I need to really think, "he grumbled.

Mycroft slid his phone over to the Detective Inspector. John and Mary leaned in to look.

Under the bit about 'breaking Sherlock' Moriarty had added:

"Don't worry. He's not the one dying. At least, not physically."

Then

"Fact of the day: Sherlock Holmes can show emotion."

John sucked in his breath. "Well, Greg, what do you think?"

"We can pinpoint the phone signal. It's as if Moriarty wants us to find Sherlock."

"So we can see the freak broken," suggested Sgt. Donovan. "Whatever he means by broken, anyway."

"I think so," Mary said.

Ms. Hudson brought in tea. "Anyone fancy a nice strong cup?"

They all partook while Lestrade traced the phone.

A new text flashed, and it was a picture of Lissie's face, ashen white. Streaks of dried blood streamed across.

For once Sgt. Donovan was not mocking as she said, "Is she, you know, uh..."

"I don't think she's dead - yet, anyway," John replied.

"Who would do that to a kid? I mean, that's pretty below the belt," Donovan murmured. Mary nodded in silent agreement.

The phone rang, and Mycroft motioned for them to be quiet as he answered, pushing the speaker button. A too-cheerful voice filled the room.

"Jim Moriarty here! Listen, did you know Sherlock could cry? Because I sure didn't. I feel pretty honored. I think I may be the first person he's ever cried in front of. You really should see your baby brother."

"Moriarty, what do you want," Mycroft asked tiredly.

"Nothing! Simply to break Sherlock. Don't worry, I'll send him back once he's broken. Ohh, you should see him now. He's just sitting here, and all his veins are standing out. I really must go. Ta-ta."

There was a click.

Sherlock and Lissie

Sherlock pulled one way, then the other. He rubbed his wrists on the chair until the rope had left them raw and bleeding. He tried to break the chair with brute force, slamming it down then falling with it.

Moriarty came in, stood the chair up and laughed at him.

Every second counted. Eyes trained on the antidote, then Lissie, then back to the antidote, Sherlock tried desperately to cajole Moriarty, but he left the room after taking a photo of Lissie and teasing Sherlock about his tears at Elsie's grave.

One hour left. Sherlock could feel beads of sweat appearing on his brow. He had often wondered how it was possible to sweat drops of blood; now he thought he knew.

"Is this what it was like for you to see the cross?" he panted to the celling. It occurred to him that he was watching Lissie die.

Her chest seemed to rise and fall more slowly now, and her breathing labored. "I'm so sorry, Elsie, he thought. I couldn't protect the girl.

He began to pray bargains and promises he knew he couldn't keep until he realized the futility of it all. No more crackhouse. No more patches. No- well, maybe less Irene.

"You have to have some mercy." he said finally, angrily.  "Help Lissie. I can't, You can."

Moriarty was taunting him now, calling him a little preacher-man, but all Sherlock cared about was Lissie. As soon as Moriarty left, Sherlock was pulling free again.

Each tug at the rope was something. I'll teach her to drive the roundabouts. I'll adopt her. I'll go to church with her and sing the fruity songs. Take her places. Buy sparkly things. We'll go on vacations and get absolutely sunburnt at Brighton. I'll come to her school plays and listen to high schoolers butcher Shakespeare.

He felt the rope slack miraculously. Painfully, slowly, he pulled at them, agonizingly slow. If only Moriarty would not return!

Suddenly, his hands were free. Now for the legs. He focused his mind palace until he remembered how to undo the complicated knots.

Thirty minutes left. Come on, come on!

Freed, he stretched his cramped limbs and grabbed for the antidote, just as Moriarty burst in.

Chapter Text

Casting a desperate look at the antidote, Sherlock knew his only hope was speed. Moriarty was crossing the room now-

Sherlock uncorked the stopper, pried open Lissie's mouth and poured, tilting her head back. Moriarty crashed into him, and the bottle shattered, precious liquid spilling...

221B Baker Street

"The location is seven hours away, Mycroft," Lestrade said presently. "Feel like taking a helicopter for a spin?"

Mycroft nodded. "You have a point. Too much could happen in seven hours. I just hope this can be considered top priority. Let me call someone..."

Apparently Mycroft's unfailing influence held true, for they found themselves in a roaring copter with a cheerful young pilot.

Mary knew it would not be safe for her current condition, and she volunteered to stay with Ms. Hudson. John, Donovan, Mycroft and Lestrade were going, Lestrade in constant contact with the Yarders. A team of police would be standing by in case Moriarty' s cronies turned nasty.

Of course Moriarty was expecting them, he'd laid this plan all along. What could he have in mind?

The chopper landed, and they hesitantly approached the heavy oak door. Guns drawn, Lestrade and John led the way, up rickety stairs.

Donovan and Mycroft followed a little more slowly.

There was a sudden shout, and Mycroft pushed past all of them to climb the stairs first. "Sherlock!"

Moriarty was standing over Sherlock, ropes and broken chair pieces laying about. A shattered bottle and amber liquid decorated the floor. Obviously Sherlock had just escaped his bonds. While everyone else was taking in Moriarty, John turned to the patient with deadly calm, skill born of months in country.

"Poison," Sherlock said desperately. "Antidote's spilled, couldn't get it to her, he grabbed me, ... too late..."

John watched Lissie for any sign of response, Sherlock shaking beside him.

Moriarty tried to edge away.

Suddenly Sherlock lunged himself back at Moriarty, grasping the man's coat and ramming him into the floor repeatedly, cursing and screaming. Arms flailing, he pummeled Moriarty with bloody blows, roaring and hitting.

"Don't kill him! We need him to testify," Lestrade said, making an attempt to free the two.

It was Donovan who intervened, pulling Sherlock away with an almost superhuman strength. "Let me go," he said, angry at his weakened state.

"Sherlock," she said, for once not calling him 'freak', "listen to me."

They all stopped, Lestrade and Mycroft pausing in cuffing Moriarty, John listening as he took Lissie's weak pulse.

"You -" she gave Sherlock a little shake "- will not let this break you. No matter what."

He blinked at her, wiping his bloody palms.

"You deduced something personal about my family once, do you remember?," she asked quietly.

"Sally, " said Lestrade, "you don't have to-"

She waved him off with one hand, facing Sherlock. John looked at Mycroft and suddenly felt like an intruder. What had Sherlock deduced?

"I remember," Sherlock said in an almost whisper.

John knew he should focus, not watch the unfolding drama. He dialled a poison specialist.

"I thought losing my baby would break me," Donovan was saying. "Her little body... wasn't even formed all the way-"

"Sally," Lestrade sighed, looking like someone who has heard a tragic tale and cannot bear to hear it again.

John suddenly remembered hearing how a pregnant yarder had been targeted by an assasin for revenge several years ago. The yarder had survived but the bullet killed the unborn baby. Could the yarder have been Donovan?

"I'm here, and I'm stronger," Donovan finished in a rush. "I'm not broken, and, whether Lissie lives or dies, you will be strong. Unbroken. Understand?"

Sherlock nodded, moving back to Lissie.

John felt he had seen a drama he had no part in- Lestrade, Donovan, Sherlock, actors in some tragic play. There was no time to consider everything he'd observed.

The team of police arrived, looking at the cuffed Moriarty in shock. "Not much of a fight?"

"No, apparently he thought Sherlock and Lissie would keep us busy."

Moriarty spat at Sherlock angrily,"Your daughter will be dead any second. Fat lot of good capturing me does."

Sherlock ignored him. He was watching John and the police paramedics treat Lissie.

Their grave faces said everything, she was dying, almost dead...the word was so empty - dead. He did not want to think of her blue eyes, grey and lifeless, or her tanned skin and bright smile fading pale, but the thoughts rushed at him.

It seemed as if something inside him was falling, spiraling  hard and fast from the heavens to the earth. He wondered if he stood there, rooted to the ground, would he fall all the way through the dark earth and arrive at the core, raw and white-hot and burning?

Anything to escape this emotional turmoil. He was not used to feeling this deeply, for being wholly responsible for another person. 

He dimly felt rather than saw Lissie being rushed to a copter, Donovan, the other Yarders and Lestrade slipping away, John going with Lissie. Sherlock deduced the noises as if he were blind.

Mycroft shouted suddenly, and Sherlock opened his eyes. He saw Moriarty falling, the policeman he was cuffed to kneeling beside the sadistic criminal...

"Cyanide capsule in the back tooth," a MI6 man informed Mycroft after giving the body a quick once over."Bloke bit right into it on purpose...Blimey, haven't heard of those being used since the Second World War... spies, y'know..." He trailed off as Mycroft stepped over to inspect the body with the air of touching something slimy and disagreeable.

"He's really dead, Sherlock," Mycroft said in what was perhaps the gentlest tone Sherlock had ever heard his older brother use.

The consulting detective nodded slowly, eyeing the body. He hardly regretted losing control earlier; the criminal's bloody face gave him some small satisfaction. He realized that Moriarty was getting a far worse punishment than he, Sherlock, could have ever inflicted, and he considered that for a moment.

Mycroft was talking in hushed tones with the investigators, MI6 and police. No one was watching.

He gave the body a vicious kick with his dress shoe.

"That's for Lissie," he said low and grimly, and then turned away. There was no need for revenge. He had a copter to catch, and a daughter to see to. He had tried to put her out of his mind and focus on Moriarty's corpse, but his concern for her was a dozen times stronger than any desire for revenge.

He suddenly felt very old. He caught a reflection of himself in the mirror as he walked out, face grey, eyes wild. He longed for John, a comfortable silent companionship to keep him sane.

He was only delusioning himself, and he realized it; what he was missing was the girl's prattle, or silence followed by a profound comment. A slim figure dancing about, puzzling a holiday- assigned math problem at the kitchen table after clearing out experiments, then abandoning it to chase down a stray cat she'd seen out the window. Making suprisingly good meals out of his random grocery scraps.

With a strangled noise he prayed the copter would hurry.

Chapter Text

Lissie opened her eyes and blinked. She had woken up in a hospital bed, for the second time in as many months. I've got to stop doing this, she thought wryly. Well, at least she knew where she was this time, there's a plus.

A wave of nausea rushed at her- no doubt from the poison, and she was sick in a little tub that was a horrid shade of pink. Where was everyone?

A smiling nurse came in. Her nametag read Nan. "That's good, love, just get all that yucky poison taste out," she said, not at all disconcerted.

"Sorry," Lissie said weakly.

"Oh, please, love, I'm a nurse. It takes more than that to gross me out."

She adjusted the stiff hospital sheets. "You don't feel like you're going to be sick anymore?"

"No."

"Good. The paramedics had to pump your stomach, you know. You've had a day to rest, you ought to be able to- there we go."

She leaned the bed up so Lissie was sitting up. Then she began cleaning a dressing on Lissie's good arm - wait.

"My cast is off," she realized, wiggling her fingers.

"Yes, it made things easier for us as we couldn't IV this scratched up arm. Pumping your stomach apparently took some time, an hour. Most if it in the helicopter, some on a gurney."

"How close was I to- dying,” Lissie queried, resisting the urge to say she knew that “gastric lavage “ was pumping a stomach and that they didn’t have to dumb things down.

Nan made a little face. "As a minor, we've told your father, he'll..."

"He won't tell me." Nan and the toxicologist were giving her such pitying looks and the old fear of being weak and ignorant was coming back.

“I’m a minor but I’m not- dumb,“ she tried to explain. “Well, I mean, I’m dumb about a lot of things but not facts. I know  the compound was TCDD -tetrachlorodibenzodioxin- but really, really concentrated and with something to knock me out mixed in. I just want to know if Moriarty was bluffing about the time frame and antidote effectivity.”

The scientist looked bored. “ The LD 50 for traditional TCDD is 2 micrograms a kilogram, making it deadlier than arsenic and cyanide. You can estimate from that, I suppose.”  He left abruptly.

Lissie widened her eyes. What would Sherlock have done if she died? Her thoughts were interrupted.

"You can come in," Nan yelled, as a knocking sounded. Sherlock poked his head in, as if unsure of whether to come all the way through.

They were silent, neither looking at the other.

Nan bustled out. Sherlock closed the door behind her. He looked very grave.

"Did something happen?"Lissie worried.

"Social Services had their 'look in'."

"On me? Us? What did they say?"

"This is the second time you've been hurt - hospitalized, even, under my care in six months."

"Surely they know it wasn't really your fault. I mean, I was kidnapped the first time."

"They said I shouldn't have left you alone in a strange city. Also, besides these incidents, I deal with criminals on a regular basis, have clients dropping by my home at odds hours and ... a possible drug history."

"WHAT?"

"Forget that last bit." He sank into a brooding silence once more.

Lissie thought about it all. "You want to keep me, though? Become my guardian?"

He nodded, a little smirk, not unkind, on his lips.

"Anyone can create an illusion, however. I've filled the fridge with what appears to be nutritious items and removed a few of the experiments from the kitchen table."

She gaped at him, impressed but doubtful. He sighed, looking sideways at her. "Fine. Ms. Hudson stocked the fridge (although I asked her to) and John threatened to throw away my experiments unless they were rehomed."

"Could Mycroft , uh, Uncle Mycroft put in a good word for us? You said he had power. I mean, he went to Balmoral for a holiday, once."

"A. We don't get along , and B. I don't beg."

Too tired to ask anymore questions, she blinked.

Sherlock sat down on the floor, crossing his legs criss cross. "It's complicated. He is, believe it or not, an incredibly soft person. The only reason he's around so much currently is you. Our relationship is somewhat strained, as he is an infuriating tattletale to Mummy and Daddy, and doesn't approve of my career and actions."

She had to laugh, a weak version of her former joyful chortle. "Mummy? Daddy?"

"We're supposed to call them that. I think Mummy read somewhere it increased togetherness."

"O-okay. So I have grandparents! Can-"

He closed his eyes. "Let's focus on the issue at hand, please. And for the record, my filial relationships are about as stained as that of yours and the Raymonds before they died."

"How did you kn-" she began. Then, hastily, "Grandmother was very kind."

"But she still lied?"

"Yeah," Lissie admitted.

They were silent again. Lissie keenly felt every odd, quiet interlude, and she wished there was a way to make things smoother.

Worry tugged at her like physical pain. Who would she live with if not Sherlock?

She rmembered a line from a book called Summer of the Swans, and she quoted out loud without meaning to.

"Sometimes you don't know what you love until you almost lose it."

Sherlock tapped his fingers. He was thinking of how pale Lissie still looked, and remembering the dead-white face on that bed at Moriarty' s.

Until you almost lose it... shut up, mind palace people!

He looked over at her and, to his utmost horror, saw that tears were silently streaming down her cheeks.

He hated scenes. Unless they were crime scenes.

"Lissie, I won't let you be sent away."

He saw in her eyes she wanted to believe him.

"I promise," he said.

She stuck out her pinky, trying to smile. He stared.

"Hook your pinky to mine, silly. Here- there! Now we have a promise."

He patted her arm casually and stood to go. "See you in a few hours. Need anything?"

"I'm good, thanks."

She turned her face as he left, trying to hold in the sobs. Finally, she had found her father, and now she was losing him. No, he was not perfect. But they were a family, broken yet stronger for the storm.

She was asleep when Sherlock slid in two hours later. He sat on the edge of the bed and brushed her hair out of her face, callused fingers gentle. There were tear tracks on her face.

It was so strange to think that this fragile, beautiful human was his daughter, and that he was responsible for her.

He wished - oh, he wished lots of things. He wished he were a better communicator, and that Lissie was fully well, and that he knew how to raise a daughter.

He watched her chest rise and fall, and IV fluid drip slowly.

Her eyes fluttered, and she awoke. "Sherlock."

"Good afternoon."

She looked so forlorn lying there, and he summoned up his courage. It was one thing to pursue a murderer head-on, another to talk.

He let it come out in a rush, his true feelings, no hesitation or stuttering, just his clipped accent.

"Lissie, when you almost died, I realized how much I would be missing. I'm awkward and sarcastic and forget everything for a case. I know I don't always say what I feel, but I love you."

She opened her mouth, but he rushed on.

"You - are the best thing that's ever happened to me. When I thought you were dead, I just started praying. I do think it was answered. This is a new project or experiment of sorts, and I'm not in the habit of letting projects go easily. I'm going to do everything in my power to keep you."

He stopped then, embarrassed.

"Oh, Sherlock," she said chokingly. He never knew what to do in social situations but this time he did - he hugged her tight to him, feeling her heartbeat.

"You're the best thing that's happened to me", she whispered.

Chapter Text

Lissie raced up the staircase at 221B, giving Ms. Hudson a hug and looking for Sherlock. “Don't tell me, he's out again."

"Yes, but he'll be in in a minute. How's the first week back been? How are you feeling?"

"I'm feeling fine. It's nice to see all the girls again. We stayed up very late talking the fist night I was back! I love my roommate, we get on really well.“

"Good. You deserve to be happy, love. Would you bring that box at the bottom of the stairs up to me? It's in the front hall, delivery man brought it-"

"Yes, of course."

Lissie stopped in the hall when she heard a voice, angrily loud. It took her a moment to realize the voice was someone outside the door- it was so loud it might have been inside! Must be a Speedys’ customer.

"I comforted him! The freak! Didn't I tell you one day there'd be a body laying dead on account of him? I felt sorry for him. I'm an idiot.”

Lissie recognized Sgt Donovan' s voice.

A sharp knocking startled her. Donovan and whoever was with her must be standing on the other side of the 221 B door.

"Police, open up."

Police? What on earth? Wasn't Donovan a yarder? She peered through the peephole and saw three policemen, Donovan, and Lestrade.

She opened the door hesitantly, foot in the gap as though they were sketchy door to door salesmen instead of Yarders.

“Hello Detective Inspector, Sgt. Donovan-"

Lestrade cut her off. "Where's Sherlock?"

"I'm not sure, I just got in. Ms. Hudson!"

The older woman slipped in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel. "He's meeting a client at Heathrow. Is something wrong, dears?"

Lestrade looked uncomfortable. One of the younger bobbies opened his mouth and closed it.

Donovan answered, "Mr. Holmes is wanted for homicide."

"What?" Lissie asked, even though she clearly understood the words. "Why would he murder someone?" What she truly meant was, how would he get caught, but there was no need to say that to Lestrade.

"He's a psychopath, that's why," Donovan said coolly. "A good actor though, I'll give him that. I truly felt sorry for him when you were hurt, Felicity.”

Ms. Hudson sat down in a chair.

"Do you even have any proof?" Lissie glared.

The younger officer rattled quickly."The figure leaving the scene was caught on CCTV. It matches Mr Holmes quite well. Hairs of his were found, and he has ties to the victim."

"But- how does he know the victim?" Ms. Hudson ventured.

"Drugs," Donovan said before Lestrade could stop her. Obviously she was regretting her earlier kindness to the Holmeses. "Its a simple case of a drug deal gone bad, we see this a lot."

Lissie’s hands formed fists.”No. Sherlock's clean, and he wouldn't murder someone."

Lestrade winced. "Miss Holmes, I've known Sherlock a bit longer than you. He can-"

She pushed past them all, running outside. Gotta find Sherlock. Need to warn him. He can solve this. He's not a murderer- not without good cause, anyhow. Maybe he’s just gone to see that Irene woman I’ve heard John tease him about.

A police officer caught up to her and grabbed her arm firmly. "I'm sorry, but we need you for questioning."

"You're not sorry," she said turning her face away and reluctantly following him.

————

The juvenile interrogation room was falsely cheerful, a bright yellow with smiling animals painted on two walls.

"Miss Holmes," the woman snapped her gum, "you've known the defendant how long?"

"He's my father!"

"Yes, but you met him six months ago."

"Why are you asking if you know the answer?"

"Miss Holmes, cooperation is best. Now, when did you last hear from Sherlock?"

"I texted him Tuesday about my maths final- I assume you've already checked my phone."

"Miss Holmes. Now, you have never heard Sherlock mention the victim?"

"I hardly talk to him. We're trying, but our relationship is a little awkward."

The woman leaned forward as if she'd hit upon a clue. "And why is that?"

"I don't know. Maybe that I've went fifteen years without knowing him, or that he's cold, or that-"

She stopped for breath, and the woman asked, "Does Sherlock care for you? I understand Social Services was coming for a home visit tomorrow?"

"Yes, he'd applied for guardianship."

The woman stopped to shuffle through some paperwork, and Lissie took the opportunity to dash away righteous tears.

It was true she did not know Sherlock as well as she could. Why, just the other day a government survey a teacher had handed out had asked 'Do either of your guardians/parents smoke? If so, how often?' and she'd had no idea. She didn't know if he had a drug history, or anything about his parents.

But surely Sherlock wasn't a druggie, or a murder. It hadn't been an act at the grave and at Moriarty's,or had it? According to John, Sherlock had once faked his own death, and given no sign he was alive for two years.

The woman cleared her throat. "I'll be bringing you to a foster home, where you'll stay the duration of this...situation."

"Can I go back to Sherlock' s flat to get my things?"

"No."

"What about my clothes at my other home? The one I inherit when I reach my majority?"

"We'll see. For now, please just follow me."

Lissie felt like punching a wall, but she figured she'd probably just hurt her hand. Instead, she obediently followed the woman down a stark white hall, missing already the false cheerfulness of the juvenile area.

"Miss, when will I see my father again?"

"I really don't know. If they have a sufficient case against him, it will be a long while."

"Do the police currently have him?"

"Yes, he's in this building."

"Can I say goodbye now?"

"No."

Lissie tasted blood and realized she had bitten through her lip. "I want to see my father," she said coldly, knowing this was her only chance to find out if this was an elaborate ruse for a case or the real deal.

Suddenly she saw Sherlock, walking between two police officers in the open area below where she stood. She dashed down an escalator while the horrid woman screamed at her to come back.

"Sherlock!" Did you do it?

He turned, barely, and gave her a deducting look. Was it pity in his expression? Sympathy?

The police officers hurried him onward, Sherlock disappearing down a dark hall.

Don't leave me here, she wanted to cry. You said you wanted me.

"My mum's dead and my dad's in prison," she said quietly, experimentally. It certainly had a shock factor.

The woman caught up to her, and Lissie allowed herself to be led to a car.
----------------------------------------

"Dear, we're so glad to meet you," the young woman enthused. Her smiling husband nodded.

These were Lissie's new foster parents. She knew they were probably perfectly nice individuals, but the sympathy in their eyes, the overly tender words...everything reminded her more of her situation.

"I thought we'd shop for a few essentials, we can get the rest tomorrow. Being prepared to get kids at moments notice, we keep a gender-neutral bedroom ready."

"Thank you for everything." Sherlock , why ?!

She was furious with Sherlock, the police, Lestrade... what could she do? Where could she go? There was nothing to do but stick it out or run, and she had nowhere to run to.

Mum and Sherlock had both left her. She lay on the floor and held herself, shaking, shattering.

Chapter Text

The determined figure marched into an office and slammed her palm on the officer's desk. "It wasn't a drug deal."

Sgt. Donovan blinked and tried go around the angry girl.

Lissie stood her ground. "You're all covering something up. What really happened?"

"I suggest you ask your uncle. I had nothing to do with capturing Sherlock, police helicopters took care of that. We were just making sure he wasn't at home."

"You lied about the drugs."

Donovan pushed the girl aside. "Homicide is still homicide. Now, are you supposed to be in my office or did you run away?"

"Admit you lied."

"They fed us a story. We - I- really thought it was a bust. Lestrade knew the truth. Turns out Sherlock killed-" She stopped.

"Please, Sgt. Donovan."

"What about your guardians? I need to let them know you're here."

"Please stop trying to get rid of me. I need to know where Sherlock is."

Donovan rolled her eyes. "I eavesdropped on Lestrade. The freak's apparently going to be sent on a suicide mission to Eastern Europe. It took them nearly two months to decide what to do with him."

"Why?"

"Drug deal not bad enough for ya? Listen. He attempted to sell government secrets, then murdered a man. I wouldn't mourn his loss too much."

"But why would he sell government secrets?"

"To help out his funny little friends - the Army doctor and that Mary woman. This happened Boxing Day, and it's Valentine's now. I really don't know anything more."

Donovan then turned and walked away, pausing as she turned the corner. There was a strange kindness in her eyes.

"I'm going to give you a head start," she said very quietly. "I'll be in the lav for 10 minutes before I alert your caseworker, as I am bound by law to do."

Would she ever understand Donovan? Lissie breathed a relieved "Thank you."

"Go, now."

Lissie scurried down the hall. She needed to get as far away as possible. The heart shaped wreath interwoven with little bells jingled cheerily as she slammed the Yard door and hurried down the stone steps, pulling her coat around her.

Blimey, she felt horrid. The Houstons, her foster family, had been incredibly kind, and bought her dozens of lovely presents since she arrived the day before Christmas. For two months now, they had cared for her every need, and how did she repay them? By running away?

Should she try to find Sherlock before he was sent on that mission? What if he had already been sent?

A part of her wanted to remain furious at him. He had given absolutely no thought to her this entire time, selling secrets and killing a man.

Did she really know Sherlock? It seemed as if he cared for her. He had truly been distraught when she was hurt. And yet...

She pressed her arms closer to her chest, shifting the weight of her backpack. Where should she go? Police would be looking for her soon, 221 B and Raymond Manor probably being the first places they'd look.

She hurried to the nearest Tube - Paddington Station. With a little smile of remembrance - she'd loved the Paddington books as a child- she bought a ticket to Waterloo station, the busiest.

Once there, she turned on her cell phone, left it on the train, and vanished. She had been seen on the train; hopefully the broadcast signal of her phone would convince police she was still aboard.

With some misgivings, she left the underground and blended into the crowd. Uncle Mycroft could tell her more about Sherlock, but he would probably send her back to the foster home. John and Mary might know! Hadn't Donovan said he killed a man FOR them?

But their flat was empty. She gave in and tried Mycroft's club, but he was gone.

Suicide mission to Eastern Europe. The words echoed in her brain, ricocheting about wildly. Part of her wanted to cry for him; another said to let Sherlock go.

Never had she felt so abject and hopeless. She hailed a cab and headed for the Eurostar. It had been four hours since she'd left the Houston's; at best she had another six before her passport was cancelled by police.

She boarded the Chunnel train for France. After the long ride, she stepped into a washroom.

The bathroom was deserted. She removed her hat and blinked in some satisfaction. Early this morning, she had mixed bleach with her shampoo, and she now had blonde highlights that made her almost unrecognizable.

Using little pieces of scotch tape, she molded her ears until they didn't look like their former selves. Sherlock taught her that trick.

Heavy makeup and a pair of green contacts completed the illusion.

Her plan was to 'lay low' in France until she was declared missing and her passport use was discovered, then lock herself in the tiny train bathroom and sneak back into London when France got too hot. She'd read of a boy who'd managed the same trick two years ago. It would be easier to act as a tourist in France.

Chapter Text

Hey! Sherlock,

Where are you?

Dear Sherlock,

I am a horrible person

Lissie crumpled the sheets of notepaper. Any attempt to contact Sherlock, whether assertive or apologetic, would be futile.

Besides, he would probably be furious with her for running away. If only he understood - she didn't want to live with anyone else if not with him.

She shouldered her backpack and skulked down the Rue Jacob.

Sherlock

He had no regrets, Sherlock reflected as he stared out the window, seeing but not really looking. He would do anything for John and Mary, even though she had tried to shoot him.

And yet...Lissie.

As he'd stood there, that fateful day at Appledore, hands raised in an almost symbolic final surrender, he had ordered his mind to forget Lissie, or at least believe Lissie would be better off without him. Things would be much easier that way. She's better off with a real family. She doesn't need me. This is for John and Mary - they need me more. Lissie needs a mother and a father; a stable home. Not me. Young enough to be her brother, she'd said. He repeated these mantras until he nearly believed them. There was still one wild part of him that yearned for her, but he recklessly quelled it and almost forgot.

Now, leaving in this sleek silver plane, he wondered what she would say when she heard of his death.

Mycroft would be kind enough to play it up as if he'd died for Britain. Sherlock could already see the formal man shuffling note cards he didn't need and beginning to address a group of reporters. "My brother made a great sacrifice..."

Ha.

He allowed himself a little smile as he adjusted his coat sleeves, then he turned his mind to Russia and his mission. Who knew, he might just come back alive after all. Resurrection was fast becoming a hobby of his, wasn't it?

The phone rang, and he blinked at the caller id. Mycroft.

"Well, I certainly hope you've learned your lesson."

And that was how Sherlock came to be standing beside his brother looking up at a billboard.

"Really went all out, this chap," observed the skinny young bobby who'd first seen the sign. At Mycroft's withering glance the policeman retreated.

"Well,Sherlock? Do you think he's back from the dead or is this a scheduled, posthumous message?"

"I don't know," he replied.

"What? Say that a little louder. You don't know! Sherlock Holmes doesn't know!"

"Oh, come off it, Mycroft," Sherlock muttered, irritable. Why hadn’t they let him get drunk on the plane!

He studied the billboard in silence for a while. Mycroft spoke up. "I must ask. Why didn't you contact Lissie all these months?"

"I thought caring wasn't an advantage?"

"She's your daughter, Sherlock? And I heard things were going rather well?"

"After Mary shot me, I knew I had too many loose ends to tie up-"

"You mean you chickened out." Mycroft smirked.

"No-t exactly... I was planning to see her Christmas, after the reunion at Mummy's-"

"But you and John stole my computer and ran off on your little adventure?"

"I get the impression you know something I don't."

"Lissie was put into foster care."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I know that. Goodness, I thought you weren't supposed to care. You've gone remarkably soft. It doesn't suit a man who destroys terrorist cells."

"Sherlock, she's not better off without you!"

"What's that supposed to mean," he queried, surprised at how easily Mycroft had deduced his thoughts.

"Sherlock, she's run away."

"Ha! All children do that. Some are just more successful than others. Did it myself once, remember? Gone for two weeks."

"Oh...yes, after Sherrinford-"

"No. Don't go there; it requires emotions neither of us are capable of feeling."

"Alright, have it your way. Sherlock, she could be out there with-"

His face suddenly dawned with realization and then paled. "Motiarty! If he's alive."

"Or any number of your various enemies."

" Mycroft..."

"You'd like to postpone this investigation and find her?"

"Yes, damn it."

"Good! I knew you'd come around."

Mary put one hand on her expanding stomach and turned to John. "I just feel...responsible. John, we've got to see if Sherlock will let us help."

"You're not responsible, Mary. Though...You did shoot him, so perhaps- "I'm joking," he added hastily at her stricken look.

"John, don't. I probably ought not run down alleys in my condition, but I can surely explain things when they find her."

"If you're up to it, I'm game."

"You can't hide forever."

"Can't I? Let me go!"

Sherlock had just discovered Lissie working in a souvenir booth. It had taken him two hours to find her- his usual runaway recoveries took an hour. He followed her to a park bench, Mycroft puffing behind.

"You look remarkably well for runaway, if not at all like yourself,"' Sherlock observed.

"Bought a post office box, used the address, got myself a job and am doing just fine, thank you."

"I hardly call selling overpriced Les Miserables items for less than three days a job."

"Sherlock. What happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"One minute you're going to adopt me and everything's rosy, the next I'm in police questioning, told you're a druggie, shuffled to foster care, told you killed a man, sold government secrets,and then you didn't contact me for two and a half months. Oh, wait. You did text, once in eighty days. Here it is. 'Making good grades?' I truly thought you were concerned and cared for me but I was wrong. You might've called once. I was worried about you, fool that I am.

All you care about are your friends- when you have so few I guess you ought keep them close. They're here now with Mycroft, by the way, trying to look like they aren't listening from that cafe."

John jumped guiltily and Mary jabbed him with her elbow.

Lissie rose majestically from her chair and swept unconcerned down the street.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.

She set off almost jauntily, hands in pockets. "To the devil."

Chapter Text

Mycroft started to follow her, but Sherlock grabbed his arm. "Let her go."

Mary put out a placating hand. "Won't you let me talk to her? I can explain that you were shot, that you didn't just avoid her-"

"Fine," Sherlock said wearily. "I'm not about to argue with a pregnant woman in her last trimester. Hormones and the like."

"I have a flat here," she ventured timidly. John looked shocked, Sherlock nodded. He'd probably deduced that the first time they met. Oh well. " Just a studio. I kept it when I was running missions. I think I'll bring Lissie there. Here's the address."

Mary hastened after Lissie's haughtily retreating figure. As she drew closer, she noticed that the girl, for all her brave words, was crying.

"Lissie. Will you come with me? I've a flat here, and I'd like to talk to you. Just us girls, y'know?" She smiled kindly and wondered how Lissie would react to the news of her shooting Sherlock.

The girl hesitated. "All right."

Soon they were sitting on the sunny little balcony of the flat, drinking tea out of enormous mugs.

"I have some things to tell you," Mary began, "And I wondered if it would be easier to let you make some guesses first. To begin with, who am I? What do I do?"

Lissie blinked at her frankness, but sat up. "Well, you've got some sort of background - military or espionage, maybe? You always sit with your back to a wall and look for exits, and you've got a good memory.

Sometimes, when I first met you, I had to say your name several times before you answered, which indicates it's an alias. You seem familiar with lots of cities, and..." She trailed off. "I don't really know. They're just guesses. I'm not good like Sherlock."

"You're rather close. I do have an espionage background...in a way. Let's begin when I met you. John and I had just married, and Sherlock had found you. Then you were kidnapped the first time and returned. I was about four months pregnant. Then you were captured again, two months later, and returned to school. Shortly after you returned to school, I..."

Lissie saw her hesitation. "You're the only who's explained anything so far. You could say that you helped Moriarty and I would still listen."

"Good. I'll be blunt. I was on a mission of sorts when Sherlock and John stumbled in on a burglary. They didn't know about my background- Sherlock had an idea, but-"

"A burglary?"

"It was for a case. Now, I was assigned to my...usual job and was in the act of carrying it out when Sherlock stumbled in and stopped me." She closed her eyes briefly, and Lissie could tell that while Mary was quite capable of being terrible she was not yet hardened enough to enjoy it. "I shot him."

"You what?!"

"I shot Sherlock. Rather badly. He nearly died. It was awful, but I had to, Lissie." She place her shaking hands on her stomach.

"Why?"

"I didn't want to. I had to. I did the only thing I could do, then I called an ambulance and ran out."

"You're practically a murderer!"

"That's my job description."

"I want to hear this, so I'm staying. But I trusted you, Mary!"

"I've let down lots who trusted me, I'm sorry to say. You aren't the first. John was furious, of course, but more hurt than anything else. I'd lied to him so much...Sherlock made a full recovery and reunited us at his parent's for Christmas."

"Just like that, it's over?"

"No. John is a wonderful man, Lissie. He forgave me, even threw a flash drive containing my darkest secrets into the flames. But a man had found out about my career and posed a terrible threat to us.

Sherlock stole Mycroft's laptop to use as a bargaining chip. He and John then went to see about the man - Magnusen. Things went a bit awry, and in the end, Sherlock realized the only way to keep me safe was to eliminate Magnusen. So he killed him - thus the stolen secrets and murder. Obviously, an alert went out for Sherlock, with police being sent to find him. He couldn't possibly have left Magnusen's in that time, of course, and was found there and sent to Eastern Europe."

Her eyes welled with tears. "Don't you see, Lissie? He did it all to save me. You're a Christian - you know about grace and how 'while we were yet sinners Christ died for us'? Well, in his own, albeit fallen way, Sherlock saved me from an earthly hell - a fallen man, yes, but still for the side of the angels."

Mary placed her hand on Lissie's, and we she didn't pull away.

"If you have to hate someone, blame someone, it's me. I shot Sherlock. I lied about my past. I'm the one he killed for, stole for - well, John too but it wouldn't have happened if I hadn't lied.

Lissie, Sherlock's just a man trying his hardest to be both father and mother. Yes, he could have made more effort but you see he was shot and then wrongly imprisoned. You can hate me it you want. But love Sherlock."

"Oh, Mary." Lissie whispered. "Thank you for telling me."

They were both silent.

Chapter Text

Reluctantly, Lissie rose and followed Mary down the street towards Sherlock, but they were intercepted.

"Fel-icity! Sweetheart, we've been frantic!"

Sherlock looked disgusted as a young woman flanked by police and the inept NHS caseworker rushed over and flung her arms around Lissie, gushing.

"The police were looking everywhere, and I just cried. I hope it wasn't anything we did, darling. Jude will be along in a moment, he left work as soon as he heard you were found. I cried buckets when he couldn't get off the day you went missing. Was it something I said?" Her lower lip trembled.

"Oh, no, Ms. Houston. You and Mr. Houston have been so kind. I just wanted to find some answers."

"Of course," the woman agreed, putting an arm around Lissie and glaring at both Sherlock and the caseworker as if it were a conspiracy.

John subconsciously moved in front of Sherlock as though shielding one of his wounded patients. "Mr. Holmes found Lissie."

"Mr. Holmes, while dear Lissie's father, is unfortunately a murderer and involved in dealings of the worst sort. I was told he was imprisoned," Ms. Houston said, pulling Lissie away, caseworker trotting after.

Lissie was silent, looking from one to the other.

"He was acquitted of all charges and is currently in Britain's service," Mycroft flashed an I.D, snapping it shut before the woman could read it. "While we understand that this does not change your status as foster parent or legal guardian, we do wish you would know Mr. Holmes is cleared."

"Very well," the woman said graciously, with the air of one humoring a small child's whims. "May we return home?" The caseworker conferred with the French police and nodded.

Sherlock' s eyes followed Lissie's retreating back. He gritted his teeth and thought She's better off , She's better off, She's better off... Then his brain rebelled. No, she is NOT!"

Furious at himself, he started walking. The Watsons and Mycroft left, and, thank God, he was alone at last. The entire Chunnel ride was a blur. Ms. Hudson had kept 221B remarkably tidy during his long absence, but he did not want even its comfortable reliability. He did not want to be comforted. He wanted to be furious at himself, to dwell on his every fault and failure.

Finally he went to ... well, he went to the place that Mycroft none too kindly referred to as the 'crack house'.

Members of the Homeless Network were lounging about, and they leapt up when he ducked in the doorway.

"Mr. 'Olmes, you're back!"or "Been watching that man for ye, Sherlock, he's sly,"or "Have a seat, we won't judge," with a dry chuckle.

He held up his hands. "I'm sorry, but I'm not here for a case or to do...anything."

"He needs to be alone," Bertha, who often hid from her duties, husband and children here, offered.

"There's the room upstairs," someone else said.

Sherlock climbed the rickety stairs, thanking Providence every step that he was clean - cleaner, anyhow.

The room was bare save bottles and it looked like a frat house had recently vacated its premises. He sat down in the least grimy corner and stared blankly at one grafftied wall.

What could he do? He had nearly died, prayed, cried, everything - he had tried so hard to make things work.

He leapt up and punched the wall, harder and harder with growing aggression, remembering Sherrinford's boxing lessons in the garage.

Why did Elsie have to die? Why did all this happen?

He began to voice his thoughts.

"I just- want - to - be - a - good - father." Smack!

"I- don't -know- what -to- do." Smack!

"I'm - a - fucking failure." Smack!

There were holes in the sheetrock and his hands were bloody when, sweaty and breathless he finally stopped.

"I need some help here. Any suggestions?" He angrily addressed the ceiling and sky beyond.

Call her.

"Call who," he said aloud, shocked at the answer.

He pulled out his phone and the first contact his finger found was Lissie.

Fine. Signs or whatever. It was just a coincidence.

He dialed, sitting on the floor, phone held at arm's length. The room still reeked.

"Hello," she said tiredly, obviously having looked at the caller I.D.

Then, all in a rush, "I'm sorry for what I said earlier. You were really nice both times I was hurt and I didn't mean you never helped I just meant one text in two months was a little, y'know-"

He interrupted this impossible- to -follow, characteristically Lissie apology. "I think we were both a bit wrong, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes sir. Umm my counselor wants to do a session with you."

"Counseling? I don't need that!"

"That's debatable. Just kidding! Me neither, but it's mandatory. Anyway, it'll be nice to see you, right?"

Ms. Houston dropped Lissie off at 221B. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes, the counselor will be here soon."

Sherlock opened the door at Lissie's knock. He was shirtless.

"Not the best impression. I was thinking more, a suit?"

"Hush. Look, I have to change the dressing from where Mary, uh,-"

"From your wound," she supplied tactfully.

"Yes. Thank you. Anyway, John's changed it once a week but he's out of town and I can't -"

"Here, sit down. Don't look so terrified, I have my first aid certification. If they expected you to do it I can too. Before I start- Is the flat passably clean?"

"I gave Ms. Hudson full reign," he said, sadly adding, "She threw out the severed fingers."

"A loss for science, but perhaps for the best. Now, hold still."

She deftly unwrapped the bandage and pulled a new one around his chest.

"Thank you, Lissie."

This felt so - natural, Lissie reflected as she looked about them. Cozy flat, Sherlock being agreeable, casual conversation... But then she thought of the Houston's, and the news she would have to break to Sherlock later, and worried.

Chapter Text

"You don't talk much about your mother's death, correct?" The counselor's pen paused over her notepaper. She had begun questions as soon as she ducked in, with no apparent qualms about tact or delicacy.

"We often do, " Lissie lied, not meeting Sherlock's eyes. "In fact, he's taken me to visit her grave." There was no need explain everything to this woman.

"Excellent," the counselor beamed. "Healing visits are quite important. You'd be surprised how many families don't discuss their loss. Now, Miss Holmes, you said-"

Sherlock had been studying the woman intently, and he had just deduced she was from Devonshire. However, deduction might not help this situation. He bit his lip and waited.

The counselor was still rambling, Lissie answering each question glibly.

Sherlock’s mind ran.

BORED! So bored. What are those hairs from? Does she have a pet? Is that jam on her handbag? Yes, and a toddler's handprint. Hmm, clumsily made keychain with E-m-m-a on it.

"Mr. Holmes? I asked how your relationship is with Lissie?"

He had to say SOMETHING. "Does Emma not enjoy daycare? It's a shame you leave her there even when she cries and grabs you." He gave a signature smile.

She blinked. "What?"

Lissie looked stricken. She kicked him under the table.

He grimaced. Oh, I did it again. Fix it, Sherlock!

"Our mums are friends," he fibbed quickly.

"Oh-hh, okay. Anyway, what was I saying?"

"You had all your answers?"

"Thank you, yes! I'm just distracted today; so worried about Emma. She's nearly four, you know, but she hates being left."

He nodded sympathetically, willing her to leave in his head.Yes. Yes. So sorry. Run along now! Don't you have some nice nutters to evaluate?

To his charign, the woman poked around 221B, opening cupboards and checking for food. She peered in Lissie's room, and his. Thank God for Ms. Hudson. The dust that had not been touched for years was gone, and she'd sat out fresh flowers. His skull! Where had she stashed it? Hmm. Oh, the medicine cabinet.

When the counselor opened the fridge, Lissie wriggled her fingers and made a cutting motion. He grinned back, imagining if this proper woman had discovered his experiment. He reflected that he and Lissie were finally a team. They were together in this, what a wonderful feeling.

"Well," the counselor said brightly, " everything is in order if you do change your mind."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock queried, turning to Lissie. Surely she was not still angry at him. He hadn't contacted her, and he'd been too cold. But now that was changing, right? maybe-if-God- willing, he'd be an alright dad-

"The Houstons want to adopt me," she said flatly.

Sherlock looked stricken. His cheekbones rose higher as he tightened his jaw. He suddenly felt very young and very afraid. This time he was not losing Lissie to death or a madman but a well-meaning couple who knew how to show affection he could not.

"Let's talk about it," he said, for the benefit of the counselor, who smiled broadly as she announced she 'had to scoot along.'

"Talks are so healthy-" She was still talking as he ushered her out and shut the door firmly.

Miserably Lissie flopped on the couch, feeling as if she'd trampled a rose or ripped a rare painting. Maybe she shouldn't have been so friendly earlier. She should have came right out.

"Sherlock, I -"

"Do you want to live with them?" he asked with the old coolness.

"I don't know..."

He yelled so loud she jumped, pounding his palm on the table. "You have to! Answer me!"

She looked as if he'd slapped her.

He regretted his words. "Lissie, I'm sorry. I should have called you before John and Mary's. I knew the plan might backfire, and I just... made myself forget. It made it easier to withstand the...well, questioning, knowing you were safe and with a family."

"You said such nice things when I was in the hospital. But when I saw you in the station, you didn't do anything..."

"They hauled me off and anything I said was used against me. It was safest for you to let you think it was a drug bust. Safer for the police, really everyone but Yard and MI6 needed to believe it was something routine."

"They hurt you? Britain, I mean?"

He wiggled his palms, talking fast and adding asides. "When you can't explain why you have ties to public enemy number two,(one being Moriarty, obviously) then murder him so no one can question him, you become a terrorist to intelligence eyes, too. Until Mycroft got me to Eastern Europe, yes, I was treated as a terrorist."

"Mary shot you, the British Government roughed you up, and now I'm leaving. I guess I see how you feel."

"No. " He held her gaze. "I don't care if those I trust wound me, because I expect it. We all fall. It's when those who trust me lose their faith in me that we have problems."

"I'd better go."

"Lissie. Do you want to live with the Houstons?" He tried to maintain a casual tone. Somehow, stupidly, he could not help feeling that everything rested on her answer.

Chapter Text

They might still be facing off had not Lissie' s phone rang.

"It's snowing so's I can't see the road," Sherlock heard Ms. Houston's voice over the phone.

"I can stay here, I've got my old room," Lissie replied, shooting a questioning look at Sherlock, who nodded.

He could hear the doubt in Ms. Houston's voice. "Well, I really can't get through - they shut Westminster tube, the blizzard' s rare for a London February...rare for London at all ... Will you be quite safe there?"

"Ms. Houston! Sherlock is my father and saved my life when I was kidnapped. I'll thank you to remember that."

So Lissie would still defend him. Curious.

"Lissie, love, don't be impertinent. If you're alright I think I'll let you stay."

Sherlock awoke with a start. Had the heat went off? It had.. was that what woke him? He tested a switch. Yes, the power was out. Pulling a robe on to combat the cold darkness, he slipped to the living room to make a fire in the fireplace.

"Mum, please."

There was the noise that had woke him. It sounded like a lost child sobbing. Quietly he padded down the hall and listened. It was Lissie in her sleep.

"I didn't mean to hurt you..." Her quavering voice cut through him.

He gingerly opened the door and made his way to her bed, shaking her tossing figure awake.

"What's the matter," he asked briskly but not unkindly.

Her hair was plastered over her face and her skin was cold.

"Did I talk again? I'm sorry..." She shivered and he led her to the living room where it was warmer.

"The electric's out. Now, tell me what's wrong." The digital clock was blinking midnight, but the regular clock read one a.m. No wonder it was so cold, the power had been out an hour.

"Just the Dream," she said in an almost whisper, jaunty self assurance of the afternoon gone.

"The Dream? Capital D?"

"Mum, I guess...my mother... At first she's with me, then she's dying, slipping farther and farther away," there was a sob and then a rush of words. "And when I try to grab her everyone pushes me away because I'm the one who made her die, caused the complications. I've been having it more often lately."

Perhaps the late hour made him unusually tender. He studied her face.

"It's all over now; you know I don't believe you'd intentionally hurt Elsie."

She looked up hopefully.

"I've said it twice now and I mean it -Elsie loved you. She didn't blame you; I don't blame you... that damned Raymond is the only one to blame."

Her look of teary thankfulness caused him to fetch her a blanket, which he wordlessly passed to her.

She took it and curled up, resting her head on his uninjured shoulder. This reminded her of something, but what? Oh, when Sherlock had given her his coat in the dungeon at Moriarty's. "She'd be so cold, and I'd give her my jacket..."

He did not say anything more, but his presence was enough. It was so comforting, in the warm dimness lit by orange glow. And suddenly she knew.

"Sherlock!"

He had risen to stoke the fire, but he came rushing back with a worried look.

"Sherlock, I want to live here. With you."

"I knew you'd come around," he smiled, relief washing over him. "What changed your mind?"

"This is home," she said simply.

His brow clouded suddenly. "Lissie, the Houston's have gotten rather attached. They may not let this go."

"You mean court? But you can't have the publicity! Look, I'll talk to them, tell them that they can't possibly understand me the way you do. They are kind, but smothering. Sherlock, we've had our problems, but ever since you gave me your coat in that dungeon I think I've known."

"Known what?"

"That I belong with you. I didn't remember it ; I was stubborn, and felt lied to. But I shouldn't have run away."

She whispered something and he had to lean close to hear. "I don't want to lose you, too."

He squeezed her hand and sat there with her until she fell asleep.

He watched her as she slept, tear stains drying on her face and rhythmic breathing slowly evening from ragged gasps to steady breaths.

He wished he could shelter her from every cruel thing, every harsh brightness the world shone in her face. But he could not, and there were so many lessons she would have to learn on her own. But for this short time, while she was still 'his', he would keep her safe, so help him God. He moved quietly to his laptop.

Moriarty, if he was still alive, would not stand a chance.

Chapter Text

When Sherlock awoke, stiff from his desk chair, he instantly looked for Lissie. Her blanket was neatly folded and he heard faint kitchen noises.

She appeared in the kitchen door then, spatula in hand. "Power's still off but I'm using your Bunsen burner and Ms. Hudson's skillet to make pancakes." Something in her eyes begged him not to mention last night.

"Thank you!" He left to dress and returned. "It's bloody cold!"

She turned back from the kitchen. "I think I've tried to turn on lights or get my music app on at least five times. I keep forgetting the electric!"

"I'll provide the music," he said grandly, picking up his violin. She clapped her hands. "Yay! Can you do all types? Classic and pop too?"

Smiling, he began to play Avicci's Wake Me Up, with Pachelbel and Bach mixed in. She waltzed back into the kitchen, flipping pancakes and setting plates on the table.

Pretty soon they were eating syrupy, thin cakes, cooked to perfection. "It's fun to cook for just two people. Hardly any work, really," Lissie admitted.

Just then the lights flickered back on, and the heat began to rattle. Cheerfully, they ate their pancakes, with no mention of last night's incidents. When Lissie bowed her head for silent prayer- she never forced him- he bowed, too. Thank you for my daughter.

Clearing dishes, washing up, everything felt better and light. They had finally discovered how much they needed each other.

A rap at the door startled them.

"'Houstons," Lissie whispered, subconsciously moving closer to him.

"Maybe it's just a client," he said reassuringly, knowing full well no client would venture out in the cold.

The saccharine sweet voice drifted in.

"Lissie! Are you ready, sweetheart?"

"Yes, Ms. Houston. Seeing as you and Mr. Houston are both here, could I talk with you all and Sherlock?"

Darting suspicious glances about them, the Houston's perched on the couch.

"You have been very kind to me, and I thank you for that. I know you have some bias against Sherlock but I love him and he is my father who, I have learned, loves me very much... "

Their faces were incomprehensible. In a rush, Lissie added, "And I would like to live with him."

M. Houston was indignant and shrill. "I knew you'd come back brainwashed! You have been confused for a long time, but remember how angry you were at him a few months ago? You practically hated him! No, he cannot have you. I am your legal guardian and I will take this to court if I must," Ms. Houston grabbed Lissie's shoulder. "Come to the car, love."

Lissie shook herself free and drew up like a regal queen of old. "I'm only going because you're my guardian and there'd be trouble for Sherlock if I resisted." Her eyes blazed as she went to the car.

Mr. Houston rose and gave his best I'm-a-rich-lawyer look. "We'll get you for this, Holmes. We love Lissie and you can't have her back. Any judge would take one look at you and send her to us. Who're you going to pick, a lawyer and businesswoman or a criminal?"

Sherlock regarded him coolly, their faces inches apart. He was suddenly reminded of his confrontation with Mr. Raymond so long ago.

"I don't care who you think you are,"' he said finally. "I believe it is obvious whom Lissie cares for."

"Holmes,I know you aren't dumb. You've got powerful friends and have a neat little reputation; I'll give you that. But we aren't going to lose Lissie to a..." Houston stopped, at loss for a deprecating enough word.

"She isn't yours to lose!"

Mr. Houston sneered. "We'll see, Holmes, we'll see."

The door slammed and Sherlock rested his chin in his hands. He allowed himself only a few minutes, however. Then he set to work, swallowing his pride and calling Mycroft, who in turn called every legal expert he knew.

A case was filed, court dates sat. Would Lissie return to boarding school from the Houston's ... she'd been moved to an impartial foster family in Dover...Lestrade could testify Sherlock' s character, that was an impressive witness, a DI...

And then came the waiting. Winter turned to spring. Every day something crossed Sherlock' s mind about Lissie. One night he awoke, frantic.

What if she has the Dream and her foster family doesn't do anything?

Chapter Text

'"Miss Raymond-Holmes, if you will take the stand."

Sherlock leaned forward. He had not seen Lissie in nearly two months; would she be changed?

She rose and entered the little speaker's box, raising her right hand and going through all the formalities. She looked nice in a yellow shirtwaist dress, and she had straightened her hair. His sharp eyes found her rocking on her heels - a sure sign of nerves.

"May my client read her statement?" her attorney asked the judge. The judge nodded, an impressive figure in his white wig and robe. Everyone in the court leaned forward. Ordinarily, an attorney would question the client.

Lissie began , "Sherlock and I met under unusual circumstances. He was unaware of my existence until I was 15. When we met, things felt a bit awkward at first. How do you catch up on fifteen years?" She gave a wry smile. The jury laughed nervously.

"After spending a few nights at his flat, I was kidnapped by a madman. Sherlock rescued me. He gave me his coat to keep warm, carried me despite a broken shoulder, and ensured we both got out alive. He selected and enrolled me in my school (which I love), and took me to visit my mother's grave. I didn't appreciate what I had with Sherlock. I tried to do things my own way."

She looked up at the judge before continuing. "Things weren't perfect, and they certainly didn't go as planned. I'm sure others will tell you more about that. I'm here to tell you why I want Sherlock to be my guardian.

He loves me, and he understands me. Though I have only known him for a short time he's saved my life and cared for me in so many ways. He teaches me about his job, talks to me about current events..." She stopped reading off her paper and instead spoke simply.

"Your honor, I cannot imagine my life without him. To have found my father and never see him again would...be awful. I need Sherlock. The Houston's are kind but they are not and can never be as understanding as Sherlock."

She sat down. One of the jury members clapped, and Sherlock could see the Houston's attorney preparing to strike him from the list.

The judge intoned, "Thank you, Miss Holmes..." The legalities droned on, cold and flat, but the warmth of Lissie's speech nestled inside Sherlock and stayed there.

Lissie was dismissed, Lestrade testified. Someone Mycroft had got from the government prattled about Sherlock's experiments and their importance to the Western world.

Second day, Mr. Houston got up and blustered something. Ms. Houston cried and smeared her makeup, reapplying her lipstick in her compact.

Still Sherlock waited. Finally it was time for him to take the stand.

"Mr. Holmes. You want to be your daughter's legal guardian?"

"Yes, your honor." He was about to point out some deductions on the Houston's but he decided that might not be best. "I told her a few months ago that she was the best thing to ever happen to me. That still rings true."

"You honestly feel you're a suitable guardian?" The Houston's attorney put in snidely, tone implying much.

Sherlock rose. "Perhaps your clients do nor understand, sir, that love survives where snobbery and false piety do not."

The attorney bristled. "You are frequently in the newspapers for dangerous cases. Do you truly think your career is safe for children? Do you think of the danger-"

Mycroft leaned forward, but Lissie leapt up first, cutting the lawyer off. "Objection, your honor. Badgering the person on stand, could also be a call for conclusions."

Sherlock watched in bemusement as his very proper brother awkwardly returned Lissie's discreet fist bump.

The judge passed a weary hand over his eyes. "You knowledge of the law is impressive, Miss Holmes,but you are not an attorney for this case. However, if the lawyer for Mr. Holmes would like to call this, I will acknowledge."

"Acknowledged. Would the attorney please change the line of questioning?"

The case wore on.

Eventually the jury retired for deliberation, and the Houstons, their family and friends left.

He sat there, feeling alone in the nearly empty courtroom, silent but for the court reporter's typing and the judge shuffling papers.

Lissie and the family she was currently with reappeared a few hours later, the Houston's shuffling in as well.

Now it was Lissie's turn to wait and observe. She saw Sherlock's fingers tapping into the railing of his viewing box and wondered if he was as nervous as she.

She managed to catch his eye, and gave a little wave. He winked.

The jury knocked, the judge gave the all rise, and Lissie suddenly found it hard to stand.

Her knees shook. How cliche that expression had always seemed! But now, as she tried to still her trembling body, she understood true fear.

Chapter Text

She dimly heard the judge's rumble until his last sentence ... "hereby declared Mr. William Scott Sherlock Holmes shall serve as legal guardian to his daughter Miss Felicity Grace Raymond-Holmes until she is of age. This is a trial run - I will have Social Services look in once a month for the first three months, a probation term. Will they please rise?" The judge tapped the gavel, and Lissie and Sherlock rose, looking at him intently.

He broke into a smile beneath his powdered wig. "I wish you both the very best, and I trust Social Services will find nothing awry. Court dismissed."

People were gathering their belongings and preparing to leave. Lissie flew down the aisle and up to the viewing box, running in the stuffy courtroom.

Sherlock was speaking to his lawyer. The lawyer shook his hand and moved away, to speak to Mycroft.

"Sherlock," she said slowly. He turned, stiffly, unsure.

She ran into his arms, shaking in relief and joy and pent-up worry. How many times had she ran to him like this to be comforted? And to think she'd once thought running from him would solve everything.

"I'm sorry for running away, oh, I'm so sorry," she heard herself whispering.

"It's over now; it's all over," he said, finding his voice, holding her head to him in one hand and other on her back. "Your speech was absolutely brilliant."

"Thanks," she said, muffled by his suit. He held her for a few minutes more, then pulled away.

"Lissie," he began, "I have a celebration gift of sorts. Since I missed Christmas and everything."

Awkwardly he handed her a little jewelry box.

Curious, she pried it open. Inside was a delicate ring. "It's from my wedding ring and Elsie's," he said lowly. "I had the stones made into one."

"It's beautiful,"'she exclaimed, slipping it onto her finger and admiring it in the light."A piece from each of you. But you didn't know for sure we'd win?"

"I knew," he said wryly. "I trust in Mycroft and big guns, to paraphrase that Latin poem. Or at least, I wouldn't let myself think about the alternative."

They stood there as court employees left.

"What do we do now," he queried, more of a statement than a question.

She slipped her tanned arm through his suited one. "Let's go home."

He smiled with a real smile that crinkled his eyes and lit up his face. "All right."

The sun made dappled pattens on the ground as they walked out of the court and down the street. Lissie kept a firm grip on Sherlock' s arm; she was not letting go ever again.

221B was beautiful in all its shining quirks -the skull, ever-present microscope, smiley on the wall... it had never felt more like home.

Sherlock's phone rang then.

"Hello, Mummy. Yes, I knew it was you. Because everyone else texts, Mum. What? My told you about the case? Yes, we won. Mmhmm. Mum...fine. Very well. Yes. Yes. Goodbye." He hung up and turned with a horrified look.

"Lissie, Mycroft has decided we should meet Mummy and Father for lunch. It'll take us a bit to drive out, it's at their home."

"But, that's what-"

"Normal families do? I know. Still, we can pretend to be normal, can't we?" He wiggled his eyebrows and drew in his cheekbones.

She laughed. "Normal is boring. But I'll give it a shot. Grandparents! Just imagine."

They were still dressed nicely, but Sherlock nervously patted at his hair. "You look very nice," she reassured him.

"I can't have My showing me up, can I? And they always say I don't eat enough...just because I'm not chubby like My..."

She laughed again, feeling how free their conversation could be. Oh, yes, there would still be awkward moments and fights and everything that came with a young father and a teenager. But for now she could enjoy the sunshine and peace.

"They'll love you," Sherlock said as she hesitated outside the home. "They'll smother you, in fact..."

She smiled and pulled open the door. Mycroft and an older couple were seated around the table. The woman rose and hurried to hug Sherlock.

"Sherlock, love, why don't you come round more often? You boys should see your poor old parents."

She patted his cheek and turned to Lissie.

"You have Sherlock's eyes," she said, studying her. "Welcome to our family."

"Thank you," Lissie managed, returning the embrace. Sherlock's father shook his hand and patted Lissie's shoulder.

"Have a seat, have a seat. How old are you, dear?"

"Sixteen, sir."

"Wonderful! I remember when Sherlock was that age, always annoying Mycroft when My came home from uni..."

Mummy Holmes beckoned Sherlock into the kitchen, behind the swinging doors. He followed.

She faced him and asked in a whisper, "Why didn't you tell us, Sherlock?"

"Tell you what?"

"That you were married? Or that you had a daughter?"

He brushed his hand through his hair. "It was sudden. I'm sure My told you what I told him. And then Raymond took her...Mum, when I learned Elsie had died I couldn't think straight. I made myself forget. I wouldn't say her name or look at our pictures. I'd never stopped looking for her, though, if I'd known there was a child-"

Mummy patted his arm. "I believe you, Sherlock. But Lissie is nothing to be ashamed of. You could have come to us, instead of letting Mycroft relay information."

"I'm sorry, Mummy," he said, surprisingly contrite. Then, eagerly, "What do you think of her?"

"She's beautiful. Oh, love, she's very like you, but I'm thankful she doesn't make crude deductions - yet."

He smiled and they moved into the living room, where Lissie was enjoying tales of his teenage misshaps.

Chapter Text

...and so everything was rosy for a few weeks. Lissie returned to school, Mary and John had readied a nursery and Mycroft went back to being mysterious and less cheerful. Everything felt normal, but with the Holmes' danger and deductions are always right around the corner.

A phone, illuminated by maps, flickering screens and the latest espionage technology rang and vibrated shrilly. The man watching the screens answered.

It was a girl's voice. "Uncle Mycroft?"

He jolted up and out of his seat. "Lissie? This is an MI6 protected number. How are you calling it? How...who...did Sherlock..."

"Sherlock isn't answering texts or calls. Neither are you, apparently, so I took matters into my own hands. Miss Anthea dialled this for me, I didn't see the number. I'm in your office. When no one was at 221B I headed to your office, where I found Anthea."

The girl knew where his office was? "How did you find my office?"

Anthea cut in, voice smooth to hide the danger it could carry. "That does not matter now. Where is the girl's father? How much can I tell?"

"I can't reach the Watsons, either," Lissie said.

Finally, a question he could answer and dodge at the same time. "They want to make Sherlock godfather or some rot."

"Has she had the baby? Are they alright?"

"Lissie, there is a reason no one is contacting you. And it is out of their control, I assure you."

Fear gripped her, and the thought of losing Sherlock caused her words to fail. She swallowed and tried for calmness.

The beautiful but inanimate rose that was Anthea waited silently, still holding her phone out while Lissie struggled.

Finally she could speak, hearing the edge to her voice. "Is- is Sherlock safe?"

Even a patronizing answer would be reassuring but Mycroft didn't answer immediately. When he did it was cold.

"I can assure you that the British government is aware of the service Sherlock is doing for them."

"So he's doing some work for MI6, and they can't even protect him, just be aware he's helping?"

Anthea was nodding. Mycroft murmured, "Something like that. Are you out of school, or have you run away again?"

"I'm on a weekend break. Answer my question now -why secrecy? John and Mary aren't involved-"

"Think, Felicity." Her full name. It made the situation more desperate. "Who else do you know besides us Holmes with a career in secrets?"

"Mary," she said instantly.

"You can make conclusions from that; I can not tell you anymore."

"Is Sherlock safe," she tried again.

Even to Mycroft her voice sounded shaky. Would she cry? He hoped to avoid a scene, but how? He didn't know. He hated emotions.

"I don't want to lie to you, but Sherlock could not tell you where he was going or what he would be doing - because it is highly dangerous." Hastily he added, "If it makes you feel better, he attempted to get you partial clearance."

She heard someone's voice on the other end, urgent. "Sir, the subject has activated a track beacon."

Mycroft quickly said goodbye and the phone was silent save dead air.

Anthea pressed end call and placed her phone back on the table.

"Thank you, Miss Anthea," Lissie said, grateful for someone's help, "It was nice to meet you."

"Lovely," the woman replied, shuffling papers, already disinterested.

Lissie shouldered her bag and shut the door , trying to decide what to do with her day before she had to return to school.

Why would Sherlock accept something so dangerous? Did he not want to be her guardian? She took a few breaths. No, she should not be angry. He was trying to help Britain, surely, and had not meant to hurt her.

She felt lightheaded and sat on the stone steps of the British Museum. What if Sherlock was gravely injured, or killed? Why would he take this case?

He took it for John and Mary? Or is Mary's case separate and she, too is in hiding?

She swallowed, mouth dry. Would Sherlock come back in a coffin draped with the Union Jack? Don't worry about Britain, worry about me, she thought wildly, for a few selfish moments.

The truth - she could not shy away - had little to do with heroics or love of country. Sherlock would take any dangerously perplexing case that came along, and this one had been so wildly interesting he dropped everything and ran.

Why did he never heed danger?

Sighing, she decided to look about the museum before heading back. The Egyptology rooms were fascinating, but it was soon time to return to school.

When she returned to her room that she and Nicole shared, there was a surprise - a third bed had been brought in, with a new girl sitting on it. It was an unusually large room; another twin bed did not cramp it, but it was surprising.

The new girl gave a nasty smile. "So you're the orphan,huh?"

"I'm not an orphan,"Lissie said slowly.

"I thought you were in foster care?"

"Who told you that?"

"I get around. See, at my old school, I was the leader of the pack. I understand you're the popular one here, but there can only be one leader, and that's me. You follow?"

Lissie could only stare. What was that American film? Mean Girls? Well, here it was come to life.

The girl flounced out, shutting the door with a bang. Lissie turned to Nicole. "Is she for real?"

"Unfortunately, yes. She went and scoped out the competition - her words - by asking around who everyone liked best. You came up enough to be a threat, apparently."

"That has got to be the oddest thing I've ever heard."

Nicole nodded. "She's lost the plot, but I heard her parents are very rich." Nicole was a scholarship student, and she had better grades than the most affluent.

"Why is she spreading rumors? Calling me an orphan?"

Nicole shrugged. "She called me a charity student, raised by tax money. I think she's just nutters. Want to do nails?"

"Sure. Let me grab my polish."

As Lissie looked at her hands, she saw the ring Sherlock had given her and felt fresh worry rush in.

Chapter Text

Lissie's phone was vibrating on her nightstand. She sleepily stretched an arm to grab it. 2:48 am. She started to roll over but saw the name onscreen.

Sherlock.

She sat up, moving quietly so as not wake Nicole or the new brat, who's name was Carolyn. Even the name sounded evil. Picking a way to the door with moonlight from the window as a guide, she stepped into the hall and answered her phone lowly.

"Sherlock! Hello?"

"Sh. Go someplace you won't be overheard."

"I'm going to the courtyard- it's empty at this time of night. Why?"

"Because I've sat your phone up so it can't be bugged, and I'd hate all that hard work to be wasted by someone overhearing this conversation."

"Okay. Where are you? How are you? Are you safe? Why call at this time?"

"For the purpose of this little exercise let's just assume I can't answer questions, okay? Look, I called to talk to you."

"Really?"

"Well, I'd be a pretty bad guardian, if I didn't check in every now and then. I don't have much time,but how are things going?"

"Good."Lissie decided not to worry Sherlock with any real troubles - namely Carolyn.

She worked for cheerfulness. "Everything's going well! I love this school and all the girls. (Except Carolyn, she added in her head) We're having a masquerade dance with the boy's school across the way, and I'm going to dress up in a lovely gown. Nicole's doing my hair. I'm in the advanced athletics group now! Are you alright?"

"I'm alright. This case is more puzzling than I imagined, but it's coming along rather nicely, even if there is still some danger. Listen, I called for a reason. Lissie , the people who are watching me- there's a slight chance to they could be watching you.

The - group- I'm investigating seems to have discovered I'm supplying MI6 with their information, and they aren't pleased. So I need you to be very careful. Even at school you aren't entirely safe- an enemy operative could pose as a teacher, get you and use you against me, much as Moriarty had planned to do. Please, stay watchful."

It was an incredibly long speech for him, but she knew that he must be in considerable danger for him to act so worried. Surely no one could find her here - he ought to be worried about himself!

"Please stay safe, Sherlock,"

"What? I-" sudden noises could be heard, and she heard a motorcycle roar off. "Better go," he yelled into the phone. "See you sometime in the next two months."

In the next two months? Her heart sank, but she said, "Bye," to the empty air. He was already gone, off chasing terrorists or some foreign agent or scoping out clues or who knows what.

"I love you," she addressed the silence and pressed end call. Why is it always the last words that mean the most?

It was now three a.m. A strange noise made her more eager to go in. She rose and made her way back inside, to the hall, where she realized she'd forgotten her student ID card which unlocked their bedroom. What to do? She remembered the 'bad' girls talking about a key card they'd hidden somewhere for when they snuck to the boy's school across the way.

Could it be behind a picture? After checking behind photos in the hall and furniture, finally, under a potted plant, Lissie found it. She swiped the door and fell back into bed, exhausted, but not before light outside caught her eye.

A figure with a flashlight, searching the area where she'd been. We someone looking for her? Suddenly, Lissie noticed that Carolyn was no longer in her bed. The covers were mussed, and, stranger still , a pair of binoculars was in the window. Is she outside? Has she been looking for me? This is weird. She's got to be mental.

Worried for Sherlock, she fell into a troubled sleep. Lissie could only pray that she did not have the Dream tonight. She could imagine if Carolyn returned and heard her crying. It would be terribly embarrassing.

When she awoke, sweet Nicole was shaking her awake. "You're going to miss breakfast, and classes, girl!"

"Oh no! I overslept, I was up late. I'll just skip breakfast. Meet you in the auditorium for roll call."

"See you then! I guess our resident Regina George is already at breakfast."

"You mean Carolyn?" They both were laughing as they readied for the day. Still, Lissie couldn't shake the feeling someone had been watching her last night.

Chapter Text

As soon as the door shut behind Nicole, Lissie slid out of bed and locked the door behind her. Then she crept over to Carolyn's wardrobe.

Throwing open the doors, she carefully peeked in, being careful not to disturb anything. Something fishy was going on, and she intended to find out what it was. She was poking through clothes when she heard a key card in the lock, and Carolyn' s shrill voice. "Why is this locked? I had to get my key card out!"

Quickly,Lissie shut the wardrobe, grabbed her school uniform, and dashed into the bathroom. "I'm getting ready," she called.

"Do you know Marina Craig? She's a very popular girl herself, yet she had the audacity to claim you were one of the smartest and most popular students when I asked her to tell me your secrets."

"Oh,Marina' s very sweet. She's one of the rare girls who's really pretty but also really nice. Listen, Carolyn, why don't you like me? Why does it concern you if I'm popular?"

Carolyn paused in reapplying lipstick so red it could've been seen from Wales. "Hmm? Is that the class bell?"

Lissie tied her hair with ribbon, grabbed her biology book, and rushed off. Soon, she thought. I'll find out what you're up to. Thank goodness Marina and Nicole are sticking up for me.

Lissie returned to their room after dinner with Nicole to get dressed for the dance. She put on her dress and did Nicole' s hair. Marina had volunteered to help, and soon Lissie had a braided crown with a 90's style spaghetti strap dress

"Ooh, you look lovely. Your ring matches your earrings! Is it a real pearl?"

"Yes. It's my mum and Sherlock's wedding ring."

Carolyn, who had been applying heavy makeup and fixing her hair, leaned in. "Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective? He's a looker. I've seen his picture."

Nicole was shocked. "He's Lissie's father!"

Carolyn's beady eyes widened, but not with surprise. Lissie had a funny feeling she'd already known. "OI! He looks young enough to be your brother."

A gentle answer turneth away wrath. "No, he's my father," Lissie said through gritted teeth, praying lightning would take out Carolyn or a speeding omnibus would collide with her.

Marina tactfully opened the door. "Let's go down, shall we? Our dinner dates will be waiting."

"Wasn't that lovely? Goodnight, girls. I'm off to my room. Enjoy your new friend,"' Marina said with a wave and eye roll.

Nicole and Lissie laughed and hurried to their room.

Lissie's phone showed a new message:

"Be very careful. I hope you are safe and well."

In larger letters, a permanent signature:' MI6 protected number. Do not attempt to reply.'

It was from Sherlock. Worried, she changed into a nightgown and tried to fall asleep , but her thoughts turned to her mother.

I wonder if she knew I had a good time at the dance, or if she knows Sherlock's in danger. Thoughts were swirling and Lissie fell into the Dream. This time Sherlock was lying still, on the ground, and Lissie was crying over him.

Was he dead? The scene changed. Mum, but clearer than Lissie had ever imagined or seen in photographs. She could see a beautiful woman, with eyes like hers, propped up on pillows and attached to machines.

"Won't you call for Sherlock, Father," the woman was pleading. Angrily he shook shook his head.*

"Now, now," a younger version of Grandmother Raymond pacified. "Let's just enjoy your sweet love whenever she gets here. Have you picked a name? It's taken you ages. "

"I've decided Felicity is a good name, and it can be shortened to Lissie. It means happiness, and I want her to find that. Felicity Grace, for God has shown grace in allowing me to deliver her and spend a little longer here." Elsie placed a hand on her stomach and smiled sadly.

Lissie could see it all, as if she were standing aside watching.

Grandmother Raymond looked horrified. It was obvious she knew Elsie was dying, but she hastened to deny it. "Don't talk so! The doctor doesn't know anything. You'll have that baby out in no time."

Mr. Raymond had stepped out to talk to someone, and his voice echoed. "The doctors said it would kill her. You heard them. Damn that Holmes!"

Elsie made a little sound,not quite a cry but close. Another nurse- "We're going to induce you now, dear," she said, and from the tender way she patted Elsie's hand it was clear everyone knew : the new life was killing the old.

A glimpse of Elsie's pale face on a gurney, wheeling into a room, and then the scene changed again. The sheets below Elsie' s waist were filling with blood, and she was screaming.

"Save the baby,oh, please save my baby."

Raymond's voice in the waiting room, yelling. "The child's like a tumor; killing her. I told her to have an abortion, but she-"*

Elsie' scream cut through it all, and then baby Lissie was out, and nurses were washing her and testing her while doctors shook their heads over Elsie. "Just as we expected, too much blood loss, heart can't take strain,weak..."

A week later, in a room with doctors in and out, Elsie still clutched the baby to her. She never let go.

3 a.m, both baby and mother awake. The baby didn't cry, just stared. Elsie stroked her cheek with a finger. "I think it's time, love. I'm sorry I didn't have longer with you. This has been a wonderful week with you."

The baby blinked sleepily, and Elsie kissed it. "I hope Sherlock finds you. But I know your heavenly Father will care for you until you meet your earthly one."

She adjusted the blankets around the baby in her arms, and it fell asleep. And then, with no one to see, Elsie shook. One arm slipped off the bed and dangled, pale hand dragging. Her beautiful face went peaceful. With one arm still tucked securely around Lissie, Elsie died.

"Mum! Mum, I didn't mean to hurt you! No! Oh, my God, I'm sorry." Lissie woke up shaking and screaming. If only Sherlock were here. She needed desperately to tell him that the dream was back, and worse. This wasn't normal. What was wrong? How loud was she? Had she screams out loud? Had the others heard? Oh, no. Normally she could keep quiet, but tonight had been so bad...

When she sat up, Nicole' s bed was empty. She must be at early practice.

Carolyn was staring at her. Daylight was streaming through the curtains, and Carolyn was holding up a phone.

She's videoing, Lissie realized in shock. She videoed me crying and shaking.

Furious, Lissie didn't stop to think. She launched herself at Carolyn, grabbing for the phone and hitting with her strong left hook the same time. Sherlock had taught her that the best thing you could have was a good left hook. It was unexpected, and therefore would have greater effect.

She pulled Carolyn down, desperate to grab the phone...

Chapter Text

Carolyn scrambled back up and they went tumbling over the floor, Lissie throwing a few excellent punches but Carolyn putting up equally good blocks.

As they rolled, Carolyn crouched low and withdrew from her waistband a M-9 Beretta. ( a semiautomatic pistol with a silencer.)

Shocked and angry at herself for not noticing the imprint, Lissie put her hands up, panting.

"You're here for me?" She guessed this must be an enemy agent Sherlock had told her about.

Carolyn looked confused. "Why would I be here for you? I'm not police, if that's what you think..."

"You're an agent for-"

Carolyn smirked. "Yes. I knew I'd have to watch you. I just didn't expect I'd have to hurt you! Who knew you'd fight back. How'd you know? I'm here for Brooke Winters."

"Brooke Winters?" Brooke was a shy, quiet girl who cried at the sight of blood in biology lab. Why would Carolyn be after her?

"Don't be dumb! I'm posing as a student. MI6 has an agent on our agency's back. We're desperate to stop him. Brooke' s his daughter, put two and two together. Honestly, how dim can you get?"

So this woman didn't know about Sherlock's affiliation with MI6 , she was here for an entirely different girl! What a terrible coincidence! God, but did all the agents in Britain's kids go here?

Keep Carolyn talking.

"Why hate me?"

"You were a good cover. Anything agency related that I had to sneak, like late phonecalls, was chalked up to me being rebellious and mean. I've been busy, looking for Brooke by pretending to ask about you. I haven't even made a report ."

The agent's earpiece rang. (was her name even Carolyn?) She pushed it and answered in a foreign language, distracted, and the gun she had trained on Lissie wasn't being watched.

Lissie dashed to the bathroom, clutching her phone. Locking the door, she dialled Sherlock, shaking. Thank God he answered.

"Lissie, I can't talk-"

"Winters, is there a bloke named Winters with you?"

"Yes-"

Carolyn was kicking at the door. Lissie spoke faster.

"They're after his kid. An enemy operative is here, the Karovian agent you warned me about. She doesn't know you're against them yet. She's after me now because I found her out-"

Lissie wasn't making any sense, and Sherlock could hear Carolyn screaming.

"A Karovian is after Winter's girl, but she's not on you yet? Alright. Listen, stay away from the Karovian agent. Just- stay hidden until I get there. I'm on my way."

"No, you don't understand, she's after me! The Karovian! She's gonna kill me!" Lissie felt hysterics coming on, but Sherlock had already hung up in his haste to get to her.

Carolyn fired into the bolt. The door unlocked, and she grabbed Lissie's phone.

"Get up! Little bitch. Show me where Winters is!"

Lissie didn't move. Carolyn stared at her. "You want to be with that dead mom you were screaming for?"

Carolyn spoke with no trace of an accent, no emotion, no expressions. It was terrifyingly unnerving.

Perhaps Lissie had been in so many terrifying situations that she simply stopped being scared and just started to feel dead inside. Chest heaving, she stared at Carolyn, trying to formulate a plan. When one did come, she was ready.

Lissie feigned left,right, then sprang out the door, Carolyn after her. She passed one girl in the hall.

"Get a professor, put the school on lockdown-" Lissie was screaming.

Carolyn grabbed her arm. "Winters. Where is she?"

Apparently someone was still talking into Carolyn' s earpiece, because she stared at Lissie in shock. "Holmes, you said? Holmes AND Winters? Are the others here yet?"

So they knew about Sherlock. Lissie sprinted into the nearest closet, and locked it, knowing that wouldn't buy her much time.

Then she climbed on the clothes rack, slid aside the ceiling panel, and climbed up into the ceiling, hoping to drop down into another room, find Brooke Winters, and get out of the way until help came.

Movies make things seem easier than they are. Wires and ductwork covered the crawlspace, and she had to go slowly, making sure she didn't crash through the ceiling at a wrong time. It was tedious work.

When she thought she might be over a classroom, she dropped down, sliding away the Styrofoam-like panel from it's metal frame.

Crashing onto the hard tile, she saw a shocked group of students and teachers. Brooke Winters, who was huddled in a corner, looked petrified.

"It's okay," Lissie said reassuringly. "Come with me, I've got to hide you."

"What do you know," sniffed Winters angrily, obviously afraid. "You're just a student."

"My father works with yours," Lissie said meaningfully. A gleam of recognition shone in the other girl's eyes.

"Still, how could you know what to do?"

Lissie decided a Sherlock-style fib was in order. Glancing at the other students hastily, she leaned in and whispered to Brooke conspiratorially. "MI6 doesn't just hire adults." That much wasn't a lie.

"You're a youth agent?" Winter's demeanor changed. "My dad told me about the program! You guys are good!"

"The best," Lissie, said, cracking her gum and patting her hip as if she had a weapon. "Now come with me."

Chapter Text

Lissie was, once again, regretting her tendency to rush headlong into things. She was crouched in a corner, Brooke Winters shaking beside her, waiting for a plan.

Winters was utterly useless. "I just want to go home," she kept muttering. Lissie wanted to shake her. Do you know what I've been through? I've been kidnapped, hospitalized, abandoned and shuffled about ; yet here I am, protecting you.

"Sh!" Lissie heard footsteps and Carolyn entered the room, looking about cautiously.

Winters shrank back further in the corner. Carolyn was standing with her back to them, surveying the room.

I'm going to kill Sherlock for putting me through this.

Carolyn backed up, so close that she was nearly brushing against them. The outline of her gun was so close- Lissie jumped, pulling the gun out and clutching it.

The evil young woman shrieked -more out of surprise than anything else- and reeled around, calling for backup.

A Karovian man rushed in, and Lissie went for a move borne of sheer desperation.

"I'll shoot her," she yelled, pure anger making her voice effortlessly hard. "I will, don't doubt it."

Perhaps it was the way she held herself and the gun, or maybe it was her voice, or expression, but it worked.

Everyone reacted differently - he froze, hand halfway to his Luger, Carolyn tensed. Winters audibly squeaked.

Lissie decided to go back to her original, much simpler plan - the keep 'em talking.

But first, a report to Sherlock. Who knew if there were more Karovians?

"Brooke," she said, eyes and gun never leaving Carolyn's temple, "can you get my phone from my back pocket and call 'Sherlock'? He's in my contacts. Tell him I have two enemy agents, but there's more."

Winters fumbled and got the phone, murmuring admiration and praise about Lissie as she went.

"Yes, yes, call him," Lissie was impatient. If the man rushed her, could she shoot him?

Oh, she could kill him if she had to, but could she do it in time? If he charged, would she be quick enough?

Winters made the call and hung up. It felt like an eternity as they stood there. The man kept edging for the door- trying to call the other agents.

"Back here. Now."

He regarded her with mixed admiration and hate. "You shoot, they all come running."

"I shoot, she dies," Lissie reminded him.

He rolled his eyes but moved back. "You are very young, no? You work for England?"

"I don't want small talk."

Carolyn laughed dryly. "She's clever, Loytz. You can't distract her."

Everything about this was so wrong, yet it felt right. It felt GOOD to be in control for once, to have guns and know how to shoot them, to be able to completely subdue enemies. She imagined herself a Bond girl, gorgeous, in a long gown, with a fancier gun that this - a Beretta 70, maybe. Had she become addicted to danger, like Sherlock?

It was delightfully wicked and freeing. She was no longer shaking, scared, a little girl with wide blue eyes crying for her mother - no, she was a powerful, beautiful, deadly woman.

I'm not scared anymore. Moriarty, nearly losing Sherlock, now this

She had celebrated too soon. Loytz leapt towards her, kicking wildly. She swung the gun away from Carolyn and at him.

There was no time. Targets, steady hands, just like practice- she fired and he fell, cursing.

Winters' jaw dropped. "Is he dead,Lissie?"

She wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans. "Not yet. Just unconscious as of right now."

Carolyn was yelling and other agents would be in soon. Lissie pulled the Luger out of his pocket and tossed it to Winters, who caught it with surprising relish.

They backed up, into a corner, and Winters used two hands to hold the gun steady. "Someone's coming," she whispered, and Carolyn laughed. "You can't keep me here forever."

A Karovian man rushed in, and Lissie was focused on disarming him when Winters shrieked. Spinning, Lissie saw Carolyn aiming a gun at her.

Winters was kicking the shins of a woman holding her tightly. Powerless, she mouthed an "I'm sorry" to Lissie.

This is how it ends. Carolyn was talking.

"It's funny, Felicity. You were only a cover. There was no reason for you to die. But you had to get involved, had to be the hero, didn't you?"

She shoved Lissie into Brooke, and they both were pushed to the ground. A brief conference was held by the Karovians. They were obviously debating what to do with the girls.

"Lissie," Brooke whispered, "You were brilliant."

"Thanks."

"MI6 teach you all that? The tactical stuff, I mean?"

"Actually, I'm not...really an agent."

Winters didn't blink. Lissie had the feeling she'd known all along, and only believed the alibi out of sheer desperation.

"You'd make a bloody good one, then," Winters called as she was jerked to her feet. She stared up at Carolyn without a hint of her earlier fear.

"You're valuable," Carolyn said with a smirk."It's too bad your friend Felicity isn't."

As Winters was pulled away, the vile woman leveled her gun at Lissie.

There was a shot...

Chapter Text

... And something hurled at Lissie, knocking the wind out of her and causing her to fall. Breathless, she hunched on the ground and watched as the bullet thudded into - Sherlock?

"No," she screamed, scrambling to her feet. He was on the ground, pale and arm bloody.

"Stay down."

Suddenly there were police and agents everywhere. Sherlock had his hand over his arm. "It just nicked me," he said, trying to smile.

"You knocked me down; you saved me," she said dazedly. Looking about, she climbed to her feet. Realization was just beginning to dawn.

"Oh my God. Oh, Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Fine, honest. I've had worse." He sat up and allowed someone to bandage it.

Brooke was hugging her father and a woman who had to be her mother. They were all crying as they left the room. The Karovians were being led off in handcuffs, but Carolyn was nowhere to be seen. The woman Brit agent finished bandaging Sherlock's arm.

A tall blond man, the leader of the MI6 group, was performing a perimeter check for any extra Karovians. He knelt down to examine the dead man.

"Who-" he began

"I killed him," Lissie said slowly. "He was going to shoot Winters and I, so I shot first." Sherlock put his hand on her shoulder.

The man studied her for a second, muscular jaw working. Then he straightened. He picked up the gun from beside the body.

"It's the female agent's," Lissie explained. "I took it from her." She felt herself begin to tremble, but she was emotionless.

"Holmes is your father?"

"Yes, sir."

He eyed Sherlock for a split second, then took the gun and rubbed it repeatedly on the edge of his suit jacket.

"Forsenics won't be able to get a clear fingerprint, we'll let them assume the agents turned on each other. The female agent was killed in the scuffle outside, no one will know the truth. You won't have to testify, Miss Holmes."

"Thank you, James," Sherlock said, relief evident. They shook hands vigorously.

James turned to Lissie. "I'd refer you for youth agents any day. You can keep your cool and you're a damn good shot." He hastened off.

"Let's go home," Sherlock said then, and, ducking past police, they went, the frightened, dizzy spinning-away feeling never quite leaving Lissie. The warmth of what James had done cheered her some. She had a feeling she'd be expected to forget him.

Sherlock drove quite well with his bandaged arm. Thank God he was alright. He had saved her so many times...She could not focus on any one thought. Everything was jumbled. She slumped in her seat, hands over her face.

Sherlock was driving and sneaking occasional worried looks at her. "It's okay," he said eventually, a kind but futile attempt to remedy her pain.

"It's not okay! Nothing is ever normal or okay for me. My mum's dead, I've been kidnapped, hospitalized, left in foster care, almost-killed three times, and now I've shot a man!"

John, he thought suddenly. She sounds like John did when he was talking about his ptsd. Dead inside. The thought worried him. He felt himself slip into deduction mode.

"Do you still have those frightening dreams?"

"Yes," she whispered faintly. All the anger had vanished.

"Are they things that have happened in your memory?"

"No I was too young to remember, so they're...like things I've been told about, I guess? They're so real."

"All the same thing?"

"Yes sir."

Cautiously, as if he were trying not to scare a wild animal, he ventured, "Will you tell me about the most recent one?"

She closed her eyes, as if the thought pained her, but began. "I dreamed about Mum dying, but it was so real. As if I was there. I could see everything."

"You've had a lot happen lately."

"I was so worried about you," she finished with a sob.

"I'm sorry. Truly." Thoughtfully, he added, "you're more upset than mad. When you're mad you crease your eyebrows and lace your fingers together."

"Timing, Sherlock." She almost laughed.-or perhaps it was hysterics. Was he really making deductions at a time like this?

"I'm done with MI6, if that's any consolation. But I heard my daughter may go out for youth agents." He tried to smile.

"Maybe...thank you for saving me back there. And all the other times, too."

"You're very welcome. Didn't I say I'd always be there if you truly needed me?"

"Yes... And you have." She was crying and trying to hide it. "I knew you'd come."

They rode in silence. Then Sherlock looked at her. "Are you cold?" She was shivering.

"I'm always cold," she said, attempting a smile.

"I brought your blanket," he offered, almost embarrassed. Was that too motherly? Did dads do that? What did fathers do, anyhow? Blimey! Tv mums gave all the love, dads cracked jokes and took children fishing.

"Thank you, Sherlock! When did you-"

"I stopped by the flat to get my ID. I'd already planned on bringing you with me, so I grabbed some of your things."

"What do you mean?"

"Boarding school is no place for you right now - holidays are coming up anyhow. We've been separated for long enough. Besides, you're having those dreams I want to figure out how to help. A lot has happened lately, and we need to lie low for a bit. So we're going to your estate for a bit."

"Are we hiding from someone? Is it dangerous?"

He smiled crookedly. "Lissie?"

"What?"

"When has your association with me NOT brought danger?"

"Oh. Right. Ha."

Out of the corner of his eye he watched her, even as he continued to talk cheerfully. Something was wrong. She had been through great trauma, but he could not let her get the way John had been at their first meeting. He must shelter her and keep her safe.