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The Greek goddess Iris is said to be the messenger of the gods. She has no mythology or following of her own; she is only a passing name in the stories of others, granted a voice to deliver the words of someone else. A cog in the machine of ancient Greece, rainbows personified.
The iris flower, whose name it owes to said goddess, has no scientific name but its own. Its genus and species are more often than not one and the same, an ouroboros with no loose end to conveniently unravel the knot of its family history. Revered for its spectrum of colors, it could be argued that an iris on its own isn’t special at all, for what is a single hue when compared as a whole amongst its kin?
Iris of 221B Baker St, London, is a young girl of just one name, with very little to her story that isn’t scraped together and borrowed from the man she boards with. It itches at her relentlessly. It stares at her from behind drawn curtains.
“Why did Daddy call me Iris?” she had once asked.
“I couldn’t say,” Holmes had replied, and that was that.
There are two species of iris native to England: Iris pseudacorus, the yellow flag iris, and Iris foetidissima, the stinking iris. Iris the girl has not a hint of golden hair, however, nor does she harbor any particular affinity for beef. Perhaps her father simply liked flowers, but she has no way to say for certain. And if he were such a fan as to make the goddess his daughter’s namesake, then surely he’d be better at writing back, or even writing at all.
…Of course, that’s a rather childish thought, isn’t it?
Iris is a very good girl. She hardly ever raises her voice, even when she believes Holmes is being entirely unfair, and she minds her manners plenty whilst a consultation is in session. She coordinates the meals, she keeps her things tidy, and more than anything, she always listens to what her carer says… which is why the karma she’s accrued across seven years should absolutely nullify one major offense.
You see, there is a locked trunk in the sitting room.
It’s a sturdy, heavy trunk, and it’s been there longer than Iris can remember. Roughly four feet across and eighteen inches tall, its structure is reinforced with nickel corner guards and brass tacks, fastened shut with a mortise lock fixed with a warded mechanism.
Inside are her father’s belongings. That, Iris knows for certain. It’s one of the few things Holmes has ever told her, and alongside it, one of the few rules he’s ever given—she is never meant to look inside.
Holmes is not someone who lies to her. Iris can no longer say the same, but no matter how it eats away at her, her own hunger remains far more ravenous. She’s been starving since her very first breath, she imagines, and surely a man such as himself—an adamant pursuer of the truth—would come to understand her predicament.
This is what Iris tells herself, at least, as she breaks his heart for the fourth evening in a row.
Bypassing the lock itself wasn’t difficult; even with Iris being particularly skilled with mechanicals, warded locks are not suited nor intended for high security. (Of course, that only endorses the fact that Holmes trusts her very much.) She considered taking her flathead to it at first, but any surface or internal damage would render the covert operation pointless the next time Holmes decided to open the trunk himself.
In the end, she opted for a set of skeleton keys fashioned out of scrap metal from her latest project. They’re rather ugly and crude in comparison to what her hands usually manage, but she couldn’t bring herself to make a sin look anything but wicked.
That same night, she simply checked to see if it would work. When it clicked open on the second attempt, the lid creaking ever so slightly from the lifted tension, Iris swore her heart jumped right out of her throat. She quickly locked it again, and did not so much as think of the trunk for three days after.
As eccentric as her carer behaves, it’s relatively easy to track the patterns of his frequent moods, and within that, some sense of a reliable schedule. For the most part, he tries his best to be in bed by ten, and he will leave as soon as he has cleared his breakfast, thanking Mrs. Hudson as always for assisting Iris with what he cannot. Of course there are also times when he will adamantly forgo these habits, such as when a case particularly grabs his interest, or when he falls into fits of despondent melancholy, relying only on black coffee and shag tobacco for bitter sustenance. He is as wildly independent as he is dependent—sometimes he seeks Iris’ company relentlessly, all the while making it obvious his mind is elsewhere. Even so, it’s during those periods of listlessness that Iris feels her presence most appreciated, though she has never fully grasped the reason why.
When he inevitably finds out what she’s done—and Iris knows he will—she can only hope he forgives how she’s used this knowledge against him.
Holmes is currently between cases, though he considers it a welcomed reprieve. The previous one had overstayed its welcome, apparently, and Gregson had been, as Holmes put it, exceptionally fussy. He’s taken to lying about the suite in high spirits, retiring to his bedroom at quarter past ten for six consecutive nights. The consistency has given Iris the courage to open the trunk for the past three.
She’s not sure what she expected. Not so much dust, perhaps. It made Iris cough on her first inhale as the lid rose to its natural resting point. Inside were stacks upon stacks of journals, fat from use and most bearing the same design. There were folders as well, and on top loose papers coated with that same layer of dust. It brought immediate relief, honestly, the realization that Holmes had not opened this trunk in a very long time, if at all since Daddy left.
Iris spent the first evening pulling from the top. She had told herself she wasn’t seeking anything in particular, but it was soon apparent that couldn’t be further from the truth. The contents of the trunk were only work-related, each page and file regarding cases Daddy helped with, but still—she found herself scanning for any sign at all that she had once been on her father’s mind. A note, maybe. Something quick and scrawled. Thoughts that come by happenstance, like Holmes stopping by a pastry shop on his return home because a certain shade of pink had caught his eye elsewhere.
But if not her literally, then perhaps figuratively. An iris could make an appearance in a memorable case, or somewhere within these notes could lie confirmation Daddy loved them especially.
Iris would settle for anything, really, even to the smallest degree.
She’s studied every nook and cranny of this old suite. She’s combed through history books and literary works. She can recite the dictionary of floriography by heart. The iris means message; a definition that gives nothing more than its own name. Another ouroboros, another cold trail.
Her name means nothing, and yet it must, because it’s all that her father left her with.
And yet despite this desperation, Iris holds herself back. It’s impossible that no one within Holmes’ social circle was aware of or even perhaps once acquainted with her father. However, Iris also has an almost discomforting hunch that the man is not only a sensitive subject for her carer but a sensitive one in general. Above all else, she would prefer not to cause trouble for Daddy or for Holmes—at least not more than she already has—so she never snoops outside of these four walls. She does not speak a word of her hunger, nor the deep loneliness that has grown alongside her.
In turn, she thinks, her curiosity is given room to breathe.
On that first night, Iris quickly deduced that Daddy was a secretive man, or at the very least incredibly conscientious of the nature of Holmes’ work. While locations and clients were loosely anonymized—likely to keep one-time characters recognizable in an instant—names personal to Daddy were abbreviated to the single letter.
H. was rather obvious, even with the occasional risk of it being the landlady. There were also repeats of G. and S. especially, though the context differed enough for Iris to believe they were multiple people as well. Still, one was undoubtedly Gregson, and this only confirmed the suspicion that her life was composed of people who could put a face to her father’s name. They actually knew his name.
On the second night, she learnt that Daddy had been forced to undergo dancing lessons for the sake of a high-profile case. Iris giggled as he described the humbling experience of that rented hall in detail, her fingertips brushing the page as he endured the company and judgement of those much more at ease with the material. He ultimately resigned to practicing within the privacy of his own lodgings, still suffering quite a number of light-hearted jabs from his partner all the while.
Still, her father found the experience overall enlightening, finding appeal in a form of fusion dance that apparently originated overseas in America. He wished to find private lessons immediately.
On the third night, Iris discovered Holmes used to be more erratic in both schedule and behavior. Nearing midnight, Daddy had arrived at Baker Street after a late shift—for what occupation, Iris couldn’t surmise—and realized he had somehow misplaced his house key, only for Holmes to pop out of nowhere with the admission that he had nicked it from him earlier and promptly needed his assistance a few streets over. Despite the fatigue of a long night and the understandable annoyance brought on by the sudden change in plans, her father was nonetheless intrigued, noting that he should’ve come to expect this sort of thing after sixteen months of companionship.
Holmes had never indulged how long Daddy lived with him and whether it shared a start and end with their working relationship, but given the circumstances, he must have been living here when he left, and thus, when Iris was born. He must have fallen in love here—while living with Holmes.
The timeline quickly begins to muddy. Had her parents ever married? What became of either of their families for an unrelated man to be her appointed guardian? Were there living relatives of hers out there somewhere, and Iris some… shameful secret, or was Holmes truly all that she had left?
On the fourth night, she learns this: I’m the one with the medical science degree!
It’s quick and snappy as reciprocal banter ought to be, and all at once Iris can hear a dozen possible voices read it out as the vision of her father continues to grow. Smart, like her. Studious, like her.
“My sincerest apologies, Professor. I didn’t realize now was an appropriate time for boasting.”
Now, the trouble with consistency is the complacency that follows. While Iris jumped at every little noise during those first two nights, by the fourth she finds herself far too consumed in the past to care for her surroundings. She is only seven, after all, and all of her genius does not change that fact.
So when the wooden floor just past the partition creaks just right, Iris looks up in horror.
“Ah,” Holmes says, voice thin. “It’s you.”
Holmes isn’t looking at her at all, however. He’s staring right at the open trunk.
“H-Holmesie!” It’s silly, the way Iris’ arms instinctively shoot out to obscure the scene. It does nothing to hide her misbehavior, nor help this sudden urge to cry. “What are you doing up?”
The question seems to bring him back to her. Holmes’ lip juts out. “This is the home for which I pay rent, my dear. I believe it’s well within my right to walk among it at any hour I please.” He sets his empty water glass on the mantle. “You’ve had your question, so now here is mine.”
As Holmes crouches down to eye level, his expression becomes clearer in the flickering light. He looks tired—the kind of tired physical exhaustion can’t replicate—but nowhere near angry, like Iris feared he would be. Somehow she isn’t sure that’s any better. “How long have you been up to this?”
“...Four nights now.”
“And how many hours, minutes approximately?”
“Oh. Um—”
“Because by calculating your average reading speed with consideration towards your tendency to skim when overexcited, I can determine both the percentage of which you’ve read as well as the corresponding length of your grounding in one fell swoop.”
Iris’ eyes begin to water. Holmes balks.
“A-ah, well. Perhaps not the grounding.” He flutters a bit, lowering even further to actually sit with her. “If I may be honest with you, Iris, that paltry excuse of a lock remained flimsy on purpose. Forbidding you from the contents of this trunk was a rule I anticipated you breaking one day, though,” voice dropping to a mutter, “with such unsavory acts chronicled within those pages, I hoped you would be somewhat older.” He exhales. “Be that as it may, what’s done is done.”
Iris wrings her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry, Holmesie.”
“Really?” Holmes sounds intrigued. “And for what reason?”
It’s a riddle of sorts, as most things are with the man. “Not for opening it,” she admits. For as guilty as she feels, she can’t imagine any matter of circumstances which would’ve led her to do otherwise. “But I am truly sorry for disobeying you. I wish I didn’t have to.”
“Have to,” Holmes repeats. He laughs a little, rubbing beneath his eye. “Yes, I suppose you did. And I apologize for having put you in the position in the first place. If it's any consolation, none of this is something I do voluntarily—aside from looking after you, of course. That is… often the sole joy I may rely on.”
“It’s okay,” Iris says, and it’s not exactly, but it’s the best they can do for now. She understands that. She reaches over and grabs three of Holmes’ fingers with a firm squeeze—a familiar gesture. With it, whatever darkness that had begun to settle in her carer’s eyes quickly clears, leaving in its wake a rather odd expression. He looks at her.
“What do you think of him?”
“You mean Daddy?”
“I am referring to the man in the trunk.”
Iris giggles. “I think he’s brilliant.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, very much so.” Iris turns properly, leaning more into Holmes with both hands clasped over his. “He’s clever too, and he’s kind. He’s everything I’ve always wanted Daddy to be.”
“He is a very clever, kind man. While he’d accuse me of buttering him up in preparation for unpleasant news, he’d certainly only blush hearing those words from your mouth.”
Iris herself blushes at the thought. But even so…
“And… he is my daddy. Right, Holmesie?” It’s a question she suddenly doesn’t want to ask. It must sound silly. “I-I mean, it’s just I’ve barely made a dent in all he’s written, and it’s completely out of order on top of that, but… But there’s been no mention of me anywhere at all. None of Mummy, either.”
Holmes is quiet. Iris expected that.
“If you’re asking of the man that witnessed the moment you entered this world… The one that brought you into this home and into my life,” Holmes says evenly, “then, yes.” His voice then breaks, ever so slightly. “I cannot imagine his identity being anything but that of your father.”
It’s the reassurance she sought, and yet Iris remains briefly unsatisfied. A part of her wonders if that’s quite right, because the definition of a father, no matter how clever or kind, would surely be the sort of man that sticks around, one who keeps an encyclopedia of all her firsts in his finite mind and knows how to make her eggs just the way she likes… But the start of an identity now greater than plain old Iris inevitably overtakes her. She forgets all else.
Yes, she thinks. Of course that’s my daddy.
“What was his name?” Iris begs. “It’s not been in any of these papers so far.”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Holmes says, smoothing down her hair. “Pray, dear girl, you don’t believe I’d reward you for misbehavior.”
“But he has a name?”
That makes Holmes chuckle. “Why, of course. Everyone’s got a name.”
So she won’t get any practical information out of Holmes. That's alright; her hunger pangs will be staved off until she’s reached the bottom of that trunk.
“...Do you miss him? It seems you spent all your time together.”
“Oh, he haunts me.”
When Iris looks up, she’s surprised to see Holmes smiling. His tone wasn’t.
“Just as he haunts you, I imagine,” he continues, “though what I consider at times a curse is likely what you dream of at night.” His expression softens. “I don’t take your predicament lightly, Iris. Missing the man I keep captive is not something I would be so bold as to do in your company.”
Iris understands his reasoning. People tend to think of Holmes as rather odd, even cold and a bit unfeeling, but Iris sees his warmth without the need of any fancy deduction. He feels all sorts of things even he can’t articulate, and he struggles very quietly to live with it. His brother—the one time Iris met him—said that Holmes has tried to keep his innards inside since birth, even desperately so. Every twitch and flap of his hands, each involuntary noise and mutter—one should take it as a relieving sign of him still alive in there. Iris could only wonder when Holmes had ever been considered dead.
“It’s lonely, missing Daddy alone,” Iris says. It’s not only her own admission, but a gentle accusation. “I think we can miss him together, Holmesie.” She leans her head into him, to which Holmes naturally cradles her closer. Lips pressed to her temple, he doesn’t speak for a long while.
“I suppose we could,” he finally replies, sometime after Iris’ lashes have begun to flutter. “Though I believe tonight has met its quota for reminiscing. It’s best to do such things under the sun.” He pulls her closer. “The ghosts in this house will remain here in the morning, I assure you.”
“Does that mean you’ll let me continue reading, then?” Iris had hoped as much, but it was just as likely Holmes’ grace would only extend through the night.
“Yes, yes. I only ask that you not speak a word of it to anyone without my explicit permission.”
“Mhm. I understand.”
“Very good.”
With that, Holmes exhales one last time before rising to his feet. As Iris follows suit, he lifts her into his arms. He smells like the same old things—tobacco, leather, and something sharp. She curls in instinctively, face pressed to a neck that sticks a bit from dried sweat. It’s the only home she’s ever known.
“G’night, Holmesie,” Iris mumbles, knowing very well she won’t make it to her bedroom.
Holmes shifts on one leg, and then there’s the distinct sound of the trunk lid closing.
“Goodnight, my dear.”