Chapter Text
Arthuria CoAnne Doyle was an unfortunate child. She was a British American, and lived with both her parents in a happy home. Until the night after her first play. She was Eponine in her theater group's Les Misérables, and it was raining that night. One top of the rain, another driver had just so happened to have enjoyed a few melatonin Gummies that had not been completely ridden of by his system, and he hit the car, head on. Her parents died, but she was blessed with the curse of life.
Worst of all, she lost her leg in the wreck, above the knee. It took her a year to even start being able to walk properly, and she still had a limp.she had no other Family in America, her mother had ran away from her family and never talked about them, and her father's family lived in Britain. There was a long custody battle, not over who would get to take her home, but instead quite the opposite. They were fighting over who didnt have to keep her. She was not really wanted, she was a stranger to them. So, she was sent to an orphanage, where her extended family was given the opportunity to visit her whenever they wanted. They never did.
Having spent a good four years of her life at this point with nothing to do, she took to observations and deductions. She could watch the first five minutes of a murder documentary and have a good idea of who it was, and five minutes of her main suspect talking for her to be positive. She could tell when the headmistress had finished "hanging out" with her "business partners" and she could tell what time the "bully" kids where in the bathroom crying. She could who anyone was by the sounds of their footsteps two floors above or below her. And of course she could tell when parents where going to adopt a child, and usually which child they wanted to adopt. Strangely enough, they never wanted to adopt her.
Maybe it was the prosthetic leg, or the fact that they would ask about her and she would tell them about details about themselves. She loved the cheating couples, they were the most fun, they never expected it, they always expect a child to fix the marriage though, strange, technically she was fixing the marriages by ending them. He second favorite where the single parents trying to be heros. The ones that nine times out of ten adopted younger to "save them" from the orphanage. The tenth parent would only "save" the older ones because the older ones could "remember" the horror they were saved from.
This, of course wast the nature of how she met Sherlock Holmes. He had a case, with two new parents who had a run away child, he asked them every details about the other children at the orphanage, to which they informed of the strange child named "Authuria." Who could tell you everything about yourself in about ten minutes. The case was of course solved (a simple case of teenage running away from tortuish parents with a need to control everything.) So he escorted the child to the orphanage. There he met Authuria.
"Ah, hello there, you are Aurthuria, correct?" He said, putting on his best "i wanna adopt children" face. She looked at him for a moment before saying, "you aren't here to adopt... I can tell by how you walk..."
He dropped his act instantly "ah yes, observant... well, then, tell me more about me." He said, a silent challenge in his voice and eyes.
"You study people for a living, most likely a psychiatrist, but that's not possible, to much ego, and you would most likely be in a meeting right now anyways, 6 o'clock in the evening is a popular time for adults to get therapy, but since you have to much ego and escorted my friend Julie in I would say cop, but that's also not possible because you dont have a badge or a concealed weapon. But you still have ties to the police force so then you must be a detective or private investigator." She stated simply.
He smiled tightly, and looked down at his watch, "and it took you five minutes of watching me look around for you to figure out just my job, little slow dont you think?"
There was a flash of anger on her face, "Ah yes, and i suppose you know everything about me."
"I know you are around 15 years old, you have a limp but you try to hide it to be tough so you just dont walk around a lot, you must do some kind of writer, the outside of your right hand is smeared with ink, I would probably say a 0.7 g2 pen and I would say some sort of journal or diary. I would also say by your accent that you are British American and that your parents moved from Britain to America, possibly because of religion and also maybe a parent in a witness protection program. You have a prosthetic left leg, with a knee that needs to be greased, and you are closed off towards adults because recently not many adult have shown you kindness." He took a brief pause, "Am I correct?" He said with confidence
"Yes." She said it short and simple, not with awe, not with amazement, with a a simple air, as if it was normal. It infuriated him to no end, and he left. However, it took him about a week until he came back with adoption papers signed and permission to take Arthuria home. He took her to his flat, it was small, and she had to sleep on a pullout couch. She never talked much, and she reluctantly played "deductions" with Sherlock.
This carried on for about two months, until he met John Watson. That afternoon she was being coddled by Mrs. Hudson and had her own room. She enjoyed 221B Baker Street, more room to breath, to live, more time to herself.
"You have a kid?" Watson asked
"Yes this is my daughter,"
"Only by law"
"Yes this is my adopted daughter Athuria CoAnne Holmes."
"Doyle."
"Pardon?" Watson asked confused,
"Athuria CoAnne Doyle. Not Holmes"
"Legally Holmes"
"Not Holmes" she said shooting a glare towards Sherlock. "I hope you dont mind fiddle or guitar John, I play them when I need to think and want to be alone." She continued, her intese gaze pointed to Sherlock when she said alone.
"No, I- I dont mind at all."
She sulked upstairs and started to play fiddle, but not happy, like most fiddles, instead it was almost mournful.
"I apologize for my daughter," Sherlock said, before they heard a faint, "Not your daughter." From upstairs.
And thus begins the tale of Arthuria CoAnne Doyle with Sherlock Holme and John Watson.