A Secret Child

AvalonReeseFanFics

A/N: So I watched that new Sherlock special and I came up with an idea about a child being just as smart as the two brothers, about another Irene Addler except this one was Mycroft's Addler. So this is the story of that little girl and what she's looking for. Please tell me what you think! I promise that this one will be shorter than some of my other ones.

Chapter 1: False Beginnings

8 years ago

Is it hard to believe that this feud started years ago? That a stupid lower-school argument could fuel a hatred that lasted at least 22 years? It seemed unlikely that a bunch of grown-ups could hold on to it, but a lot had been said and done by this point that it wasn't just about that argument over who was smarter, it had collected insults and offences like a snowball rolling downhill. It had spiraled out of control, and we had ended up on opposite sides. Me on one, Holmes on the other. Both equals on the field, each trying to outdo the other, he won some, I won most. But maybe that's just me bragging.

I spent so long fighting him that when our mutual friend became his lover I immediately wrote her off. You'd think out of malice, or because now I couldn't trust her, but no. I knew what he was like, I knew that if I stayed around, stayed in contact that he'd find a way to fault her for it. I wanted her to be happy and after having a horribly long crush on this otherwise unattractive man I figured I'd give my friend her chance. And even with me gone he found a way, even though his way was to not trust anyone I was surprised that he wouldn't give it at least a try with her.

When he left her, or whatever, to be honest I had no idea what the two of them were doing, Carolyn called me, one of her oldest friends. She had told me everything, as people were apt to do and made me promise one thing.

Holmes could never know.

So instead of going to a hospital she was with me. Bleeding out. Her baby screaming and flailing its little pudgy arms. She was fading fast and there wouldn't be anything I could do.

"He can never know." Was all she would say, and she was saying it, breathlessly on loop and I kept promising.

When Carolyn Crawford died in my arms I blamed Holmes. I already knew what I had to do but there was still one thing left to decide. What do I do with his child? I could leave it with an agency, sell it to a family for big money or anger him to the nth degree and raise it as my own. But would I really be any good to raise a child, I mean, I was basically a child myself, maturity had never really been my strong suit.

So I sat in that dingy little apartment, holding and cooing to a new born wondering what decision I could come to. But when Andrew—my brand new husband—came in to pick me up and help me deal with the body I knew what was going to happen and he could see it in my eyes.

"What's her name?" he asked me as we left that night.

"Marilotta Holmes," I had replied. "But we're going to call her Marie Carolyn Ashton."

Marilotta Carolyn Crawford-Holmes, never had a birth certificate, never actually existed according to the world. But Marie Carolyn Ashton did and I left it somewhere that bastard would find it. Would he wonder how I was so thin in our last encounter or just chalk it up to my genes? I never asked him and as the years went by Marie Ashton became more mine then his and I never felt the need to tell her who she really was.

But that changed in an instant the day she told me she wanted to meet her father. Her real father. And I was forced to admit just how bad I had been to the person who hated me the most.

Present day

A child walks out of the bowels of Appledore, a small suitcase in one hand and a cellphone in the other. Sherlock Holmes had no idea she was there, neither did John. Charles Augustus Magnussen seems irritated that she had appeared.

The child couldn't have been more than eight. She wore a dark blue frock with white socks. A uniform devoid of the school crest that should sit on her chest but not ripped out to hide her origin or school. Her shoes have dried mud that has begun to crack, she had been kept inside for many days but has recently been out playing in the mud. Her socks seem less crisp, she hasn't had a new pair to wear in a while. Her dress hasn't been washed either, she seemed pungent and stiff. Her shaggy, chin length black hair is greasy.

Sherlock would have to deduce that she has been a prisoner. Most likely here in his home from anywhere between two to three days.

Her electric blue eyes are vivid though, unwavering and clear, they shine with a sort of intelligence he only saw mirrored in his own eyes of the eyes of his brother. She has a bent sort of nose, one that seems to narrow and pointed for her face as if she has yet to grow into it, much like the nose he and his brother had inherited from their father that never seemed to fit their faces either. She is pale, comprised of gangly limbs, and unnaturally thin but not showing any signs of starvation so at least she had been fed well while she was here. Burns and scratch marks on her hands, red marks on her wrists, she was bound, she fought back, and she had been punished for it.

The more Sherlock looks at her the more certain of her he is.

She's handed Magnussen the phone. Her voice clear, her words annunciated with a sharp hint of one with a high intelligence.

"My mummy wants to talk to you."

She is proper British, probably born and raised here. She has an American way around her vowels though, probably lives with an American relative. A helicopter is whirling near-by, people are shouting, Sherlock has been holding a gun to Magnussen's head and this girl seemed unaffected. She has been around guns and violence almost all her life or an uncommon bravery. Peculiar none-the-less

Magnussen puts the phone on speaker, now he can hear better and Sherlock can hear the conversation.

"The files are in your head? I let you steal my daughter, I played the goddamn fool, and everything you had was in your head?" a voice snaps. British with strong hints of American, anger is flying from this voice, the tone is outrage.

"When I find you. You. Are. Dead."

Each word punctuated. Each word meant. Magnussen is either going to die by Sherlock's hand or this woman's. He seems uninterested. He's hung up the phone.

"Anne is so over dramatic," he says, smiling in that cocky way at Sherlock. Sherlock wants nothing more than to pull the trigger. An eight year old out on the deck with him is the only thing stopping him right now.

Sherlock could think of only one Anne that could fit this description he is presented. Annie Ashton-Peppercraft, previously Annie Peppercraft, married to American disavowed FBI agent, Andrew Ashton. Criminal mastermind, skilled assassin, master thief, mother of three. Making the child most likely her eldest, Marie Ashton, eight years old, born October 12th 2004.

Sherlock has noted that even his brother has stopped shouting orders at him from that stupid helicopter.

The child has moved. She's in between Sherlock and John now, staring unwaveringly up at Magnussen who is no longer interested in the child. Sherlock has choices now, either way he's going to jail. And he needs to save John and Mary.

When he pulls the trigger he notices that the child doesn't flinch or jump. She watches the body fall, she watches the lazers pinpoint on Sherlock. She frees his hand so he can put both of his up, and then she hugs his leg. He doesn't try to shake her off, not because the touch is comforting but because they won't shoot him when a child is this close. He can feel her heart beat against his leg, it has not sped up once.

His brother comes to arrest him. Sherlock is grateful that it's him. His eyes find the child and Sherlock wills him to see what he sees. The great Mycroft so much more brilliant than Sherlock. Surely he must see it too.

She offers him the phone she pried loose from Magnussen's corpse. As soon as it's in his hands it vibrates. Mycroft doesn't even look surprised, he walks away to take the call leaving Sherlock handcuffed, sitting in the back of a truck with an eight year old almost vanished in the EMS blanket that the responders swathed her in.

Her eyes are unwaveringly clear. "You're my real daddy," she whispers.

Sherlock blinks. He doesn't quite know what to say. He's certain that her date is incorrect, but he doesn't argue. A small hand of hers reaches out and points at his nose. "We have the same nose, same eyes and same hair."

This is true, but Sherlock still thinks she's wrong. He doesn't tell her this, why shatter this poor child.

"You have marks on your hands. Did he hurt you?" he asks instead.

She smiles, her lips are thin, her smile devious. There's an almost criminal like twinkle in her clear blue eyes so similar to Sherlock's. "Mummy taught me how to lock pick. The wires of the cages cut me though."

Anger churns through Sherlock's stomach. To think a relative of his was caged like a mere animal is both demeaning and distressing.

Mycroft has returned. The phone no longer in his possession. The child doesn't ask for it.

"Marie Ashton," he starts.

"Actually it's Marilotta Holmes," she tells him as a matter-of-factly.

She has the Holmesian arrogance to match her Holmesian name. Mycroft doesn't raise an eyebrow. "Your mother is not coming. Now that I have you in my custody she'll have to deal with me to get you back and she'd rather not."

Sherlock find this hard to stomach. That Mycroft would treat a relative of theirs so badly. Sherlock say nothing as he's in no position to comment in handcuffs.

"Did she tell you what happened?" she asks. Her eyes have widened, her interest in Mycroft seems different from her interest in Sherlock, more intent. Her eyes still were assessing him as if trying to memorize every inch of him.

"That Magnussen took you to coerce your family to do something that even Anne had qualms about doing? Must have been bad if Anne didn't think it was a good idea. That your mother allowed him to think he won because they wanted access to his vaults of blackmail? That I was once again a step ahead of her so she didn't have time to collect you once you had established the location of the vaults and now you're stuck here and she can't come rescue you? Yes. I know it all," he snapped.

The girl has tilted her head to the side in mock confusion. "About who I am," she clarifies as if Mycroft didn't understand, as if he were the slower one.

"That you're a child of Sherlock's that she stole to irk me? Raising you as a mini version of her? Yes she mentioned that as well," he added. He turns to Sherlock now, staring down at him in that cold disappointed way. He wondered how he couldn't see it the way he did. Sherlock wondered why of all things he's blind to this. "Sherlock may I introduce you to your daughter. Marilotta Ashton-Holmes, I've been told she prefers the name Marie."

Sherlock glares at his brother and doesn't correct him. Annie has lied, whether it be to protect the child or his brother. Sherlock can feel it in his bones that it's wrong, but he doesn't have the access to proper equipment to prove himself right.

So he looks down to the girl and tries to smile. "It's very nice to meet you my dear," he says.

She turns to him again, her eyes clear her smile as devious as before. She hugs him and as much as he'd like to hug her back he doesn't. It's not the handcuffs holding him back though, it's the shock of realizing—once he looked into that little girl eyes—that she knew.

She knew that everyone was lying.

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