"Rosabel."
I don't know how long I stood there staring at him. He hadn't been down here in years—I'd requested my own space and freedom, and he'd obliged.
He looked at me with just the faintest trace of the awkwardness I knew he must be feeling—knew because I felt it too, and we could be so alike that it scared me at times. I didn't want to end up cold like him.
But he steeled himself and I offered him a polite smile in return. "Hello, Father. What brings you down here?" I knew the answer, of course, but he himself had taught me to begin conversations with questions to which I already knew the answer.
"You're coming of age next week," He reminded me stiffly, still hovering in the doorway like he wasn't sure he was welcome in the small house on the grounds of the family manor—the manor he owned, mind you. But he seemed relieved I'd started the remarkably mundane conversation myself.
"Yes sir, I'm aware."
"It's customary for one to receive a gift on one's birthday, particularly the milestone ones. Have you given any thought to what you'd like?"
I surveyed my father, the man who'd—well, he'd spared me the therapy years I would've needed if he'd raised me, but he had hired the people who did raise me and had provided me with this cottage when I'd started getting nightmares as a child because the house was too big and scary. If I asked him to do so, he would make me Queen of the World. However, a display of affection would be too much to ask.
Luckily, I knew how to make him proud of me. "I want to spend a month in the company of these ten people in the next year, learning their trade, so to speak. I'd take one week to myself between each, and by my next birthday I'll be ready to choose my career path."
I handed him the list, which ran thus:
Martha Hudson—house keeping
Irene Adler—manipulation
Anthea X—espionage
Gregory Lestrade—police work
John Watson—doctoring
Sebastian Moran—sniping
James Moriarty—criminal activity
Sherlock Holmes—deduction
Molly Hooper—forensic pathology
Mycroft Holmes—government work
There was a pause as my father studied the paper (which was, in case you haven't been paying attention to the blogs, composed of some genii, some military men, and some ordinary people—three of which were officially dead, oddly enough).
"I know three are your enemies. I want to choose my own side in the war you're fighting."
He raised an eyebrow at that, but all he said was, "I'm on this list."
"Will that be a problem?"
"Not at all. Is this in the order you'd like to learn?"
"Yes sir, it is."
"I can have this arranged. Most of them reside in London; would you like me to arrange for you to have living quarters there?"
"I was actually thinking of the following residence," I flipped the paper over and pointed.
"221C Baker Street," He read aloud. "Very well, then."
Yep. This story will probably have 12 chapters—this one, the ten "apprenticeships", and then a resolution.