Wooo! New story and first ever Sherlock Holmes fic :D

It's narrated by Watson, so staying kind of true to the original stories. I hope you guys like it. I mean, Holmes having a child was always going to be a bit OOC but I'm trying my hardest! I know some people also don't like OCs so I'm warning you now that there will be a LOT of them. My stories always have OCs and I'm usually very proud of the characters I create. Oh, and it's rated T just to be safe because I don't really know exactly how this will play out yet.

Obviously, I do not own the world of Sherlock Holmes though and I owe everything I know to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie and some amazing performances by RDJ and Jude Law.

Enjoy!

If I were to offer a single piece of advice from my years living with and assisting Mr. Sherlock Holmes, it would be that one must always be prepared for anything. However, on the morning that I first heard of Johanna Barton, I had clearly forgotten to follow my own recommendation.

In truth, the morning started in the most usual way, with the two of us taking breakfast in our home on Baker Street. The detective was reasonably quiet but I had put this down to his mind being occupied by the particulars of a case. As I was soon to discover, this was not true in the least.

"I suppose I should advise you," Holmes began, not even looking up from the morning paper, "That I shall be having a young lady visitor in the coming week." He spoke as one might when making a casual comment about the nature of the weather.

"I beg your pardon?" I replied, thinking I might have heard wrong. Technically, we had female visitors all the time but these all related specifically to cases in which Holmes was occupied. Never in all my time living with him had a woman arrived for an extended stay, or had he felt the need to warn me of one's imminent arrival.

Holmes repeated himself again calmly, this time meeting my eye. "Within the next week, a young lady shall arrive and she may require an extended stay with us here. Is there some part of this that is particularly confusing to you, Watson?"

"The young woman part, I suppose," I shrugged, ignoring the fact that my intelligence was clearly being insulted. While what Holmes was trying to tell me was apparently blatantly obvious to him, it certainly wasn't to me. In my expert knowledge, Holmes was devoid of sisters, nieces or even a youthful aunt who could account for our guest being a relative. It also seemed rather unusual for him to offer a client room in our house. Even stranger was the idea that he was courting someone, given the downright disdain he had shown towards the female gender in the past and the fact that he was hardly the youthful character he had been when we were first introduced. "Please explain," I continued, showing my ignorance, "Because I really have no idea what you are trying to tell me."

He folded his paper, sighing, "I knew it would have to come out eventually." It seemed as though what he was about to divulge pained him a great deal. "Several days ago I received a letter and quite an extraordinary one at that. It was from an eighteen year old woman named Miss Johanna Barton and it was unlike any other piece of correspondence I have laid eyes on in my work to date. In Miss Barton's letter she provides evidence to substantiate her claim to being..." he paused, "my daughter."

I spat my coffee across the table and down the front of my companion out of pure shock. The thought of Holmes having offspring seemed about as likely as Gladstone being named Prime Minister. "Surely you're joking!" I exclaimed, thunderstruck.

"No, I am not," he replied, rather calmly considering, "If you will allow me to explain..."

"Please do!" I interjected angrily; shocked that he would keep something like this from me for so long a time.

Holmes sighed, that pained look returning to his dark features once more. "Alright, but I hope you will not think less of me Watson, once you hear the details of the affair- if it can even be called that. I was very young and, to this day, I still consider what I did to be an act of charity."

"Charity?" I cried, hardly believing my ears. "Only you would be able to find reason to dub fathering a child out of wedlock as such."

"While that may be the plain fact of the matter, you will agree, once you hear my tale, that there were indeed extenuating circumstances. Allow me to explain," he repeated, launching into his story once more.

"I can't have been older than seventeen when this tale begins. Like so many youths, I was using the time between completing school and beginning university to take a travelling holiday around Britain. The events leading to the conception of Miss Johanna Barton, however, start specifically in the small but wealthy town of Bradbury in Berkshire.

I was staying in the White Horse Inn in the main street of the town, but this is really of no consequence. While in Bradbury, I had two main indulgences of interest: one- the exquisite scenery and two- the library belonging to the local parish and school which has long been overlooked as one of the best in the county. It just so happened, however, that I was not the only one interested in doing some holiday reading.

For the first three days I spent in that library, it was also occupied by a young woman named Catherine Barton, on the fourth day she was daring enough as to speak to me. While I have rarely found a member of the fairer sex that I have been able to maintain a conversation with, Miss Catherine was, for the most part, reasonably pleasant. She had a keen interest in geology and I was impressed with her aptitude. We swapped pleasantries during our studies over the next few days and I quizzed her about life in the district. As she gave me this information, details of her own personal life were slowly divulged.

She was the daughter of James Barton, the town's only doctor. Her father had a reasonable bit of land, due to his lineage but, of course, this must fall to a male heir. Try as her parents no doubt did, Catherine was their only child and the estate seemed destined to belong to the doctor's younger brother and, eventually, said brother's sons. Nevertheless, the doctor loved his daughter dearly and wished to provide for her future; he set out to do what any father in such a position would do and found Catherine what he considered to be an adequate husband.

While I hardly had the developed skills of deduction I have today, it was no mystery from the way she spoke about him that Catherine was terrified of her intended. His name was Henry Shackle and his family were part of the noveau rich, after his father had moved up in the steel industry at the right time. Unlike his father, the younger Shackle had never done a hard day's work in his life and had grown up privileged and, frankly, nasty. It was in the back of the library, after I had been sworn to secrecy, that Catherine let me see the scars that marred her arms and the backs of her legs, before bursting into tears. Apparently, Miss Barton had resisted Shackle's romantic advances during their courtship and early engagement and he had taken it upon himself to literally beat her into submission using a cane. She refused to go to her father out of some misguided, childish fear of failing him and seeming ungrateful. Disgusted by this injustice, I offered to go to Doctor Barton myself but she tearfully begged me not too.

Convinced there must be a way out for the poor girl, I tried to logically take her through the options she had, yet nothing seemed to present itself. Catherine seemed convinced that the only way Shackle would break off their engagement would be to save his reputation if he found out she was no longer a virgin or something equally as scandalous. This seemed unlikely to happen, however, considering she most definitely was one and her father being a medical man, would know for sure she was lying. It was a serious problem and as I departed the library that day, I wished there was some way I could help her.

As fate would have it, Henry Shackle was also staying at the White Horse that night. It was the only time I have ever had the misfortune of having to lay eyes on the man and I hope I never have to again. He would have had a handsome face, were his features not marred by a sense of false-entitlement.

As far as I knew he had not seen Miss Barton that day, with the Ascot Racecourse no doubt being what had drawn him to the district. Catherine had confided to me that Shackle had already blown a fair amount of his inheritance on the track, severely diminishing the fortune Doctor Barton thought he was providing for his daughter with. I had no doubt, even then, that it was the dowry Barton had been willing to provide with Catherine that had caught his interest in the first place; since he clearly showed nothing resembling love towards her. He confirmed this when I later saw him soliciting the services of a prostitute from my bedroom window.

I recall pulling my curtains shut in anger. The thought of a lady as decent as Miss Barton being married to this brute (and more than likely catching a venereal disease from him) was more than I could bear. I vowed to return to the library the next morning, ready to do anything to aid Catherine's escape from him, even if I had to –as revolting as the notion seemed- deflower her myself.

I had expected and, I daresay, hoped she would refuse me but it was a sign of her desperation that she accepted. I am not proud of what I did and the only way I could get through it was to think of it as a scientific experiment of sorts.

I will spare you the gruesome specifics, Watson but only say that it took place in the hayloft at the back of her father's estate and was uncomfortable for all involved. Still, Miss Barton now stood a chance of freeing herself from Shackle's clutches and, even if it meant she never married, we had probably saved her life. I, quite cowardly is retrospect, left Bradbury the next day for my own safety, however, I am assured that Catherine's engagement was broken off once she made her shocking confessions to Shackle and her parents quickly forgave her for both their great love for their daughter and their reputation in the town. "

"How?" I asked, still not really understanding where Miss Johanna Barton came into this.

"The younger Miss Barton's letter covered almost everything I have been wondering for the past eighteen years," said he, pulling an open letter from his jacket pocket and flicking down onto the table. "You made read it, if you like."

Still apprehensive, I picked up Miss Barton's letter and began to read.

Dear Mr. Holmes,

I have wanted to write this letter to you for some time, however, I admit it has not come easily.

Perhaps, I should introduce myself first. My name is Johanna Barton, a last name which is no doubt familiar to you. Up until recently, I believed my parents to be Dr. James Barton of Bradbury and his wife, who I believe you will have heard of. It may also interest you to know that I am eighteen years of age.

About six months ago, my older maiden sister Catherine fell ill with a serious bout of influenza. Despite my father's best effort, her decline was rather quick and before we knew it, Catherine was on her deathbed. My sister's final act was to have me brought to her bedside, where I learned from her that what I had believed to be my own personal history up until this point had been completely false. I was not, as I had always been told, born in the house I call home but rather a secluded part of the French countryside. Dr and Mrs. Barton were not the loving parents I had adored but rather my grandparents and my beloved Catherine was, in fact, my mother.

As surprised as I was, the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. The strange looks I had gotten from townspeople, the comments I was either too young or too naive to understand. As much as I begged Catherine to tell me, she would not reveal the identity of my biological father, although she did give me the details of your association; knowing me, I think she believed I would locate you and contact you eventually. She never forgot you; you got her out of quite a dangerous situation. She explained to me that her former fiancé, Henry Shackle, had been payed off by my father to leave Bradbury and never breathe a word of her supposed "disgrace" to anyone, ultimately preventing a life of abuse (a small detail my parents are still unaware of.)

Catherine refused to reveal your personal identity, only saying you were a "criminal investigator of some renown". After my sister's death, I launched an investigation of my own (ironic, I know), for the elusive man who had saved her and given me life. I started with anyone of note in Scotland Yard but failed to find anyone who had known my mother, never mind been in Bradbury at the time of my conception. While that may sound simple, this was rather a lengthy process that has taken me several months. I was feeling dejected, until one morning a few weeks ago when I sat down with my father for breakfast. He was holding up the front page of the morning newspaper and there you were, or, as I saw it at that time, my own two eyes staring back at me. When my father tired of it, and left the dining room to pursue the rest of his day, it was only a matter of taking the evidence back to my room and reading enough to give some claim to my suspicions. A week of supposed "charity work" in the same library where you and my sister had met allowed me to check the visitor's books and check-out records in the back of each published work, proving you had been in Bradbury at the time.

As far as I can see all signs point to the fact that I am-for want of a better word- your daughter. I do not want to pressure you, but the ball is now in your court, so to speak. I am aware it will be a shock to the system but I long for a reply, preferably one where you will express an interest in meeting me.

Kindest possible regards,

Johanna Barton

I may not have wanted to admit it, but everything did add up. From what I could see, this young lady really was the daughter of Sherlock Holmes. Even stranger was that she would soon be in this very room, endeavouring to get to know her father. I wished her the very best of luck, for he was not the easiest man to get along with and did not have a manner that, I believed, would endear him to potential offspring.

"What did you do?" I asked, still trying to take it all in.

"I did the only thing I could do, Watson," he shrugged, "I invited her to stay." He still wore that pained expression but he at least seemed relieved to be able to be honest with me. "She is not going to go away, simply because her existence may be...problematic to me."

Problematic was right; Holmes room was always in a state of complete disarray, hardly the sort of lifestyle she would be used to. I had half a mind to write to her myself and advise her to put herself up in a hotel or, if worst came to worst; I could envision myself offering to sleep on the sofa.

No matter the sleeping arrangements, what remained was that the arrival of Johanna Barton was going to be life changing for the both of us, though at that moment, I could not have estimated how much.

A/N: So what did we all think? I hope there's no horrendous typos and that this all makes sense (I think I noticed a small plot-hole in retrosect but let's just all ignore that shall we...it was necessary.) Probably shouldn't have said that but oh well! I'm going to start the next chapter soon; now that all this background is out of the way, we can really get going :)

Also, the town of Bradbury is fictional. I decided to make one up, instead of using a real place and getting its history completely wrong.