AN: Let me know what you guys think; I may turn this into a short series, who knows.
Disclaimer: as per usual, I own nothing from Sherlock.

"Woman up," I whispered under my breath as I stared down the door before me. A simple black door adorned with gold lettering, located on a well-to-do street in Westminster.

There was nothing especially grand about it, but for all the possibilities it held behind it, nothing short of a miracle kept my knees from buckling.

I had been there for no longer than five minutes. Five minutes in which my thoughts took me through every possible scenario that would play out if I lifted the knocker. Only one scenario lay before me if I chose not to: returning to Mycroft Holmes's estate, where I'd been living a life filled with nothing but schedules and the bare minimum of familial contact for the past year and a half.

Mycroft was accommodating, at the very least. No matter how busy his day had been, if he wasn't travelling, we had dinner together every night at 7:30 sharp.

I stepped away from the door in uncertainty again and glanced down to my wristwatch. 6:49 PM. If I left now, without approaching 221B, I could make it home in time. There would be enough time to get cleaned up and presentable for dinner. Mycroft would never have to know that I'd disobeyed him in coming to this area of London, under the assumption he didn't already know. I had no idea what level of surveillance he had me under, but there was far more than coincidence involved in the amount of times he had scolded me for something he'd been nowhere near close enough to witness. Besides, I knew what Mycroft thought of coincidence…

"The universe is rarely so lazy, Evangeline."

I shook my head to rid myself of his disapproving tone in my thoughts, intently stepping up to the door. He would definitely know something was wrong if I didn't show up for our dinner, but maybe that was okay. He would be forced to come to 221B to find me and confront the both of us — me and… Sherlock — and forced to explain why it was so imperative that I keep my distance.

With my mind apparently resolved, I resolutely lifted my hand to ring the doorbell before faltering and dropping it back to my side as I stepped away.

Why did Mycroft keep saying it was so important that I stayed away? Was Sherlock that horrible of a person? Was he sick? Did he already know about me and just have no interest in building a relationship?

Even with his own daughter?

It was hard enough coming to live with Mycroft, unsure of my own surroundings. Even now I held myself in stiff apprehension around him, unsure of myself. I had no idea if I could do it a second time, with yet another Holmes.

Besides, regardless of how formal my relationship was with my uncle, I had no desire to set us further back. He was all I had left in the world, and disobeying his number one rule would undoubtedly put an irreparable rift in our relationship.

I turned away from the door, taking a few steps away before I glanced back. I could feel the frozen tips of my ears and my nose, blown cold by the icy wind, hastening me to make a decision and stick to it. My body couldn't take this much longer than my heart could. My hand came up to press against my forehead, urging my brain in my desperate state to just choose something.

The sudden ringing of my mobile in the pocket of my tan coloured jacket caught me off guard. My hand moved to my heart. I prayed it would stop beating so quickly as my other hand grasped the ringing distraction in my pocket.

Mycroft Holmes, it clearly read on the screen.

"Bollocks," I cursed under my breath as I glanced towards the clouds, praying some deity would bless me with grace, at least enough to blunder through the horrible call I was about to endure.

"Unc- Mycroft," I stammered, shaking my head for a moment. This still happened now and again when I addressed him. When I'd first come to live with him, I'd called him Uncle Mycroft. In that first week, any time he heard the word "uncle," he got the oddest expression on his face and became mute for a moment or two. I imagined it made him uncomfortable in some way - he was a relatively formal man, for all intents and purposes – and I immediately stopped. It still slipped out now and then, but for the most part, he seemed content enough to just be referred to as Mycroft. "A-Aren't you going to be home soon?" I tried to recover, putting on my cheeriest voice.

There was a moment of silence before he seemed to recover himself.

"Yes, I was just on my way out the door. I wanted to be positive that you were alright; you neglected to send me a message when you left your class this evening." His smooth voice crackled slightly over the phone line, and I squeezed my eyes shut. In all my desperation to make it to Baker Street, I'd forgotten to text him. For a man who loathed sending text messages, he asked me to send quite a few to update him during the day.

"I'm sorry. I... uh," I clamoured to find an appropriate reason as to why I hadn't texted him, while also silently begging the traffic around me to quiet down. "I went out with a friend after class for coffee. I must've forgotten." My lips pressed tightly together in my anxiety for his response. He drew out his pause, seemingly trying to decide if he would accept my response for what it was. We both knew I was lying.

"I see," he spoke slowly, drawing out the vowels. "I assume you'll still be home for dinner?"

"Of course," I hastened to reply, taking one last glance out of the corner of my eye at 221B. My eyes lingered for a second before my resolve steeled. "I'm on my way now."