A/N: Thanks for clicking on this story and giving it a chance. This story is a little different from the usual Sherlock has a daughter stories. I've tried to put a different spin on it and make it my own so please give it a read and don't forget to click on the review button below! :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

The shooter had come from nowhere.

John was standing there, in the wrong building, watching as his new...acquaintance talked to a serial killer like he was talking to an ordinary person off any street in London. By all means, the taxi driver looked just like anyone off the street. A middle aged man, glasses, average clothes. Nothing screamed serial killer. Yet Jennifer Wilson's GPS in her phone had led John there, meaning he had to be the serial killer.

His mind began conjuring up ideas, trying to explain why such an ordinary man would start committing such horrible crimes. So many reasons jumped into his head but none of them seemed plausible. His attention was suddenly drawn to the cabbie's hand. He squinted, just able to make out the shape of a pill. What on earth was the man doing with a pill?

He watched Sherlock raise a hand, holding something up to the light. A pill. His mind whirled. Both of them were holding a pill. For the first time, and probably not the last, John wished he had Sherlock's intellect. If he did, he would know why the two men in the building across from him were holding two identical pills.

The cab driver was talking as Sherlock slowly lowered his hand. What was he saying? Was he confessing? Explaining the inner working of his mind that caused him to start killing? Standing in the other building, John could only guess. The cab driver lifted his hand, the pill slowly travelling to his lips. John's intuition, for some reason, was telling him Sherlock was doing the same.

Something was going to happen and he needed to stop it. His hand wrapped around the gun stashed in the waistband of his jeans. He took aim, not even worrying about Sherlock's proximity to the killer. He trusted his abilities and knew his aim was true.

A shot rang out. The cab driver fell.

John stared through the glass, his mouth opening in shock as he realised someone else had shot the killer.

Through the small circular window in the door of the other building, now broken from the bullet, he saw her.

She lowered her gun but made no other moves, simply staring at Sherlock through the circle. John's shock deepened as he looked at her further. She was a teenager, looking no older than 18. From his limited view, he could make out full pink lips, high cheeks and fair blonde hair. A teenager had just shot their killer.

Seconds passed. Sherlock and the mystery teenage girl simply stared at each other. She smiled. John wished he could see Sherlock's reaction. He wondered how the 'amazing' and imperious Mr. Holmes was taking this sudden turn of events.

John blinked and the girl was gone. Sherlock whirled, his eyes scanning every inch of the room. His gaze fell on the window, and John. John raised an eyebrow, a silent question. Sherlock held one finger to his lips.

John wanted answers but wasn't going to get them as Sherlock spun around. Presumably he was trying to get any information he could out of the man before he died, that was if he wasn't already dead yet.

John suddenly felt useless. He had rushed down there, thinking he could catch a killer and help a...colleague, only to run into the wrong building and have someone else shoot the killer. Not what he had been expecting, although he was beginning to realise that when it came to Sherlock Holmes, nothing would ever be what he expected.

John retreated back the way he had run through minutes ago. His mind was still trying to gather and piece together everything that had happened that night. Sherlock had gotten into a cab driven by a serial killer. He was driven to a college and walked inside, with the killer. Each of them had a pill and were going to take it. The killer is shot by a mysterious girl.

Suddenly out of nowhere, John had the urge to laugh. How had his life gone from fixing people up in Afghanistan to living something could barely pass as a life to sharing a flat with a 'consulting detective' and being mixed up in murders? Sherlock had been right when he had compared himself to John. They were vastly different but both addicted to danger. It had to be true. Why else would John not even be considering moving away from Sherlock, despite everything that had happened in the past 24 hours?

Searing blue lights pulled John from his thoughts. They were faster than he had expected, considering he had called him from the taxi less than 5 minutes ago. He pushed open the door and stepped out into the night. Police cars and ambulances littered the streets. They were already cornering off the street with police tape. John's hopes of slipping out into the street unnoticed vanished the second someone yelled out his name.

Lestrade.

John found himself being ushered towards one of the many police cars. Lestrade appeared before him, small notebook in hand. The question flew out of his mouth thick and fast. John explained how the GSP on the phone had led him to the college and Sherlock. Lestrade applauded him for calling them the instant he got the location but he berated him for not waiting for them. While John was explaining how he had run into the wrong building, Sherlock was led out towards an ambulance.

"And then what happened?"

John looked back to Lestrade, his mind groping for the answer to a question he had barely heard. "Uh. I watched through the window as Sherlock and the guy talked. The guy had a pill in his hand and he was going to ingest it. Then...uh, then he was shot."

Lestrade nodded while scribbling notes into the small book. He had angled it so the words upon the page were not visible to John. "And did you see who shot him?"

John's mouth opened, ready to answer with the truth, when Sherlock's face popped into his mind. A finger held up to his lips. Sherlock was telling John not to mention the shooter. Why? Why would Sherlock want to protect this girl?

"Uh...no. No I didn't."

John didn't have any qualms about lying to the police. Sherlock wanted to keep the shooter's identity secret and while he had every reason not to, after so many people had tried to warn him away, he was beginning to trust Sherlock.

Lestrade eyed him, staring at him face, searching for something. Finally he said, "Alright. If you remember anything, give us a call."

John nodded but Lestrade had already stalked over towards Sherlock. He stood there, wondering what to do when Sergeant Donovan walked over. Her mouth was set in a thin line.

"Pills," she said.

"Excuse me?" John asked.

"That's how he made it look like suicides," she explained. "Two pills. One of them poison. They had to choose, 50/50 chance of living. Son of a bitch." She walked away, muttering about crazy people and murders.

John marvelled over the genius plan before he reminded himself people had died. But it was genius. Pull a gun, tell them they can either choose a pill or be shot. 50% chance of living, who wouldn't take that chance? Sherlock had taken those odds. That's why they both had been holding identical pills. John shook his head, wondering if Sherlock really would have taken that risk? Would he really chance his life just to prove he was smart and could pick the right pill?

John sighed and made his way over towards Sherlock, standing behind the tape cutting him off from the ambulance. Sherlock was sitting on the ledge of the ambulance, a pink blanket wrapped around his thin frame.

John, leaning against the police car, heard Sherlock say something along the lines of "Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me."

John suppressed a smile. He stretched and glanced at his watch, not surprised to see it was well into the early hours of the morning. What an unusual 24 hours he had had.

Sherlock and Lestrade were talking when one word caught his attention. His head shot up, waiting to hear if he had been right about Sherlock's signal.

Sherlock was shaking his head. "No. I didn't see the shooter."

John sighed. So he had been right in not mentioning the shooter. Sherlock didn't want it known this girl had shot the killer. Why? How was she connected to Sherlock? Why would he protect her?

"Can I go?" Sherlock asked. Without waiting for a reply, he stood and walked towards John.

"Hey, no. I still got questions for you." Lestrade stalked after him.

Sherlock spun around as an agitated sigh escaped his lips. "What now? I'm in shock. Look I've got a blanket." He waved the edge of the pink material in Lestrade's face.

Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest. "Sherlock." His tone was one a teacher might use when telling off a student.

"And I just caught you a serial killer." He paused. "More or less."

Lestrade nodded, knowing it was useless to argue with the man. "Fine. I'll talk with you tomorrow."

Sherlock walked away, tugging off the blanket from his shoulders. He flung it through the open window of a police car before ducking under the tape that closed off the crime scene. He stopped in front of John, his eyes raking over his form. John might have thought he was checking to see if he was okay if it had been someone else.

"Hungry?" Sherlock suddenly asked. "There's a great Chinese restaurant near Baker Street. You can always tell a great Chinese place by the lower third of the door handle." He flipped up the collar of his coat and adjusted his scarf before setting off down the street.

"Hang on," John called out as he ran after Sherlock, his short strides having trouble matching Sherlock's lengthy ones. "You told Lestrade you didn't see the shooter."

Sherlock continued to walk, not breaking stride. "I believe I did."

"But you did see her."

"As did you," was Sherlock's reply.

"Yes. And I didn't mention her just as you signalled."

"Yes, thank you for that." Sherlock glanced briefly down at John. "Now, Chinese?"

John decided to take a different line of questioning. "You were going to take that damn pill weren't you?"

"Of course I wasn't." Sherlock brushed off John's concerned tone. "Just biding my time."

"Because you knew she would turn up?" John asked.

Pause.

"Because I knew you would turn up."

John would have continued his questioning of Sherlock if a familiar black saloon car hadn't caught his eye. As the pair approached the parked car, a familiar man stepped out. John's heart seized with alarm as he recognized the man who had, sort of, kidnapped him. The man who had described himself as Sherlock's arch enemy.

"Sherlock, that's him," John said, trying to keep his tone calm and level. "That's the man I was talking to you about."

Sherlock eyed the man, who still had that umbrella in his hand. "I know exactly who he is."

"So another case cracked," the man said. "How very public spirited. Though that's never really your motivation is it?"

John noticed the man's eyes. Watchful eyes, monitoring their every movement, taking in everything they did.

Sherlock's eyes scanned the area in front of him, giving off an air of nonchalance, despite the fact he was talking to his 'arch enemy'. "What are you doing here?"

"As ever, I'm concerned about you."

"Yes I've been hearing about your concern." Two pairs of eyes travelled to John briefly.

"Always so aggressive. Has it ever occurred to you that you and I belong on the same side?" the man questioned.

"Oddly enough," Sherlock said with obvious sarcasm, "no."

"We have more in common than you'd like to believe. This petty feud between us is childish. People will suffer. And you know how it always upset mummy."

John's eyes flew to the man. Had he just said mummy? What was going on?

"I upset her? Me?" That hadn't been what John expected Sherlock to say. "It wasn't me who upset her Mycroft."

Okay, John thought, now things are beyond confusing. And he wanted answers. "No. Wait. Mummy...who's mummy?"

"Mother," Sherlock replied, keeping his eyes on Mycroft. "Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft. Gaining weight?"

"Losing it, in fact."

"He's your brother?" John resisted the urge to add 'for real' to the end of that sentence.

"Of course he's my brother," Sherlock stated.

John couldn't speak. He simply stared at Sherlock's brother. Sherlock's brother. He had only known the man for just over 24 hours yet he had never, ever pictured the man having a brother. They obviously both had very large personalities, how on earth did they grow up together in the same house without killing each other? It was very clear there was bad blood between them so it mustn't have been smooth sailing.

John was suddenly asking himself why had Sherlock's brother kidnapped him? "So he's not..."

Sherlock's sharp gaze trained on him, as did Mycroft's. "Not what?"

John squirmed under the gazes of two very...different men. "I don't know...criminal mastermind?"

Sherlock looked over his brother, contempt clear in his eyes. "Close enough."

"For goodness sake. I occupy a minor position in the British Government."

"He is the British Government," Sherlock corrected. "When he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. The two brothers stared at each other. John considered breaking the tense silence when someone else did it for him.

"Ah! Everyone's here. Even Mycroft!"

John spun around to see her approaching their little group. Neither of the brothers looked surprised to see her there.

"That's...thats her," John said, his eyes travelling from the girl to Sherlock. "That's the girl who shot him."

The girl smiled at John as she came to stand beside Sherlock, who barely spared her a glance. Now up close, and without a gun in her hand, the girl looked...like a teenage girl. Her long blonde hair fell straight, ending halfway down her back. She had a pretty face with high, angled cheekbones, full plump lips and striking eyes. In fact, her eyes suddenly reminded John of the man he was standing next to. Her slim figure was shown off in well fitting jeans and a leather jacket. Standing among the group, John noted that she was taller than himself but shorter than Sherlock. Her gun, now stashed in the pocket of her jacket, gave her a deadly aura yet she still managed to look innocent with those wide eyes. She was extremely attractive.

"You are very adept at pointing out the obvious John," Sherlock said. "I do hope it won't become a habit." He looked at the girl. John noticed his eyes travel the length of her body. He realised that Sherlock did that every time someone approached him. It was how he got so much information in such little time. "When did you get back?"

"This morning," she answered. Her voice was oddly feminine with a sharp edge to it. "Are you going to ask how she is?"

Sherlock looked at her with his penetrating gaze. "The state of your fingernails tells me she is not well. What have you been doing all day?"

She shrugged. "Following you. Gives me much entertainment. For someone so clever, you can be surprisingly ignorant."

John watched the pair talking, noting how similar their vocabulary and tone were. He wished someone could explain who this girl was.

"The dark hair didn't suit you."

The girl winced. "Damn. Thought I had you."

Sherlock smiled. "You were taught by the best. You cannot beat the best."

John coughed, finally interrupting to get some answer. "Err, would someone like to explain to me who she is?"

Sherlock sighed like this meeting was one great big annoyance to him. "Dr John Watson, Morgan Holmes. Morgan Holmes, Dr John Watson."

John's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. "Wait, wait. This man," he said, pointing a finger towards the silent Mycroft, "is your brother. And this girl," he pointed towards Morgan, "is your daughter."

"Correct."

Sherlock Holmes, the most arrogant, imperious and pompous man he had ever met had a daughter! A teenage daughter! It suddenly made sense why Sherlock had wanted him to keep silent about her shooting the cab driver. His daughter had shot the killer! And he didn't even seemed shocked or concerned about it!

"And you just shot someone," he continued.

"You're right," Morgan said to Sherlock. "He does like to point out the obvious."

John was getting his first glimpse into just how alike Morgan and Sherlock were.

"Yes I shot someone. Not my first time shooting." Her face suddenly turned thoughtful. "Although that was the first time my shot has killed someone. I guess I should feel bad but he wasn't a very nice person."

"Bloody hell Sherlock," Mycroft suddenly said. "How old was she when you trained her how to use a gun?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous Mycroft. I didn't teach her how to use a gun." John actually breathed out a sigh of relief; that was until Sherlock continued. "She was smart enough to teach herself."

Morgan beamed, like she was proud of her accomplishment. Mycroft scowled, as if he disapproved. "I shall be off."

"Yes, yes. Be on your merry way." Sherlock waved him away with a hand.

Mycroft gripped his umbrella tightly as he swung open the door to his car. Just before he shut it, Morgan gave him a grin. "Bye uncle!"

"I wish you wouldn't encourage him. And you needn't have shot the killer. I had everything under control," Sherlock said with an air of dignity. His bright eyes followed Mycroft's car as it pulled away.

Morgan laughed. She shoved her hands into her pockets, defining the shape of the gun in her pocket. John briefly began wondering what would happen if they traced the serial number on the bullet back to her gun when he realised that it probably wasn't registered to her name, meaning it was an illegal gun, like his own.

"Oh yes, you had everything under control." Sarcasm was practically dripping from her tone. "You were about to take a pill which had a 50% chance of killing you."

John didn't even bother asking how she knew the details of the case without having anyone inform her. She had been following them around for the day and had probably been solving the case just as they had been. If she had even a quarter of Sherlock's genius, she had probably solved it before John had.

Sherlock lifted his nose with pride. "There was no chance. I knew I had chosen the right pill."

John was suddenly questioning Sherlock's readiness to take a pill that might kill him when he had a daughter to live for.

"Guess we'll never know," she said. "Now, did I hear someone say Chinese? I could go for some dim sum."

John shook his head, like he was waking up from a dream. "Uh, yes. Chinese. Right."

The three of them made their way out onto a busier road where they quickly hailed a cab. John was a bit apprehensive about taking a cab after everything that had just happened but he didn't want to voice it. Morgan jumped in first, sitting in the rear facing seat, followed by John after Sherlock signalled for him to enter. While Sherlock gave directions for the cabbie, John looked from him to his daughter sitting in front of him.

"So you've moved?" Morgan said after the cab pulled away from the curb. "Of course it was only a matter of time. That landlord at Montague Street was a bit of a douche. But he was better than the one before that. Jess over on Wigmore was the best out of them all."

John frowned. "Just how many times have you moved?"

Morgan bit her lip like she was struggling to remember but her clear answer told John she knew perfectly well the number. "17."

"Seven-" John spluttered. "Seventeen times? Why on earth do you move so much?"

Morgan smiled at him before looking over to Sherlock who was busy staring out the window but taking in every word. "Most landlords do not appreciate tenants who play violin at 3 in the morning. Or those who play noughts and crosses on the ceiling with guns. Or those who keeps heads in the fridge."

John took in a deep breath and stared out the front window. Just what had he gotten himself into? Was he one day going to open their fridge to find feet beside his beer?

"I do hope you moved my things this time," Morgan said.

John started. "Wait. You live with your Dad?"

For the first time since they entered the cab, Sherlock spoke to them. "Of course she lives with me. What kind of father do you think I am?"

John honestly had no idea how to answer that. What kind of father was Sherlock? He didn't care that she had an illegal gun, which she used to kill someone, yet he became defensive when something suggested that he wasn't a good dad. How on earth was he going to adjust to this family?

Morgan shot him an apologetic glance. "Sorry, I guess I should have mentioned it. Or someone else should have. Is that alright?"

"Uh yeah. A bit of warning would have been nice." John nodded. "But yeah, it's alright. Fine."

Had it been someone else, John would have been dreading living with a teenager. She'd blast her love songs and bring home boys and John would have to fight her for the bathroom. But this was Sherlock Holmes's daughter. He knew he should be worried about other things. Like if she would accidently shoot him.

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