Chapter One: Uncle Mycroft

For those unfamiliar with the story of the daughter of Sherlock Holmes, here is a summary. Her name is Beatrice Violet Holmes. Two months after being born, her mother, Violet Burke, mute and dying, she was left with her paternal father, Sherlock Holmes, who hadn't even known she existed because He had donated sperm and had not expected to father any of the children he'd help create. Violet's girlfriend Sandy had left the baby there after Violet disappeared. So, Sherlock had to find the mother and return the baby. Of course, after finding her after being with the baby a week, Sherlock had to face the fact that he had to keep her. Violet would be too sick to take care of her, and her girlfriend was a stoic businesswoman who had no time for children. The experience was quite humbling for our sociopathic detective, and the story continues.

"It's been eight months, brother. I'm surprised you haven't lost the child or given up by now."

"I thought you'd be more surprised that for five of those months I made no mention to the situation to you."

"I was obviously aware of it before you mentioned anything to me, brother dear. I can only imagine that Mummy is proud of you for providing grandchildren."

"And for a moment, you thought we were hopeless. Of course, you were right about yourself, as always."

It was an early June afternoon in 221B when Mycroft finally had nothing better to do and came to check on his little brother. As always, he was aware of what was going on, called by several people over the past eight months about Sherlock and the new addition he failed to be introduced to.

The little addition was Beatrice. An odd name in this century, of course, but not too odd for someone like Sherlock. He never called her by her full name, though. He mostly called her Bee. Some people called her Tris as well, which Sherlock didn't like as much as he liked his little Bumble Bee.

Over the eight months, she had certainly changed. Although she was born with dark hair, it somehow all faded into a soft blonde color, like her mother's was, and then grew into a mess of thin baby curls. Her eyes didn't change, the blue-grey color they were the first day she and her father met. And she wasn't so still and easy to watch over anymore. She was crawling, had just finished teething, and soon enough she'd be standing up and walking, talking in English rather than in her baby babble. That was a long way away for her, though. She was only ten months old. She was simple, smiled whenever her father smiled back, tried to get everything in her mouth, laughed at the silliest of things. She was sitting there on the floor between her father and the unfamiliar face of her uncle. She babbled on, stacking rings onto the plastic pole they went on. She turned her attention to whomever was speaking, or sometimes to the sounds of Mrs. Hudson's shoes as they stepped on the wooden floors of the flat.

"Strange," said Mycroft, "the child's hair. It's blonde."

"Violet's was blonde."

"Ah. Violet, yes, the mother. So sad she's unable to take care of her child, leaving her with someone even more incompatible."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, I just thought you might've lost the baby by now, misplaced her somewhere, sold her for drugs."

"I'm not an idiot, Mycroft. She's my daughter. I couldn't just abandon her. I'm not heartless."

"Sentiment, then. That's why you kept her."

"Of course, obviously. Why else? Besides..." Sherlock picked his baby up from off the ground and had her look at Mycroft. "Look at this face. How could I say no to this face?" A grin spread across Sherlock's face. Mycroft just grimaced, which confused the baby. She clung onto her father's shirt with her chubby little hands.

"Oh, Mycroft," Mrs. Hudson said from the kitchen, "you don't need to be so sour. She's just a baby."

"Well I never liked children," Mycroft admitted, "so simple-minded and immature, with tedious nursery rhymes and their oh-so spoiled way of living."

"Mycroft!"

"Don't be mad, Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock, "he's just talking about me. Doesn't matter, I don't do that tedious baby stuff that most parents do. If I did, I probably would've lost my mind. My teaching is less tedious but still simple and repetitive so it sticks in her mind." Sherlock pointed a finger to his temple.

"Ah, yes, the old 'Sherlock Method,''" Mycroft responded. "Hopefully that'll work out for you and the baby. Speaking of you two, how's life, just the two of you?"

"Well, there's Mrs. Hudson, too, Mycroft. You can't forget Mrs. Hudson." Mrs. Hudson nodded happily in the background. Mycroft turned to face her with an apologetic smile.

"Of course," he said, "honest mistake." He turned back to Sherlock. "You know what I mean. I think a better question to ask is, 'How's John?'"

John Watson, of course, Sherlock's old flat mate and blogger. He had moved out some time after meeting a nice girl named Mary Morstan. He'd met her a while before Beatrice was even born. They were married about a month after the baby came into Sherlock's life, and were even expecting a baby themselves, which Sherlock had discovered on the wedding day. The baby was due in about a month, in July. Their baby, also expected to be a girl, would be eleven months younger than his.

"He has his family now," was Sherlock's response, "and I have mine. We've moved on."

"I've heard..."

Beatrice patted her tiny hand on her father's chest. Then she yawned, sinking her cheek into him. Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Oh," said Sherlock, "looks like this visit is becoming tiring. Couldn't have said it better myself." He gave Mycroft a grin before he kissed his baby's soft head, swaying his hips slowly to soothe her.

"You care for her so much," said Mycroft. "I sure hope you watch your back, brother dear. Wouldn't want her to be in any danger..." Mycroft was hesitant, feeling the baby's warm back with tender fingers. He pulled back with a sigh. "Until next time, then, Sherlock."

"See you later, Uncle Mike," Sherlock teased. Mycroft grimaced. Sherlock chuckled with a wink. As Mycroft left quietly, Sherlock headed to his room, slowly humming as his little girl cooed and began to drift to sleep. Before Mycroft had arrived, she had eaten, so it was nice for her to be falling asleep so easily. It was not always so easy to get her to sleep or to eat. She whined and cried like any other baby, but she was calmer than most. Oh, how calming it was to hold her close, how contented she was to every beat of his heart, which he sacrificed a multitude of times, coming so close to death, but having a doctor and a baby to live for. Soon enough the child fell asleep in his arms.

He slowly walked to her cot and placed her in there, under the pink blanket Violet had given her, next to her cherished rabbit with worn-out ears from constant chewing. Sherlock smiled. "Sleep well, Bumble Bee," he murmured, bending down to kiss her soft head before leaving her to nap. In eight months, the baby certainly had changed, but so had the man she knew as her father.

Author's Note: Hello again! Short version: not dead. And with a new name! If you aren't aware, I used to be Wannabe Detective M. Now I am Consulting Writer M.

Anyway, many people asked for a sequel to "His Little Girl" and I promised them one. I had just been so caught up with other things, and now I've finally decided to write it. Yay! Here it is, after almost a year since I wrote the first one. It's about time!

As always, feedback is appreciated. Many more chapters to come soon.

- CWM