Her mind was made up. There was no way in hell that she was getting out of the car. Legs and arms crossed, she sat there with her jaw locked in determination. Don't get her wrong. She loved being out of that house. But there is no way she was going to live with an uncle she had met before.

A man in a suit opened the car door. She didn't react. "Get out of the car." He ordered.

She shook her head.

"I told you to get out of the car."

"Make me," she growled.

He paused then suddenly he grabbed the back of her hoodie and shirt.

"Hey, what the hell?" She shouted. He yanked her out of the car. "You can't scruff me. I am not a dog." He put his forearm against her back shoving her forward. "I'm not going to live with him. No way. No how." She tried to fight him.

His companion opened the door to the flat building. They forced her up the first flight of stairs. She was shoved down on to the top step. Rolling her eyes, she stayed there with her arms folded.

The men knocked on a door with a number on it.

"Go away!" A stern voice called.

"Mr. Holmes," one of the suited men shouted back. "We are from the government. We wish to talk to you."

There was a pause. "If Mycroft sent you, beat it. I don't put up with idiots. Get lost."

She rolled her eyes. Her uncle must be a real fun guy. She did enjoy his style though. No government person should go through their day without being tormented at least once.

"We are here on behalf of your sister and brother-in-law."

There was an eerie silence on the other side. She could swear that she could cut the tension with a knife. When sound of a door opening hit her ears, she didn't turn to see.

"My sister has been dead for thirteen years. And I haven't spoke to my brother-in-law since the wedding which was sixteen years ago. Why would he send you?"

"Mr. Holmes, your brother-in-law was killed four months ago. He was killed by a hit and run driver." The government man pulled a piece of paper out of his coat pocket. "Your sister and her husband requested that, in the event of their deaths, their children would be sent to live with you. It took us forever to finally track you down."

She heard paper being yanked from someone's hands. "My sister died in childbirth." Mr. Holmes said. "They never had kids."

"They had one."

She finally stood and turned to face the door.

He stared at her. She was a small little thing. Skinny as a pencil, her dark hair stuck out at odd angles in loose curls. Unmanaged bangs covered her gray hazel eyes. She was dressed down in fitted jeans that still looked too big. A regular sweater covered a graphic tee that still hung out the bottom. On her feet was a pair of bright red converse.

"She can't stay." He turned to the men.

"You have no choice, Mr. Holmes. It was the request of your sister. By law, she's your responsibility now."

"I didn't sign for anything." He argued.

"Actually," the man told Sherlock pointing on the paper. "You did sign." He grabbed the girl by the jacket and pulled her forward. "We will bring her things around tomorrow."

She shrugged the man off. "Don't do me any favors."

They left the young scrawny girl and Sherlock alone to stare at each other. He didn't know what to make of this young girl standing at the top of the stairs.

She didn't know what to think of the man standing in the doorway. He was tall lean with high cheek bones. His hair was almost as curly as hers and almost as dark. His eyes reflected the same color as hers. Instead of being dressed down, he was dressed up in a suit shirt and pants.

She inhaled sharply. "Liquid Methane, Sulfur, Hydrogen Peroxide, what the hell are you doing in there?" She tried to look around him.

He was surprised at her. "An experiment," he watched her trying to see around him.

She stopped and stared at her again. "What's you name?"

"It's Sherlock." He answered still standing in the doorway. "I noticed on the paper that your mother didn't want Mycroft to be a major part of your life. She never did like him." He tried to chuckle remembering his sister.

His niece just blinked at him. "Are you ever going to let me in?"

"I'm still deciding that." He looked her up and down.

"You won't very much longer. You'll want to head back and check your experiment before something happens that you don't want to miss. That's why you were trying to get rid of the two idiots that left." She watched his mouth open then shut. He turned quickly away thinking that it would be best to ignore her.

She followed into the flat after him stepping through the threshold cautiously. Her father had never told her about her mother's family. Now that she was thinking about it, they never spoke about her mother either. Except for that one time when she asked where her mother was. It had been a one minute talk where he refused to talk more about her. Her father didn't really talk to her at all.

But looking around the small flat, she learned quite a bit. He didn't dust. Maybe he's paranoid, she thought to herself. Dust lines would show if something had been moved. The walls were all one color but they were littered with tiny holes where pins had been stuck in. One end of the couch was more sunken in than the other end. He's a thinker.

A violin sat in an armchair which had an accompanying chair across from it. Oh good God, my parents sent me here. What the hell were they thinking? He lives alone, doesn't expect company often, and has an extra armchair. He ####### talks to himself.

The most unnerving thing was probably the skull sitting on the mantelpiece. "Uhmm…" She made a funny noise in the back of her throat.

"A friend of mine," Sherlock called from the kitchen.

She went into the kitchen to see a table littered with various science equipment: microscopes, microscope slides, watch glasses, peitre dishes, flasks filled with chemicals, and many more.

"I can't imagine your father said anything nice about me. I wouldn't expect him too either." He peered into a microscope and began moving down the line of them.

"My father never told me about you. After my mother died, he pretended that part of his life didn't exist." She picked up one of the flasks.

"How old are you?" Sherlock asked.

"Just turned fifteen a month ago," she shrugged casually.

He looked up. "That would have made you one or two when your mother died." He watched her waft a chemical to her nose.

"Yes, she died giving birth to my still born brother according to my father. He never really told me anything else." She swirled the watch glass.

Sherlock nodded slowly. They stood there a little longer. "What did Kathryn name you?" He asked knowing he would have to learn his niece's name at some point.

"Darcie," she answered somewhat proudly.

"Darcie, I'm not the easiest man to live with or put up with. I've been told many times that my social skills are somewhat lacking. But not really in those words."

"What do they normally say?" She asked rather curious.

"Piss off."

She cracked a small smile. "I do that you are a man of an unsocial disposition making you bad in social settings with other Humans. You're quite clever…hmmm…I'd say a science man. Emotions must mean nothing to you but as a weakness. But I saw you look at me earlier. You pitied me. I'll tell you what. I don't need your pity. I don't want your pity."

Sherlock stared at his niece with a new light. A small smile touched his lips. "God, if you knew how much you looked like your mother just then."

She stood a little straighter staring at him firmly. Sherlock stood and went to face her. "I'll tell you what. There's a couch with your name on it. There's only one bedroom I'm afraid. The rules are the following: don't bother me when I'm working, you're old enough to take care of yourself and always tell me where you are going before you leave."

"What if you're working?" She sassed cleverly.

He answered quickly. "Text me. I'll get the message eventually."

"What makes you think I have a phone?"

"I'll get you one."

"Don't do me any favors." She turned away.

Sherlock went into the living room. "The couch is all yours. Sorry if it's a bit uncomfortable."

A question burned in the back of Darcie's mind, two questions really. "Uncle," she started.

"Sherlock," he cut in.

"Sherlock, why are you being nice to me? I can tell that you aren't the nicest to others. Your doorbell is in mint condition so is the door paint. Your furniture has an uneven wear so you don't really entertain guests."

He tossed a pillow at her. "You mother was my favorite out of my siblings. Not only do you look like her, but I'm pretty sure that she would kick my ### if I wasn't slightly kind to you."

Darcie smiled into the pillow. "Sherlock," she started again.

"Yes," he said pulling his papers together.

"What was my mother like?"

He paused not knowing how to answer that. Sherlock glanced at the younger version of his sister. "The first thing I can say is look in the mirror. You look too much like her to not her daughter. I'd imagine that somewhere down in you there is some of your father but you are all your mother, Darcie." Sherlock stood and looked her straight in the eyes.

"I don't care about what she looks like since I figured that I did. My father never could look at me. Basic logic, I suppose." Darcie glanced around the flat.

Sherlock glanced at his watch. "It's late."

"It's only seven." Darcie whined. Her stomach growled.

"Didn't eat on your way over?" Sherlock said. She shook her head.

"The idiots wouldn't stop for food."

Sherlock grabbed his coat. "Come on. I have a discount at the restaurant.

"Coupons?" She guessed.

"No, I helped the owner go through a nasty trial." He slipped on his scarf on.

"Was he guilty and you made him look innocent?" Darcie followed after him.

"Oh God, yeah."

I own nothing. Please enjoy this fanfiction!