A/N: I couldn't help myself when this idea for an Anastasia AU popped into my head. Sure, let's put off the multitude of other stories I have yet to finish, and start another one! Why not?! :) Please pardon any and all errors, grammatically and historically, I took many liberties with both Russian and the Romanoff family histories. I own nothing but my own wandering plot bunnies.

Dust clung to every surface, cobwebs weaving over the scattered paintings, lending a haunted atmosphere to the abandoned palace. The once-polished gold accents in the ballroom were dirty and faded, their luster lost to the years.

Molly ran her finger along the railing as she slowly ascended the staircase, her steps echoing in the cavernous room, and came to a stop below a massive portrait. A family stared down at her, their smiles warm and welcoming. Something tugged in her heart and she tilted her head as she examined the painted family that seemed to look back at her.

The mother, her brilliant red hair piled into a braided bun upon which sat a glittering silver crown and wearing a gown of rich blue with golden threads woven throughout, had rested her gloved hand atop her husband's, which gripped the hilt of his sword. His royal uniform was cut along his strong figure, the only accents a braid of gold looping from one shoulder across his chest to a medal above his heart and a blue sash that crossed his chest and tied at his hip. At their feet, two children stood. The tallest girl came barely to her father's hip, his other hand resting on her shoulder, and wore a dress of soft blue, her brown locks the exact shade as her father's.

But it was the youngest child in the soft yellow dress that brought Molly up short. The girl was perhaps a year younger than her sister, but while the eldest was a mirror image of their father, the youngest was a replica of their mother. Her red hair was a bit darker, but the upturned nose, brown eyes, and soft face were identical. And there was something so familiar about the child that unsettled Molly and she turned away, feeling one of her headaches coming. They always happened when she couldn't remember why something seemed familiar, as though her mind was blocking something painful from her.

Visions of glittering gowns, snippets of orchestral songs, laughter, the tinkling of glasses, and a sea of twirling people crisscrossing in dance flashed through her mind. But each time she tried to follow the memory, the memory vanished, leaving her swimming in a vast sea of unknown loss and pain.

The strength of this headache was making her feel lightheaded and she hurriedly made her way back the way she came. She needed to get to Paris and the lady at the ticket counter had said William at the old palace could help. But he wasn't here, apparently, and she needed to get out. There was something about this place that was familiar, but instead of feeling safe, she felt terrified and knew she needed to leave. Immediately.

She was nearly halfway across the room when a voice bellowed out behind her. 'Hey, you!'

Molly gasped and looked over her shoulder to see a pair of men at the top of the staircase, neither looking too happy to find her here. Panicking, she broke into a run and had just made it to the barred door she'd climbed through when a hand gripped her arm and whirled her about. She immediately began pounding against the firm chest she was being held against.

'Let go of me!' She demanded, but the man simply tightened his grip. His suit was tailored to his form and she absentmindedly blushed when she noticed how his shirt was much more snug that proper fashion dictated.

'Not until you tell me why you are trespassing,' his baritone voice replied.

She stopped her struggles and looked up into the man's heart-stopping eyes. She swallowed and glanced over his shoulder to see the other man, a shorter blond man, approach at a slower pace. 'I…I-I was looking for William.'

The man holding her stiffened and his nose twitched. 'And what do you need from William?'

Molly felt her fear fade and indignant anger rise. 'I told you why I came, now let me go!'

To her surprise, and relief, her arm was released and she stumbled away from the man.

'If you have come for assistance in solving a little domestic dispute, I'm afraid William cannot be bothered to waste his time on such a pitiful case. Be gone with you.'

'Sherlock,' the other man warned tiredly.

Molly drew herself up to her full height. She may be a penniless orphan wearing ratty clothes from the charity bin, but she would not be disrespected by this… this brute!

'I am seeking assistance, William, for an entirely different matter,' she snapped, knowing full well the man who stood before her 'Sherlock' was the William she was looking for. His eyes widened and he blinked in surprise. 'But I see I have come to the wrong place. I merely wanted a way to get to Paris, but now I wouldn't take your help if you came to me on bended knee!'

With a regal lift of her chin, she glared at the man and spun on her heel. She may be clumsy normally, but when someone got her riled up, her confidence grew. She hadn't taken more than three steps away when Sherlock's voice pulled her up short.

'Why Paris?'

Instead of scoffing, he actually sounded interested. Molly fingered the chain holding the pendant hidden beneath her dress. 'Someone has been waiting for me.'

'Who?'

Turning, Molly felt the familiar, empty sorrow of a lonely past envelope her. 'I don't know.'

Sherlock looked her over carefully, as though reading her deepest secrets. He looked over his shoulder at the far end of the room, his eyes landing on the painting of the family. With a nod, he turned to the other man and grinned.

'John, pack your coat tails. We're going to Paris.'

'Impossible!' James Moriarty railed against the gods, shards of glass shattering around him as he threw vial after vial against the wall, the informant's letter crumpled in his hand. 'She was supposed to be dead, how is this possible?! Moran!'

Pretending not to have been cowering in the corner, Sebastian cautiously approached his boss, wary of the murderous glint in Moriarty's eyes.

'Sebastian, my dear assassin,' Moriarty said in a dangerously soft lilt. 'I don't ask too much of you do I? Kill a man here, behead a woman there; do I ask too much?'

Knowing he was on dangerous ground, Moran shook his head vehemently. 'Of course not, sir.'

'Then explain to me, Sebby, how you could possibly be so incompetent to have MISSED THE CHILD?!' Moriarty screamed, his face contorting in rage. Sebastian knew better than to take a step back.

'She was left for dead along the railway tracks, sir. It was either ensure she was dead or attempt to finish off her grandmother. It seemed unlikely that Margarita had survived. I took my chances.'

Moriarty pursed his lips and nodded as though thinking it over. 'Yet you still managed to fail on both accounts. They are both alive!' Grabbing the assassin by the collar, Moriarty threw him out of the room. 'The grandmother matters not to me anymore, her grief is sufficient punishment. But the child… Do not return to me until the child is dead. My revenge will not be complete until she is rotting alongside her father!'

The journey to Paris was long, and the train's steady movement soon lulled Molly to sleep. It wasn't until the train came to a halt at the next station that she slowly came awake, burrowing deeper into the soft wool against her cheek and sighing contentedly. Wait. Train? Wool? Sherlock. Her eyes flashed open and she bolted upright as she remembered the day before and the rush to board the train with the two strange men and felt a horrified blush fill her cheeks when she realized she had been using the curmudgeonly man as a pillow. The detective, as he called himself, merely huffed and straightened his coat firmly with a glare in her direction. Turning her gaze from him, Molly sat up straight and smiled at the other man, John, who sat across from her in the compartment and brushed the wrinkles from her dress.

'Morning.' He smiled warmly. 'Sleep well?'

Molly's blush darkened and she cleared her throat. 'As well as one can on a train while sitting next to the next closest thing to a dead tree.'

'I didn't hear any complaints from you before,' Sherlock interjected with a sniff. 'If anything, going by your snores, you slept more soundly against me than you have in years.'

'Sherlock,' John sighed in disappointment.

'Well, considering I have been sleeping on the wood floor of an overcrowded orphanage for most of my life, I should think you an improvement. Clearly, I was mistaken,' Molly snapped and stood to her feet. 'If you gentlemen will pardon me, I find myself rather hungry and will be in the dining car if you need me.' With a nod, she slid out into the passageway and closed the door behind her more firmly than necessary.

'Well done, you pillock,' John commented when she left.

Sherlock frowned. 'And what did I do? She was the one who insulted me?'

'She's tired, emotionally stressed, and you have done nothing to earn her favor. How do you expect her to act?'

Crossing his arms, Sherlock glowered at the doctor. 'Nicely, for one. I am paying her way to Paris, after all. Though I am reconsidering if it is entirely worth it, if I must suffer her company for the rest of the journey.'

John sighed and shook his head. 'If you can't stand her, then why are you going out of your way (and by that I mean accompanying her to Paris and dragging me along) to help her?!'

'Because she is the lost tsarevna,' Sherlock replied casually with a shrug.

...

John blinked.

What?

'Sorry? She's… what?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'It's obvious, John. She's an orphan with little memory from before she was about 7 or 8 and is the correct age of Princess Margarita. Her hair is the same shade as Tsar Nicholas, but shows hints of the red of his wife, something that must have been prominent when she was a child and darkened with age. Her eyes, nose, and mouth are identical to the Tsaritsa. She suffers from headaches induced by memory recall. She was leaving the palace when we found her because her mind was being assaulted by memories and didn't know how to handle it, causing her pain and panic. The pendant around her neck was a gift from someone, most likely her grandmother, the only remaining member of the Romanoff family, who lives in Paris. Clearly, there is an inscription of some kind upon the pendant that is leading her to Paris.'

Spreading his hands wide, Sherlock sat back with a smug smile, clearly very pleased with himself.

John gaped at the rush of information, accustomed to the deductions of his friend, but this… god, this was so much more than their usual cases. This was changing the history of a still-grieving Russia, rewriting the life of a young woman who had forgotten her family and the travesty that befell them, bringing her back to life after being thought dead for more than a decade.

'Are you going to tell her?' He finally managed to ask.

Sherlock shook his head. 'I do not want to force her to remember. The mind is delicate and she has obviously suffered trauma, both physically and emotionally, that has blocked the painful memories. She will need to address them in her own time, when she is ready. Not before.'

'Right,' John agreed dumbly.

Well, this certainly changed things.