The Devil's Daughter

by The Travelling Lemon

Scarlett Moriarty has always been classified as a sociopath. She hates interacting with anybody, and she has more intelligence than any other average 15 year old. Nobody in the orphanage wants to associate with her. But when she receives an email, wanting to know the whereabouts of the father she never knew existed, her whole life changes. Rated T for swearing and dark themes

1. Prologue

Prologue

A choked gasp escaped her parted lips as she fell onto her knees, feeling as if she was going to tumble straight into the crimson liquid that trickled across the roof.

No, it was blood. His blood. The blood of her very own father, the blood that he had shed when he pulled that trigger. Some might say that it was his very own fault, that he chose to kill himself just because of the dangerous game he had been playing with that Holmes. But it wasn't his fault. Sherlock Holmes had caused him to do this, Sherlock Holmes was the reason that her father was lying dead on this bloody roof.

She couldn't seem to form any comprehensible words, to even make a noise apart from the constant whimpering that escaped her lips as she rocked backwards and forwards, her chocolate eyes locked with his cold, glassy ones.

Seb was crying. Seb, the right hand man, the sniper, the man who had punched her in the face and threatened to blow her brains out only last year, was crying.

But she was not. Her fingers were interlaced with his, holding his limp hand with a vice-like grip as she stared at the corpse of her father, unable to move her vision away from him. This could not be real. This could not be real. He couldn't actually be dead.

He was.

And it was all because of Sherlock Holmes.

"Da-a..." she croaked weakly, unable to form the full word.

"He's gone, kid." Seb rasped to her in response, his voice hoarse. She couldn't tell whether it was from crying or from all of the cigarettes he smoked. He was so goddamn stubborn that he refused to stop that habit of his.

She turned to him, her dark waves sticking to her thin, pointed features.

"They will pay for this. Watson, Hooper, Lestrade, all of them." she hissed.

"He's dead now, kid," Seb responded, pointing towards the bloody corpse of Sherlock Holmes which lay flat across the pavement, slowly being hoisted onto a stretcher, "It's over."

"No!" she snarled, "Why should they be happy if my fucking Dad is dead! Why should they live when my Dad can't!"

It was right then that Scarlett Moriarty, the second most powerful person in the whole of London, became the first. And it was right then that the most powerful person in the whole of London began to cry uncontrollably, shrieks of pain escaping her chapped lips.