A/N: Okay. Allow me to explain myself. I'm a part of a Sherlock roleplay. I play as Sherlock. One of our most recent storylines involves Irene Adler being impregnated by Sebastian Moran, who we haven't actually met in BBC Sherlock. This storyline is going to end soon, with the deaths of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and possibly Irene Adler. It's tragic, I know, but I enjoy abusing my characters. We all know this about me, right? Well, there's the brief background of this plotline. And, of course, you need to actually know who Anastasia is. Anastasia Moran is the conceived child of Irene Adler and Sebastian Moran. Irene gave her up for an exchange program set up by Mycroft for her to live with the Stevenson family in Boston. I hope you enjoy this~
"Too-ra-loo-la-loo-ral..." Anastasia Stevenson sang quietly under her breath. Her parents had no clue where she had picked up that little melody. It was an Irish lullaby, but that was all she knew about it. It was her sixteenth birthday, and she was setting up the party decorations for her Sweet Sixteen. Fifteen years ago today, it was, that her biological parents died. Or, at least, the people who she liked to think of as her biological parents. A wonderful story they had, really. Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes. She had done her research on them. Sherlock Holmes had been a detective – the world's only Consulting Detective. He had been called the brightest man in the world when he was alive, and there was all the evidence there to support that. Irene Adler had been a Dominatrix. It had taken some research to come across exactly what a Dominatrix was, but she had. Boy, she had. She was slightly shocked.
Her actual biological, Sebastian Moran, had worked alongside another of the most brilliant minds in the world – Jim Moriarty. Jim Moriarty, directly in response to Sherlock's "Consulting Detective," was the Consulting Criminal, as he liked to be called. Disgusting, really. It truly was. He was the reason why her parents were dead. The reason why her mother had given her up in the first place. He was dead now too, though. He had been caught and executed.
Fifteen years ago today. On her birthday. Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler, and John Watson. They were all found dead in the same place. All in the middle of an empty field. She had found the case file, and it was truly revolting. From her research, she had found that Jim Moriarty didn't typically like bloody, gruesome murders. He liked a quick shot to the head and that was it. It was done. This was different, though. There Sherlock Holmes rested, his throat slashed in one clean, precise movement. There were gunshot wounds all across his chest – he wasn't wearing a shirt – and into his stomach two words were carved. I win. Irene Adler was places in much of the same fashion, but Sherlock's arm was wrapped around her dead body. Irene was absolutely naked – probably raped before death – and on her side next to Sherlock. Into her side, the word whore had been carved.
The worse, though, was John Watson's death. John was laid at their feet, his head nearly completely removed from his body and also completely naked. It was a repulsive sight, but Anastasia had forced herself to watch. John was sprawled out like a tiger mat on his stomach. Into his back, Choose your friends wisely, Dr. Watson. Love, Jim. She had burst into tears just thinking about it. Disgusting, she thought to herself. The evil man played with them like they were his own life-sized dolls or puppets after he killed them.
It was done, though. What was done had been done and there was nothing anyone could do to prevent it. If it hadn't happened, she wouldn't be where she was today. In fact, if her mother hadn't given her up when she had Anastasia herself would probably be in the picture with her mother, also dead. She shuddered just thinking about it and went back outside to finish setting up the party decorations.
There was a ring at the door some hours later. The first of the party guests! Anastasia rushed to the door and threw it open, prepared to throw her arms around her friend and plant a kiss on their cheek. However...it wasn't any of her friends. She had no idea who this man was, standing in front of her. He was an older man. Must be about the same age as her parents would be if they were with her today. He was tall and lean, greying-blond hair atop his head and growing from his chin wisps.
"Well come on then, darling, let me in." A smirk played at the man's features. He spoke with a thick accent from somewhere in Europe, and reached to push the door open.
"Mom?" Ana called, unsure as to whether or not she should let this man in. "There's someone at the door for-" But she was cut off. The man pressed a damp pad – it looked somewhat like a tissue – to her face and caught her from behind as she fell. Sebastian Moran chuckled darkly and threw her – his daughter – over his shoulder, carrying her out to the car quickly before anyone could see what was happening.
Anastasia woke up some time later, her wrists and feet, along with a rope around her shoulders, tied to a chair. She struggled for a moment, trying to spit out the wad of fabric that had been shoved in her mouth, but to no avail. She was trapped in a dark room. She blinked rapidly, trying to figure out where she was, but couldn't make out anything. It was pitch black and there was nothing she could do about it.
After what felt like an hour of Ana sitting there making pitiful noises and sounding like a kicked puppy, a light came on. She cringed and whimpered. The door opened, and suddenly that chair was all that was protecting her. She was suddenly very aware of the fact that all of her clothes except for her underwear and her bra had been removed, and that she had rope burn around her wrists. She started humming the only thing that could ever help her calm down, going over the lyrics in her head. "Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li,Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, hush now, don't you cry! Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li, Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, that's an Irish lullaby." The man appeared from the door. The one from before.
He walked up and snatched the rag from her mouth, tearing her gums in the process. She winced, but didn't utter a sound.
"Who the fuck are you?" she spat, directly up into the man's face. He gave a careless little chuckle in reply.
"It will come to you."
He was Sebastian Moran. The death of his best mate – and lover – had pushed him over the edge. For years he had flown under the radar, but this is where he's resurfacing. This, with the death of his only daughter. The death of his spawn, that was originally bred to become the next enemy of the late Sherlock Holmes. This. The day of her birth. The day of her mother's death. This was the price it would take for him to get back to normal. This is how he would end all of his pain.
He reached forward before she could get out another word and smacked her across the face with the back of his hand, forgetting about the ring on his finger. It caught on her cheek. It left a cut. He laughed. Oh, did he laugh. The blood squeezed out of the cut and rolled down her cheek, but she didn't cry. Tough girl. He wouldn't give up, though. He wouldn't give in and kill her until she cried. He drew back and slapped her again, across the other cheek. Blood. Laughs. Sweat. Tears? No. He leaned down and met her eye-to-eye.
"Do you know who I am, girl?" he hissed, the thick scent of alcohol on his breath. Anastasia opened her mouth, seeming like she was going to reply. Instead of forming words, though, she spit. The barely sixteen-year-old girl spat in the face of her kidnapper. Her head, of course, was thrown back yet again with another smack and cackle. He leaned up and wiped the blood off his ring, turning his back to her. "The name is Sebastian Moran." He turned and grinned at her eerily. "I'm your father. Your real father. Not that half-witted arse that you like to think is."