A/N: Somewhat AU, but I believe that I'm keeping the characters hardly OOC if at all- just the plot is AU. I'm really determined to keep the characters as in-character as possible.

How is the present tense writing? Past tense was weird for me. I'm thinking about writing the rest of the fic in Amelia's POV first person, which with parts being third person. I can switch to past tense verbs if it's too weird.

This first chapter takes place between The Blind Banker and The Great Game. The story title comes from an Afrikaans phrase "promises are binding." The chapters will be titled with an Afrikaans number, followed by chapter title. Afrikaans is a language spoken in South Africa that is linguistically similar to Dutch. Since my OC comes from South Africa, I thought it would be a fun touch.

POSSIBLE future Johnlock, but for now, I'm sticking to epic bromance. I'm open to the possibility of writing Johnlock but only if the muse tells me to.

I've learned that we're all entitled to have our secrets.

― Nicholas Sparks

Belofte Maak Skuld / Promises Are Binding

Een: His Best Kept Secret

Sherlock Holmes doesn't talk about his family much, which would be the perfect explanation for as to why so few people knew that his daughter existed. It's not like he is ashamed of her, because he's not, but it's that she is irrelevant. His personal life is something that he likes to keep very personal and bragging on his kid isn't very high on his priority list. Not even John Watson knew about her- keyword being knew. Sherlock had no choice but to mention her to John after his conversation with Mycroft earlier in the day.

:-:

Sherlock crosses his legs and straightens his back, anxious to leave his brother's house before the conversation ever starts. Where was it that he's just come home from? Oh, Slovenia, that's right. "Have we been cheating on our diet while overseas, Mycroft?"

"Pleasure to have you," he ignored the jibe. "As usual."

"Mycroft if you're wasting my time this evening I will kill you and make it look like an accident. This had better be important."

The elder brother smiles and gestures to the folder in his arm. "Brother I can promise you that it of the utmost importance to both of us. It is especially important to you- at least it should be. Whether it truly is or not remains unclear."

"Mycroft," Sherlock whines. "What are you on about, what could you possibly be on about? If you don't mind could we simply get to the point, because I have cases I can be working on and-"

"Rachel Amelia."

Sherlock's jaw involuntarily tightens upon hearing his daughter's name. Rachel Amelia, named for her grandmother and usually known as Amelia, is someone who probably shouldn't exist. The product of a drunken night at uni, Amelia is, in the kindest representation of the word, an accident.

Anelle Ten Eyck, a South African native of Dutch ancestry, had flown through the South African education system and completed her secondary education at an early age. At the age of fourteen, Anelle left her native Johannesburg for Cape Town to study law in the coastal city. By taking summer classes she graduated with her law degree three years later. She could have stopped there and had a promising career as is, but she was accepted into the doctoral program at Oxford. The South African was seventeen (one year his junior) when she met Sherlock.

It didn't take her long to fall head over feet for him. He didn't fall in love with her, but he took interest of another kind. Truthfully, he enjoyed her as a person and she was the first person he'd met in a very long time with whom he could hold an enjoyable conversation. Even some of their professors failed to provide him that luxury. Sherlock was fascinated by her cleverness, her witty comments and her sass, and he would have to be blind to not at least acknowledge that the blue-eyed redhead was attractive. It was closer to an infatuation than anything else. Anelle, while hopelessly in love, wasn't dim. She knew that whatever Sherlock felt for her wasn't nearly as strong as what she felt for him, but it was enough. A lonely expatriate in a foreign land, Anelle settled for whatever the young Englishman was willing to give her.

Sherlock never felt a desire to be loved by her; he thought highly enough of her to consider her an 'almost friend' but that was essentially it. Shortly after their pseudo-friendship began, a drunken night resulted in Anelle getting pregnant (which made things so terribly awkward thereafter.) The Holmes family came from old money- the money paid for Sherlock's Oxford education, Mycroft's double major at Cambridge, and any medical bills regarding Sherlock's 'accidental offspring.' Mycroft thought that the idea of Sherlock having a child was hilarious. I could have made a fortune betting on that, little brother. Peter Holmes berated his son for his carelessness, but sweet Rachel Holmes demanded to meet the woman carrying her grandchild. Begrudgingly, he introduced his mother to his classmate. The women hit it off, and from that first meeting onward Rachel insisted on being present for the birth. In fact when Anelle went into labor a full four weeks before her due date, Rachel Holmes was the first person she called. The baby, Rachel Amelia Marlize Holmes-Ten Eyck was named for her grandmother Rachel Emily Holmes. Sherlock would have much preferred for his daughter to simply be a Holmes, but Anelle tacked her name onto the end anyway. He also didn't think she should have had two middle names as he found the concept of middle names to be superfluous, but it was "tradition" in Anelle's family.

Amelia spent the first three years of her life in England. Her parents never lived together, but maintained an awkward sort of friendship. Anelle eventually completed her doctorate in law, and returned to South Africa- taking Amelia with her. Anelle's heart broke with the separation, but Sherlock was largely indifferent other than, yes, he admits, Amelia.

Sherlock Holmes hated children (in general.) If he were to be frank, he can't believe that he ever was one himself. Having a child of his own was always the last thing on his mind, but once he had one he was determined to be a good father…at first. Peter Holmes wasn't an affectionate man. Sherlock and Mycroft have not one good memory of their father. Mycroft had it rough, but Sherlock got the worst of it. After Amelia was born, Sherlock promised himself that though he knew he would never be a great father, he would be one that his daughter could think about with a smile rather than with disgust. That desire waned quite a bit after she moved to South Africa with her mother.

The first year after Anelle's return to South Africa was radio silence besides holiday photographs of Amelia. The following year, the same year Amelia joined Kindergarten, Anelle came up with enough money to enable international calling on her home telephone which started Sherlock's daily phone calls with the child. The first time Amelia visited her dad in London, she was six and spent her school holidays with him. For the following four years, every school break was spent in London with Dad, Uncle Mycroft, and sometimes Gramma Rachel.

Over time, the daily phone calls waned to weekly or bi-weekly until they eventually became once every few weeks. Amelia didn't know it, but during this time her father fell in and out of drug use and entered rehab twice. So much for being a good father, Sherlock thought cynically as he shot up with heroin one night. Amelia was eleven when she finally realized what her father was doing to himself.

Sherlock hadn't heard directly from his daughter in nearly a full year- last he heard from her, she was about to turn fifteen and was excited about getting her braces removed. He has a picture of Amelia taken about six months ago (sent in the mail by Anelle), and last time he saw her in person, she was eleven. He never once visited his daughter in her native South Africa; he cared, but not over-one-thousand-quid plane ticket cared. Other than the one photograph from Anelle, it had been radio silence since his last phone call.

Impatiently, Mycroft taps his fingers against the chair's arm. "Are you done thinking, brother?"

"What about her?"

"Patience," Mycroft sighs. "Is a virtue, dear brother. Take a look at this crime scene photograph, then look at the victim's name."

Sherlock will admit just this once that he is taken by surprise. "Anelle is dead?"

"This was the state of her body when it was found."

"It was pretty clean," Sherlock notes. "A single gunshot to the head took her out."

Mycroft folds his hands together and nods slowly. "Do you recall the last time you spoke to your daughter, Sherlock?"

"The phone rang at 7:25 on a Saturday evening given the one hour time difference between London and Pretoria, she was calling just before her bedtime. Her voice sounded a little nasally, perhaps she had a cold. I let the phone ring twice, picked it up and said, 'Now who do I know from South Africa?' She laughed, she greeted me, and we talked. She was getting her braces removed in the morning. Her step-father demanded that she get off the phone and go to bed, she protested, but he yelled something to her in Afrikaans and she said, 'Love you Daddy' and hung up. The call lasted twenty-three minutes and fifty-one seconds."

Mycroft ignores his brother's show-off display and continues speaking. "That was the last time you spoke to her."

"Yes."

"You never wondered?"

Of course he wondered. He may be Sherlock Holmes, but he's Amelia's father all the same. He worried occasionally, thought about her often, and missed her every now and then.

"Sherlock, do you know why that phone call was the last?"

"No, but I imagine that you're about to tell me."

"Do you recall our Amelia talking about her stepfather? You do remember the things she said, yes?"

"Of course I do," he sighed. "She hated the bastard."

"Amelia was right to hate him, she had many good, Sherlock. Perhaps she will tell you when she next sees you. The man was served with divorce papers a little under two years ago. Since the divorce, he relentlessly stalked Amelia and her mother. Just under a year ago, Anelle quit her job at the law practice and they relocated from Pretoria to Pietermaritzburg. Eventually, he found them and-"

"Did you drag me here just to tell me that my daughter was murdered by her stepfather, Mycroft? Even for you that is low. That is sick, Mycroft. Sick."

"I didn't bring you here to lie to you, Sherlock. Coincidentally, Amy stayed late at school that day for archery team practice and is alive and well. Her mother only died two months ago, so reasonably, she is still in grieving, but she is doing well. Your Amy is a strong young woman."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and corrects his brother. Two months seems to him like an awful long time to be sad about something. "Amelia. My Amelia. That's her name."

"Technically her name is Rachel," Mycroft points out for the sole purpose of annoying his brother.

His voice rose slightly. "Why am I just now hearing about her situation?"

"The fact that she holds dual citizenship doesn't mean that getting her to this part of the world is a simple task. There are loopholes, papers, plane tickets, relatives on the Ten Eyck side, her stepfather's murder trial, Anelle's funeral, et cetera. Anelle has living siblings in South Africa with whom your daughter has been living these past two months. I was…in that part of the world around the time of the funeral."

The younger brother glanced at the elder sideward. "You visited with her. For how long?"

"I had only a few hours before I had to be on a plane to Armenia, but it was enough time to buy her lunch and get a clear update. It would seem that she isn't too fond of her mother's family. She begged me to take her back to England right then, but I thought it would be best for her to begin the grieving process with people who would grieve with her."

"You knew about this all along and you didn't think to tell me? Mycroft, I could have phoned her if I'd known."

"You could have phoned her many other times, Sherlock, but you didn't. Anyway, I relayed that you…sent your love and condolences before I left. "

Ignoring the last comment, Sherlock leans forward. "You said something about getting her to this part of the world."

"I did."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at his brother. "She is coming to London."

Mycroft rolls his eyes once and nods. "When one parent dies, the child usually lives with the living parent. If you don't have the space for her I'm more than happy to help; she still has her room here."

"She hasn't been to London since she was eleven."

"Twelve," Mycroft corrects. "It was her end of school year holiday, the one she was supposed to spend with you. You were in rehab, remember Sherlock? Anelle sent her on the plane anyway to visit with the rest of the family."

'Rest of the family' being Mycroft and their mother. Oh, they have living aunts and uncles and cousins, but neither of the Holmes brothers minded them much. Sherlock swears under his breath and leans back into the armchair. "When should I expect her?"

"I'm collecting her from Heathrow tomorrow evening. Will you be ready for her? You still have another room now that Dr. Watson's moved in, do you not?"

"Mrs. Hudson will want to charge more rent, but it's available. Tomorrow evening is quite sudden."

"It is. I'm willing to pay the difference, but if you'd prefer to have an extra day I can keep her here for the night," Mycroft offers: Amelia's Favorite Uncle reporting for duty. The smile on his face reads 'I've spent more time and money on your daughter than you have, brother.' Sherlock knows that Amelia loves him (most of the time) but occasionally wishes that the Holmes' relations to her were reversed. To be honest, it makes him jealous.

The urge to say something cutting is strong, but he knows Mycroft's true reasons for devoting so much of his time to his niece. Although bickering with Mycroft gives him much joy, there is one subject that Sherlock refuses to make jokes about. Instead of delivering a clever quip, he settles on drawling, "I can come up with the funds to support my daughter without the help of the British government. And by all means, bring her over tomorrow. John will find this news interesting."

:-:

Indeed, John does.

Sherlock arrives back at 221B shortly after the sun had set and immediately goes to his violin. He thinks over the conversation with his brother while he plays Bach's 'The Chaconne.'

The last time he saw his daughter, she was on her three-week break of her second term of South Africa's four-term system. She spent eighteen days in London with her father before flying back to her home in Pretoria. He might be almost completely devoid of human emotion, but he cared about Amelia- he just doesn't have much of a way of showing it. Her flight will be eleven hours nonstop, and with typical evening traffic Mycroft would have her at Baker Street by six. Maybe he'll stop by Angelo's so there will be some sort of supper at the flat for her- she'll need something decent after the airline food. If in fact he remembers.

When they last met, Sherlock was still shooting up with heroin and Amelia was a blue-eyed curly-haired preteen. Four years later, Sherlock is clean (but far less pleasant) and there are all sorts of possibilities for how Amelia has turned out.

Halfway through the approximately quarter hour piece, Sherlock freezes as a thought pops into his head. Is there an extra room? He isn't losing it, is he?

"John!"

"Yes, what is it?" John yawns, walking into the room.

"The room upstairs, across from yours. It's not a figment of my imagination, is it?"

"No, why?"

Sherlock grins and quietly plays a short series of notes. "Just checking."

"What for?"

"Mycroft has informed me that my daughter is moving in tomorrow. He's is flying her in all the way from another continent."

John scrunches his face in confusion and stares at his flatmate. "I'm sorry, daughter? I didn't know you had a-"

"Not many people do," says the detective. "I don't talk about her much, do I?"

"Never."

"I suppose she's my most close guarded secret, though I'm not sure why. The reason I don't mention her, I imagine, is that she's irrelevant to my day-to-day life. There is no need to talk about my teenage daughter at a crime scene or at the morgue. Now you know," he plays a longer series of notes and smiles to himself. "You won't mind being across the hall from her, I'm sure. She's nearly sixteen but I doubt she's very…teenagerlike. I hate teenagers; hard to be believe that I was ever one."

"You've never once mentioned her."

Sherlock shrugged and plucked the strings. "The subject never came up and was never relevant."

Still shocked at this new revelation, John shakes his head and insists that it won't be a problem. "I'm sorry but you said 'another continent?' You, um, reproduced with a…Australian? Sherlock don't tell me it was an American."

"Neither, John. It was a drunken one-night stand with a law student from Johannesburg."

"Funny," John smirks. "Sherlock Holmes was a horny young man once."

"Piss off, John," Sherlock laughs, setting down his violin. "Don't worry about tidying up the flat. Mycroft is bringing her by. He adores the girl and will no doubt stick around a while."

"Shouldn't I tidy up a little for- uh…you never mentioned her name."

Sherlock quietly plays while he answers. "Amelia. My brother has taken to calling her Amy, but her name is Amelia, John."

"Not a fan of nicknames I take it?"

"No, I just hate Amy," he answered. He has nicknames for her, he has plenty. Amy just makes him want to cringe. "Tidy up if you wish but I'm not concerned about it."

John, understandably, is still utterly shocked at the idea of his flatmate having a child. "Why so sudden?"

"Apparently," Sherlock drawls. "Her mother has been murdered and I'm only just now hearing about it."

Thinking about what the girl must be going through makes the doctor frown. Thinking about how Sherlock is makes him a tad bit sad. His flatmate, while a brilliant man, will be rubbish at this 'being a dad' thing when it comes to managing the girl's grief. A self-proclaimed sociopath, Sherlock Holmes isn't one for emotion, for feelings, for sentiment. John doesn't hesitate to voice the concern to his friend:

"I'm sorry about that, for your daughter's sake."

"You think, quite correctly, that I won't be of any use to her in dealing with Anelle's death," deduces the detective. "And I must say that I agree, but there is not a thing I can do about this arrangement other than tell Mycroft that he can keep her with him and-"

"And you'd rather shoot yourself than let Mycroft raise your daughter," John chuckles.

"Exactly, John. I realize that I'm going to be far from beneficial to her grief, but that is what you're for," Sherlock grins cheekily and walks away playing the eighth movement of Shostakovich's The Gadfly.

John sighs, knowing that everything else he was going to say is pointless.