Hi again everybody. Guess who's back? =D

I apologise for the long hiatus, but my creative muse kind of abandoned me. Now I have exams (convenient, huh) it's back and kicking me.

Aaaanyway, this will be updated as and when...I'm still kinda planning it out a bit. Never fear, it will be done. Just don't expect very regular updates.

As ever, any (constrictive) feedback is more then welcome.

I own nothing here except the plot and Evelyn Adler (my own very lovely lady). Aaaaand...yeah. Enjoy =)

How do I start?

That's the problem with trying to record life-changing experiences on paper, the words never come out right, but I'll do my best.

Okay, here we go. My name is Evelyn Adler, but you can call me Evie. I'm 13 years old. This is the story of me and a weird, if wonderful man. My father, Sherlock Holmes.

It's not uncommon for the note on our kitchen fridge to read, Gone to work, see you tonight or similar. Mum's a lawyer, she works long hours. I got used to it.

It is uncommon for it to read Evie, I have to go away for a very long time. I can't explain on paper, but go to this address and ask for Sherlock Holmes. 221B Baker Street, London.

It ended, chillingly, with, Never forget how much I love you. Mum x

For a long time, I stared at it, my wet hair dripping down my pyjamas, my brain working at a hundred miles per hour. It can't be a work thing, or she'd have said before. She's not run away with anyone, I'd know – she'd smell different. She wouldn't just up and leave for no reason. So she's running from something…

Or someone.

This is not happening. "Mum! Mum, where are you?" I snatched the note off the fridge and darted upstairs. The study was empty. Her bedroom was empty, the bed not slept in. I opened the wardrobe. Most of her clothes were gone. So was her purse and passport from the bedside drawer.

Fear uncurled in my stomach. Who would possibly want to harm my mother? Irene Adler, senior partner at Adler and Norton Solicitors, Northwest London. Works nine till five, unmarried, one daughter. Ordinary as a pigeon. Leaving notes and running for her life? Something was most definitely not right. "MUM!" I cried.

It echoed through the empty house.

I took a deep breath. Okay Evie. Sit down and evaluate. A trick I used to keep my cool in hairy situations.

The note had clearly been written in a rush last night, or very early this morning when I was in bed. The fact that Mum hadn't told me anything meant that I was also in danger and she had most likely wanted to keep me safe. She would be moving a lot, since her passport was gone, and also because she hadn't wanted to take me with her. But what had she done to warrant this? She owned a law firm, for Chrissakes, she wasn't a Mafia boss.

And then there was the address. 221B Baker Street. And a name. Sherlock Holmes. It rang a bell – albeit a faint bell. I flipped the note over. Hold on…

There was some kind of code on the back. 101294.

My mum's law partner, Godfrey Norton, picked up on the third ring. "Rene? Is that you?"

"No, it's me, Evelyn. Has she said anything to you about trips lately?"

"Erm…" There was a shuffling sound as he flipped through his diary. "No, nothing scheduled, why?"

"Oh, nothing…but she wasn't here when I got up this morning and I thought maybe she'd…I dunno, been called off somewhere."

"Not as far as I know sweetie. Have you tried phoning her?"

"It was turned off." Actually, it was still in the drawer – I rang it, it went off. The final proof.

"Ah well." There was a pause. " It's probably some kind of family thing, nothing to worry about. Try again later."

"Yeah, I will…" There was something off about this, I wasn't sure what.

"You sure you're okay sweetheart?"

Don't call me sweetheart. "I'm fine. Just a bit concerned, you know."

"She'll turn up, Evie, don't you fret. Look, I've got to go. Call me later if you don't hear from her."
"I will. Bye." I hung up the phone.

Strange codes. Goodbye notes on kitchen fridges and Godfrey Norton knew something, I was sure of it.

I was 13 years old, I was alone, and something was brewing. I looked at the note again. Sherlock Holmes. 221B Baker Street. Maybe he'll have some answers.

"Sherlock? Sherlock! Locky!"

The rain pattered on the fresh autumn fall leaves, deep red beneath the deep grey storm clouds. It had begun slowly, but was developing into a torrent. Thunder rumbled over Mycroft's damp, rather gingery curls as he peered into the expansive garden, but there was no sign of the small boy who had gone out three hours earlier and had not yet returned.

"Master Mycroft!" A manservant emerged from the house holding a large umbrella. "You really must come inside and let us look for Master Sherlock!"

Mycroft pretended not to hear him and ventured further into the downpour, searching for a mop of black curls in the steady grey stream.

Something moved by the shrubbery – there! A dejected, soaked little boy came trudging out from under an enormous rhododendron. Mycroft ran down to meet him.

"Sherlock, where on earth have you been?"

The five year old glared at him. "The rain ruined everything. I was watching the beetles to see what they did in sun in con…con…"

"Contrast?"

"Contrast to shade. But then it rained and they were all washed away." Sherlock's silver-green eyes were dark with annoyance, as if this was somehow Mycroft's fault. He couldn't help but chuckle at the way the toddler expected him to sort everything out for him, the weather included.

"Maybe you can try again tomorrow. Come inside now, Ruth is getting worried."

Sherlock crossed his arms. "It was important."

"It will be just as important in the morning. C…come on, I'll ask her to make hot chocolate."

The boy visibly brightened. "With cream and marshmallows?"

"And digestive b..b..biscuit crumbs." Mycroft's teeth began to chatter in his numbed face. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed unfazed by the moisture that clung to his clothes, his hair, his long eyelashes. But he could see his older brother shivering, and reached up and took his hand.

"Come on Crofty. Let's go get hot chocolate."