A/N: Okay, so first of all, this is an OC fic, with an OC in a major role (as Sherlock's daughter). If you don't like that, don't read. I'm not kidding, it's completely pointless to read this if you're against OCs. For all that remain, I hope you like the first chapter, and review! Constructive criticism and reviews just generally saying what you thought are much appreciated. And if you hate it, tell me, but at least tell me what I can do to fix it. Don't just say 'I hate it' and leave it there.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I as of yet haven't got around to emailing Steven Moffat or Mark Gatiss to ask them to let me join the writing or acting of Sherlock. So, I don't own it, yet. Except on iTunes.
John walked from the crime scene, wondering where Sherlock had got to. He left the crime scene, and the police officer, Donovan, that he'd met when Sherlock had not-so-subtly implied that she and the guy on forensics- Anderson- had been having a- erm- rendezvous earlier.
"You're not his friend, you know. He doesn't have friends. So who are you?" she asked. John just shook his head.
"I'm- I'm nobody. I've just met him," he replied.
"Okay, bit of advice then. Stay away from that guy," she told him, and John felt a little confused.
"Why?"
"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."
"Why would he do that?"
"Because he's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored," she replied, and that's when their conversation was interrupted by a sixteen year old girl.
"Sociopath, actually. Highly functioning," she corrected, a slight smirk resting on her lips.
"Ah, joy. Mini freak is here," sighed Donovan.
"Lovely to see you too, Sergeant. I've just come to collect Doctor Watson here. Dad didn't even realize he'd run off without him," she rolled her eyes.
"Come on then, John. And Sally? I really think you should stop sleeping with Anderson. He's married you know," she said, before stalking off. She really was a sight to behold. Her hair shoulder length, black, and curly, complimented by silver eyes changing with the light. She wore a black t-shirt, with nothing over it, despite the biting cold, and a short tartan skirt with fishnet tights, and some Doc Martins.
"You know, John, we're never going to catch a taxi if you stand there staring at me," she said.
"Wait, I don't even know who you are!" he yelled after her. She sighed.
"Okay, John, bit slow on the uptake, clearly. I'm Lysette Holmes, and yes that makes me Sherlock's daughter. Your Doctor John Hamish Watson, recently returned from military service," she smiled. John's mouth dropped.
"B-but that's…"
"I know. Now come on, I would like to get home," she enforced. "I don't know what's up with my name, by the way. I have no idea what dad was thinking. Lys-bloody-ette. Mind you, his isn't much better," she shook her head and dragged him down the street. "You know, John, you can stop using the walking stick if you want. The limp's mostly psychosomatic."
"You sound like your dad!" he complained.
"Makes sense. He did give me half my genes," she replied sarcastically. Then she heard a phone ring. Odd, she thought, before rolling her eyes.
"Come on, John. Someone wants to talk to you. Let's wait outside this phone box," she said, looking at a CCTV camera with raised eyebrows. She knew to onlookers she probably looked odd, but she didn't particularly care. The phone then rang.
"It's for you," she said, shaking her head. Her uncle Mycroft really needed to get a hobby that didn't involve terrorizing her dad's roommates. Most of them hadn't even lasted a week so far. John came out looking scared stiff, but got into the limousine her uncle had sent. She hadn't been invited, but she got in the car anyway.
"Hello, Anthea. You really must tell me your real name soon. It's a puzzle even I can't figure out," she smiled.
"Perhaps one day, Little Holmes," replied 'Anthea'.
"For the last time, it's not 'Little Holmes'. It's Lysette," she groaned. Anthea just smirked. The drive there was very awkward.
"John, don't bother asking Anthea out. She's in an on again off again relationship with who you're about to meet," she said, and John turned to her.
"That's amazing!" he exclaimed.
"I know," she smirked. The car pulled up, and they got out, going in the direction Anthea sent them. There she saw the balding man, standing with his umbrella and smirking.
"Hello, uncle dear. How's the diet?" she asked, and Mycroft's smirk dropped.
"My darling niece. It's going fine, thank you," he replied, clearly injecting venom into his tone. Lysette just raised an eyebrow.
"You could be more pleasant. I'm likely the closest thing you're gonna get to a daughter," she replied.
"Caring is not an advantage."
"I'm well aware of that."
"And yet you tell me to be more pleasant?"
"Exchanging pleasantries has nothing to do with caring, uncle."
They exchanged a long look before Mycroft sighed, and Lysette didn't pay attention, instead deducing all aspects of both her uncle's and John's lives. Eventually, becoming bored of the monotonous conversation, she got into the limosuine, looking up when John came in.
"Have fun in there?" she asked with a grin.
"That's Sherlock's brother?" was all he could say.
"Hey, Dad. I've got Doctor Watson," Lysette said, and he turned around.
"Great! We're going out," he replied, and Lysette sighed.
"Really? I just got in... oh you've got a lead!" she almost squealed. John turned.
"You let your daughter help you solve murders? Your teenage daughter?" he asked in disbelief. Sherlock turned to him.
"Of course. Why wouldn't I?" he seemed perplexed by why this would bother John.
"Because... she's only a kid!" John complained.
"It's never bothered me. Blood and gore never had. After all, it's simply parts of the human anatomy scattered about," Lysette interrupted, and grabbed their arms.
"Come on, boys. Time to go out. Even though I don't know where," she smirked.
They sat in the restaurant as John looked through the menu.
"Aren't you two gonna get anything?" he asked. Lysette shrugged.
"I'll probably just get a sandwich. I don't even need that, but dad insists," she rolled her eyes.
"Okay, Lysette. What do you deduce about..." Sherlock looked around. "Him?"
"He's recently divorced, trying to rebuild an already shaky relationship with his son. His son doesn't appear to care, but he's actually being bullied at school. He does care about his dad, just feels bitter that his dad doesn't notice. The father is working two jobs, one in a bank and one in a shop. He works long hours, so doesn't actually get enough time to spend with his son," she said in a monotone voice. "And he's crushing on the waitress."
John's mouth gaped open and Sherlock nodded.
"How... did you get that?" asked John.
"Well, around his ring finger, there's nothing, but there's a faint tan line where his ring used to be. It has to be recent, or that line would have gone away. His son is looking away, showing he's not got a great relationship with his son. But the boy has bruising on his ankles- clearly not from falling, he's cautious. So inflicted by humans. The fact that he's not entirely ignoring his dad shows he does actually care, but the short answers indicate he is bitter about something. The bullying. And, the waitress, well that's obvious. He keeps staring at her chest, but also blushes when she comes over. Which means it's more than just sexual desire- in theory, anyway," she replied. John's mouth could be on the floor by now, and Sherlock seemed fairly impressed. But then he looked out the window.
"It seems we have our killer."
A/N: Okay, so this is my first proper Sherlock fic. Sorry if anyone's OOC, just let me know and I'll extract it immediately!