Summary:

Sherlock Holmes is a young, middle income father with a beautiful child, a gorgeous wife, and a steady career. However, the eccentric consulting detective has a dark past that is catching up with him faster then even his superior mind can comprehend. With his love gone, can the Detective manage his newest, darkest case and his super intelligent daughter?

My Daddy once told me a story of a knight who gave up everything for everyone he ever loved.

For the first time in his life, he felt truly grateful for the rain and the mental isolation God gave him for her ceremony. The dammed rain hid the cascade of emptiness that poured like hot fire down his sharp cheekbones. His little girl wouldn't have to see his tears, not here where he had to be strong. He had never seen his father cry, so why should Molly have to see hers? Weakness was shown in tears, and he was not weak. No one had seen him cry since he was a young boy, including Irene. She would not see them now; even if she was being left for the worms in that god forsaken hole. No… It was all for the better if she nor Molly saw them.

'Damn my eyes,' He thought, feeling more tears slide like liquid diamonds out of his lids and into the cold of the afternoon.

The man was a knight in shining armor. He rode around on the back of a big black hound that scared away anybody who was evil and saved all of the people who were good.

She was crying, too; hot tears spilling onto the grey grass ground that was now her mommy's home. 'That's not good' He thought numbly to himself and he knelt down to kiss away her tears that mixed with cold rain on her rosy cheeks, 'Molly looks so much more like her mother when she smiles. Shouldn't she be doing that? Smiling? Isn't that kinder to Irene?'

Molly's blue eyes were puffy and red as she wiped away another tear with the back of her sleeve. The child was wearing her birthday black peacoat her mother had spent six pounds on, at the time, too much. It was several sizes too big, much the grey pearl bracelets and necklace that she wore, but the toddler hadn't cared about that. No. What Molly cared about most was the fact that her mommy had gotten that peacoat for her… and that she would never see or hug or kiss her mommy anymore.

A few people said that he was angel, but most said that he was a devil. My daddy would say that the knight in shining armor would only reply that he was on the side of angels, but wasn't one of them.

Through his clouded thoughts, he felt himself gently grasp his daughter's hand in his own gloved ones. Through the black leather, her hand was warm. Her soft palm fit very naturally inside of his own long, graceful hand. Like a two puzzle pieces, or a key in a lock. He felt himself involuntarily squeeze Molly's firm, but miniscule hand in weak comfort. It wasn't much, he knew, but it was better than nothing.

Molly gripped her father's fore and middle fingers like a drowning man at sea. She didn't want this. Molly didn't want the feeling of her daddy's hand, or the clad in black Father mechanically saying a blessing that no one was listening to, or the strange men in overalls with shovels lowering her mommy's casket into the hole. All Molly wanted her mommy. Molly wanted to wrap her pudgy little arms around her mother's skirt and be enveloped in the security of her mother's arms and sleep in the warmth of her bosom. She wanted just one more kiss, one more smile, one more hug from her mother before she said goodbye. That was all that Molly wanted.

The pair couldn't watch as the coffin was lowered into the abysmal hole. Both cringed at the thud it made as it hit the mud. It was a sick sound, like a dead body hitting the earth. Molly wept harder as the dirt scoop by scoop piled onto her mother. He knelt onto the grass and mud, allowing the girl to burrow her head into the crook of her father's neck. She thankfully accepted being pulled into a strong hug that she had known all of her life. Her father smelled of wet trench coat and scarf and raisin and smoky pine.

Through the blur of the rain and the toffee color of Molly's soft hair, He watched the men bury the woman he loved and the vows he spoke with her. He watched his daughter and a hand that no longer felt like his throw dirt on her. He watched his soul die away as the Father crossed the grave and spoke sonorous voice, "ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

One day, a dragon that the knight couldn't defeat came and took away everything that the knight loved.

"You are now welcome to say some words to your mother, child, before she is truly laid to rest." The Father said solemnly once his prayers and sermon had concluded. Both father and daughter were crying now. The father cried silent tears that yearned to wail and sob like the daughter.

He sighed shakily, grasping desperately to hold his composure. "Molly… do you want to say anything to mommy?"

Molly pulled away from the familiar scent to meet her father's mournful gaze. His eyes were a light blue color, like that of spring clouds or a winter sky, usually dancing with wit and life. But today, as she studied them through the rain under the one, decaying tree that stood in the graveyard, his eyes were glazed over in red sadness that only she shared with him.

Molly kissed her father's forehead lightly, like her mother did to her. "Can you pick me up, Daddy?"

Molly was almost weightless as she rose to his eye level and straddled herself comfortably on his hip.

"Molly," He said, his voice as quiet and deep as the distant thunder, "what do you want to say to Mommy before she has to go?"

'Oh, God please. Please don't let me cry anymore. Don't let Molly see me like this… Bring her back. Bring back Irene, for god's sake.' He turned his head to the sky, allowing his salty tears to glide down his sharp cheek bones and fall into the nest that was his navy blue scarf.

Molly sniffed as she began bravely, "mommy, I want to tie my message to a balloon so you can see it coming from up in heaven." He heard his little girl's voice waver as she persevered through raw vocal cords and weepy eyes, "I'll write you every day so that way you won't miss anything while you're gone. I think I'll tie a piece of candy on the end of it. I know you couldn't have candy because you was too sick. But NOW, in heaven, you CAN!"

Suddenly, the little girl felt her dam of composure split as wracking sobs shook her to the core. Molly immediately returned to her father for the comfort she so desperately needed. Her father was burning on the inside as he comfortingly stroked her sopping wet hair, whispering words that came naturally since parenthood.

"Shh, love. Shh… Daddy's here. Daddy loves you. Shh… it'll be alright, my darling…" her father whispered as the priest glided back to the church where a meeting for the sinful was about to take place. But that didn't matter to the two who continued to stand in the cemetery. The man wanted his life back, and so did the little girl who cried into his scarf.

'she saw me cry, godammit. She saw me cry.' He thought and silent tears streamed faster down his face, provoking more whispered words of love.

So the dragon made a deal with the knight. If the knight went away and never returned to the land, the dragon would let everyone he loved go.

How long he stood at Irene's grave, he could not say. He wanted to move. He wanted to leave this place with Molly and Irene and never look back. He wanted to wake up from this horrible, horrible nightmare. But the elegant words on his wife's tombstone mocked his pain, and his grief kept his feet docked to the ground. Molly's usually angelic face was buried deeply into the crook of his neck, her hot tears and the icy rain showering him in reminders of his grief and the emptiness that was creeping inside.

Irene Adler. Born1897. Died 1940 September 3rd of Natural Causes. "Somebody loves you."

Those were her last words to him; and he would never forget those cruel them or the sunken face that wheezed them out of drowning lungs.

"She loved you very much, Molly." He whispered into his daughter's ear after some time. Molly had stopped sobbing violently for the moment, but the tears stilled rolled at a constant pace down her face.

He sighed as he lightly kissed Molly on her pudgy, tear stained cheek. Night was almost upon them, and he had to take her home to Baker Street. It was getting darker and North London was not the place to be in the dead of night.

He shifted his grip on Molly as he whispered, "Let's say goodbye to Mommy, Molly. We have to go home."

Molly shook her head furiously in protest, causing raindrops that had landed on the scarf to fly every which way. "I don't want to. Mommy will be here all night alone. She'll get lonely."

"Molly, mommy is with Grandfather and Grandmother right now. She won't be lonely." Well, it wasn't a complete lie. Both his parents were dead.

"No, I want to stay with Mommy."

He felt himself becoming irritable, but he had to be patient with her tears. "Molly, say goodbye." He cooed, feeling his knees creak into motion as he began carrying the four year old in his arms to the exit of the yard.

Molly paused for a minute, thinking about what her Daddy had said. Slowly, she lifted her tired head to face the glistening grave that marked the spot where her mother was. The sight was truly pitiful to watch as Molly managed to croak and wave goodbye, "I love you mommy. I'll see you soon."

The knight agreed to what the dragon had said and rode away on the back of his hound. Where the knight went, the kingdom never knew. But the knight never cried as he left.

His sopping feet ached as he approached the towering iron gates of the graveyard. Soaked, miserable, tired. Those were the three words that came to mind as he kicked open the gate, earning a high squeal from its ancient hinges rusted with time. His heels clicked as he walked into the foggy, dimly lit streets of North London that he knew so well. The clouds were a dark grey in declining evening light. Street lamps were beginning to be lighted in a failed attempt to illuminate the gross city. It was solely the sound of his own, slightly weightier footsteps on the abandon cobble street. But this seclusion did not last long as he felt a chill when he noticed the well-dressed man on the opposite side of the street.

He knew that the man leaning against the brick wall of the shop was familiar. The man across the way was finely groomed, adorning a newly pressed funeral suit with a bright white carnation neatly tucked into the lapel. On his head was a pin striped fedora, bold enough to standout but subtle enough to appear classy. He held a wide, black umbrella over his head, managing to block the sprinkling of rain that fell onto the dirty streets of London.

Cradling his sleeping daughter in his arms, the father decided to approach the man he hadn't seen in over two years. He was greeted with a cold, business like voice that cut through the foggy evening like a knife through bread.

"You've changed." Mycroft commented, leaning up against the green and brown bricks with an artic gleam in his eyes reserved only for those who were business men and governor officials. "When I saw you last, you were an angry man. Tangled up tightly into your own boredom; much like an insect on in a spider's web. But, now… I'm not quite sure what you are. I have the feeling that it's something new, something alien to you that you can't find a name for. What would it be called?"

He adjusted his sleeping daughter in his arms to a more protective grip. He knew that Mycroft had not come alone. He never did.

"Irene had always insisted that she keep her last name." He replied to Mycroft's unanswered question.

Mycroft scoffed loudly at his response, knowing full well that his excuse for her unchanged sur-name was false. "You've gotten to be a terrible liar over the past two years. That's no matter though, I understand fully why she died with the name she did. Irene always was an independent sort, too much so for a woman in my opinion. Never the less, it is a shame she died of something as silly as pneumonia. She deserved a more justified death."

"Talk to me about the case later, Mycroft. I have things to do." Though his face did not betray him, he felt the growing urge to punch the government official in the stomach. He didn't care about the next big scandal that Mycroft was going to tell him about, though he would never admit it. He wanted to get home.

Mycroft snapped his umbrella shut, so smoothly one could've sworn the object was a part of the man. "I suppose we should have a talk about Germany. Don't you agree, Sherlock?"