Hush, little baby, don't you cry…
"Dad, is it true what Sherlock said?"
"Probably, but you'll have to elaborate," John said, pouring a glass of milk for Abigail.
"He said—he said if you ever murder someone—"
"Oh, Christ…"
"—that, that you should just feed the corpse to pigs, 'cause they'll eat anything. Is that true?"
John cast a glance at Mary, who shrugged as if to say, "Hey, this is your battle, not mine."
Abigail stared up at him with two big, questioning blue eyes, looking so innocent you never would've believed she'd spent a day with Sherlock, let alone most of her (brief) life.
"Yes, that's true, but that's not exactly something you need to know when you're nine," John said tiredly.
"Sherlock said I might."
"…Why on earth would he say that?" John asked, mentally adding another thing to his list of things to scold Sherlock about.
Abigail paused, before answering. "The other kids at school—they think I'm weird. They make fun of me."
John frowned. "Abby, you never told us that—how long as it been going on?"
She shifted nervously in her seat. "Most of the year," she admitted. "I didn't even tell Sherlock—he figured it out."
"Of course he did," he sighed. "Look, go help Mum finish up dinner. I need to make a phone call."
Both Abigail and Mary knew that that was code for "go talk to your mother so you don't listen to me yelling at your school for not taking better care of you."
…Daddy John's always ready to save your life.
Hush, little baby, don't you fear…
Mary paused what she was doing to kiss Abigail on the top of her head. "You could've told us if there was a problem," she said softly.
"I know," Abigail said, and she did. "I just—I just wanted to deal with it on my own, I guess."
"You don't have to do that. Dad and I want to make sure you're safe. I'm just wondering what on earth they could've found to make fun of you about."
Abigail tugged nervously on one of her long blonde braids. "I guess I'm… too much like Uncle Sherlock. My teacher said my presentation—we, we had to give a presentation about something that interested us, and I picked Jack the Ripper—"
"Oh, dear," Mary said, letting out a small laugh as she shook her head, half-exasperated, half-amused.
"—and my teacher said it was 'horrifying, disturbing, and worryingly informative,' his words, not mine… right in front of everyone!" Abigail sighed. "I worked really hard on it, too—Sherlock took me to the library to get me books and he told me all his theories about who did it."
"Sherlock's trying to catch Jack the Ripper?"
"He says it's for when he needs something light."
Mary laughed again.
"Do you think I hang out with Uncle Sherlock too much?" Abigail asked quietly.
Mary shook her head. "Uncle Sherlock loves you like you were his own, Abby. You're so much alike… it'd be a crime to keep you two apart."
Abigail smiled at that. She wanted to be like Sherlock.
Except the bit where everyone hated him in university. That sounded like it sort of sucked.
"It doesn't look like Dad will be off the phone for a while," Mary observed with a sigh, as multiple expletives drifted through the wall from the next room.
"How long 'til dinner's ready?" Abigail asked.
"Oh, about an hour."
"Can I go see Uncle Sherlock, then?" she asked. "I'll be back in time."
"Take your phone," Mary said. Being the child of two of Sherlock Holmes's allies and the goddaughter of Sherlock Holmes himself, Abigail had had a phone since she was old enough to know how to use it, just in case.
Other than that precaution, she was able to go to and from 221B as she liked—it was only three blocks away, all up and down residential streets. So she pulled on her sweater, grabbed her backpack, hugged Mary goodbye, and started down the road to Sherlock's.
…Mama Mary's gonna hold you sweet and dear.
Hush, little baby, just stay still…
Sherlock was lying on the couch when Abigail got there. She let herself in—she'd had a key to the place for as long as she could remember, though Sherlock had promised to teach her how to break in sometime.
"Uncle Sherlock?" Abigail said, approaching him.
"Bored," he said simply.
"I know," she replied. She sat down in the chair that had once been John's chair, all those years ago. Her feet dangled off the ground. "No luck on your case?"
Sherlock had been trying to catch Moriarty since before she was born.
"Luck has nothing to do with it, Abigail. It's all observation…"
"…and deduction," she finished with a small smile.
"Very good." Those that didn't know Sherlock well would've said his tone was bored, but Abigail was able to detect the hint of pride. "How are you doing, Abigail?"
"You already know."
"I know, but—but isn't that what you're supposed to do? Ask, instead of telling them."
"I guess so." She sighed. "Dad found out about the girls making fun of me at school—oh, and he found out about your 'how to dispose of a corpse' lessons, so expect a phone call about that."
He sighed. "Why did you tell him about that? I have enough to deal with from my brother as it is."
"He asked me if I'd learned anything interesting. School wasn't going to provide that answer, so…"
"You really ought to see about skipping grades."
"Why didn't you do that when you were in school?"
"Mum wouldn't let me," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "Said I could use social interaction with my peers. She thought it'd be good for me." He cast a glance at his goddaughter. "But you and I know better."
Abigail smiled again. "Yeah, because you and I know my peers are terrible."
"Just forget about them, Abigail. Soon enough you'll be out of that school and able to associate with intelligent people."
"You mean… you."
"Only partially." He smirked slightly.
…Sherlock really loves you, and always will.
Hush, little baby, don't make a sound…
Abigail cast a glance at the clock.
"I gotta go home, Uncle Sherlock," she said, hopping back onto the floor. "I'll come and see you after school tomorrow, if I don't have detention."
"What would you have detention for?"
"Today a girl called you a freak so I threw a turkey sandwich at her nose."
"You didn't have to do that."
"I know."
She gave Sherlock a hug (which he awkwardly returned as best he could without getting up from the couch), then exited, locking the door behind her.
Before she went home, she had one last stop to make. Digging ten quid out of her backpack, she made a slight detour, turning down another street. A homeless man called Brenden resided there with his shopping cart and his cat, and she liked to give him money when she could.
"Here you go, Brenden," she said pleasantly, handing the coins to him. His eyes were lined with red and his beard was unkempt, but Abigail didn't see any real reason to be afraid of him. Not even the police minded him much—he didn't cause much trouble.
"Thank you, Abby," he said, having picked up on the nickname. "How's school?"
"It's okay, I guess. Boring."
"That history project coming along?" he asked, recalling what she talked about last time they'd seen one another.
Abigail smiled. "Yeah. I think I'll get a good grade. I'm doing my pamphlet on pirates."
"Very good, very good…" Brenden chuckled.
"How've you been doing?"
He grinned up at her from where he sat on the ground. "Just splendidly. Been tryin' to track down an old friend of mine."
"Any luck?"
"Not much."
She frowned. "Oh, I'm sorry. I hope you find him."
"I think you might know him, actually."
"Me?"
"I have a picture," Brenden said, producing an old, ratty newspaper clipping from his pocket.
Abigail moved closer, looking over his shoulder. The headline read SUICIDE OF A FAKE GENIUS.
"Hey, that's Uncle Sherl—!"
She was cut off by a hand over her mouth and an arm over her neck, hearing someone whisper, "Stay still and it won't hurt as much…" before feeling a knock on her head, and her world going black.
…Uncle Moriarty's got you now.