Chapter One- Ashes to Ashes

Rain came down hard that day. Anastasia supposed she should have expected that. She didn't mind it. Somber mornings and somber weather go very well together, after all. Besides, it gave her the perfect cover for her wet cheeks. "It's the rain is all" is what she would say if anyone asked her what was wrong. "I really am quite alright," is what she would add if anyone persisted. Under no circumstances would she say "my mother's just been murdered" Because if she did, then that would make it true. By not saying it out loud, she could pretend that the police cars weren't there, and that the porch she was sitting on hadn't been on fire just that morning, and that the stench of burnt meat that prevailed through the rain wasn't her mum. By keeping those words to herself, everything would remain fine. Just fine.

A tall man, earlier introduced to her as Inspector Lestrade, approached Anastasia where she sat. Despite the wetness of the steps, he sat down beside her. "I know this must be hard for you," the man said. "To come home to something like this- it's horrible. You're so young- only seven, for christ's sake! And yet you have to go through something like this. I can't begin to imagine the pain you must feel right now."

Anastasia gripped her teddy bear with a bit more desperation. She had to hold back the tears if she was going to keep her little charade up. She continued staring straight ahead, as she had been doing for the last hour. Staring had become far less interesting as the minutes passed, but the realization of what was happening was setting in, and it became far more necessary.

"It may be hard to understand, but time will help," he assured her. "Now, I'm afraid I must ask you again- you're sure you have no relatives? No great aunts or uncles, or second cousins you may have only met a few times?" She shook her head. "And your mother never mentioned your father to you?" Again, she answered no. "I suppose we'll have to do a bit of digging then. Don't worry, Anastasia. You won't be alone in this."

There are few things in this world that can be counted on. Sherlock detecting every detail of a person's life was one of them. A simple glance at a man relinquishes his full life's story. And if such a thing can be said for a stranger to Sherlock, then surely no detail of his own life could possibly escape him. Yet if he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, not even he would be able to tell you that he had a daughter. That fact was entirely unknown to him, until a certain inspector summoned him to the station to strip him of his ignorance.

"He says it's urgent," John Watson said to his partner, hanging up the phone.

"Hm. What do you suspect it is this time? A bomber? Serial Killer? Death by bees?" mused the detective. There was an unsettling air of excitement about him when he talked about death.

"We'll have to get there to find out."

It was rare that a meeting involving Inspector Lestrade took place somewhere other than over a dead body or in apt. 221b, but not as rare as a meeting that involved the Inspector and a small child. That had only happened twice so far.

A young girl sat in a chair beside Lestrade's desk. She looked to be about 7, though the material she was reading would suggest much older. A mass of dark curls and waves hid her face as she was bent over the pages. She had a ratty old teddy bear by her feet, and a small backpack next to it. It occurred to Sherlock that she was the reason they were meeting here, and not at a crime scene.

Lestrade stood to greet the two men. "Thank you for coming," he said. Even Watson could tell something was wrong by the unusual formality with which he spoke. The notion was confirmed further when the inspector invited Sherlock and Watson to talk in the other room. He handed the two men cups of coffee, and the three of them sat down.

"You might as well just say it," Sherlock started. "Clearly something is bothering you, or you wouldn't have smoked through an entire pack already. Really, at least attempt to cover up the stink."

Lestrade ignored the comment. "Tell me Sherlock. Look at that girl, sitting there," he pointed through the window to the other room, "really look at her, and tell me what you see."

"The book she's reading is at a high level, though her appearance suggests she's no older than eight. She must be intelligent for her age. The fact that she's here with you means she's involved in a homicide. Murder by fire, I expect. The soot on her bear would make it seem so. You called me down here, meaning the crime poses an unusual circumstance, which leads me to the question: why is she here?"

Inspector Lestrade smirked. If only for a few more seconds, he knew something that Sherlock did not. He had to savor the moment; take it in for all it's beauty. "You mean you haven't figured it out? You haven't deduced it?"

John and Sherlock exchanged a look. They turned back to Lestrade, who was now bursting with excitement over stumping Sherlock. "Why, Sherlock, I'm surprised at you! Surely you recognize your own daughter!"

Sherlock would look back on this moment and shun himself for his mundane response. Widened eyes and a gaping mouth were hardly befitting of his intellect. Though such an expression on his face was fleeting, and he recovered shortly.

John, on the other hand, responded to the news by spitting out his coffee.

Author's Note:

Yes, I have taken down all the old chapters. This is a rewrite starting from the very beginning! I kept this chapter fairly similar, and I suspect the same will be able to be said for the rest, but I'm so happy that I'm rewritting this. I'm still experimenting with ideas, so this may be edited sometime in the future. Thanks for reading!