Disclaimer: I do not own "Sherlock". I wish I did, but then it probably wouldn't be as awesome.
Author notes:
Vernette: In the original Sherlock Holmes stories, the only relative of Sherlock's mentioned by name besides his brother is Horace Vernet, a French artist. Vernette is a spin-off of the name.
The piano piece she is playing is "Porcelain" by Helen Jane Long, which I named the story after. It's really beautiful so I suggest you check out her work.
I'm not opposed to other romantic affiliations of Sherlock Holmes, I just thought a child of Sherlock and Irene would be a really interesting character.
Chapter 1
Long, ivory fingers caress piano keys. Long's "Porcelain" sheet music flutters with the unchecked breeze of the open window, and Vernette's eyes flit in annoyance at the disruption. The euphonious notes falter.
"Ah!" she grimaces. "Mom? Can you come here? I need you to close the window."
A strong, vivacious voice answers, "You can't shut it yourself?'
"I could," Vernette explains, even more aggravated at the now drawn-out process, "but then I'd lose my concentration. It was perfect before!"
The delicate footsteps trail to the window, rusty hinges groaning. "Not quite, darling. You play too hard—"
"This, from my mother," Vernette gasps, eyebrows raised in barely restrained bitterness.
"Ha ha, you got me there. Your talent is unrivalled, but your skill—" she leans over Vernette, tapping repeatedly on a single key, "needs some work."
Vernette sighs, exasperated. Her mother offers a thrilling smile, blue eyes whispering encouragement. Vernette flexes her fingers. Tentatively, she places them on the keys again, the crescendo resuming in less audible force as she applies her mother's correction.
Irene sits next to her daughter, close but not touching. She never felt entirely comfortable with Vernette, her own child. Perhaps the aura of don't touch me radiating off the girl reminded her too much of someone she once knew, and at fifteen years of age, they were far too distant now to commence a physically intimate relationship. Irene never thought she'd hesitate to place hands on anybody- given her profession- but with her daughter…Irene turns into someone else. Vernette huddles with her chin on her knees, seemingly absorbed in the evening news, dissecting it with her limpid, brown eyes. Storing the information in her mind for later.
Irene stifles her shock as he assumes the screen, a chill demeanor and utter boredom etched on his familiar face. Doctor Watson, with hair noticeably grayer, stands at his side. Irene doesn't dare analyze him, how he's changed.
Irene's eyes flicker to Vernette's, registering her intent curiosity with something akin to fright. She thought this station was safe. Local news, perhaps some drabble about a politician's affairs, but within the bounds of the country. Not global, never global. Vernette shifts, her hands under her chin. "Brilliant" she mutters, giving appreciative grunts as he expounds on his cleverness, his ingenuity in solving a case involving the Prime Minister.
"Who is that man?" Vernette breathes, fascination dripping from her very pores.
Irene responds edgily. "That, dear, is Sherlock Holmes."
"Who?"
"'The world's only consulting detective.'"
"Aha…you know what, Mom? He reminds me of you, but God! He talks so fast. He's obviously a genius," darting a mischievous smile in Irene's direction, she asks, "I wonder if he's as smart as you? Anyhow I'm sure we both could take him. A showdown between the two of you would be entertaining."
Irene doesn't even bother to comment on that.
Vernette subsides into contemplative silence, until Irene hurriedly inquires about her experiments with genetics. Cursing herself for her obvious nerves, she hardly pays attention as her daughter plunges into a soliloquy about the guinea pigs she breeds, and the Punett squares she's currently refining.
Meditatively, with a tragic feeling blossoming in her chest, Irene surveys her daughter's face. The big brown eyes and aloof, sloping nose from Irene were the only aspects of her features alien to Sherlock's. Her tilted lips, sharp cheekbones, and high forehead are telltale hints. Even the ebony curls haloing her ears are dead giveaways. As Vernette stands up to get tea, Irene takes in her height and figure; rather tall, lean, and not as seductive as her mother's. Even the slight mannerisms, the "praying hands" and rapidity of voice, the frustration at making a mistake, are so reminiscent of him as to have given her pain in the early years. If more of Sherlock dares to circulate, if Vernette's interest grows and she researches him, Irene knows she'll make the inevitable connection. And Irene will hesitate at nothing to prevent that.
Tiptoeing stealthily into an occupied room was never a challenge for Irene Adler. She had always excelled in remaining unseen when she preferred to be invisible, and in her later years it is no exception. She peers into the darkened room of her daughter. The hall light illuminates the hard angles of the bookshelves and casts a shimmer on Vernette's curls. With regulated breaths Irene steals in and swiftly snatches her daughter's laptop, taking note of a book leaning precariously on top of it. With the agility of a cat she disappears into her own bedroom.
She easily installs a block for the keyword "Sherlock Holmes" and various others affiliated with him. With a few intricate maneuvers she ensures that Vernette will never know what happened. Biting her tongue between ruby lips, she furrows her brow in concentration. Here comes the tricky part. Hacking into John's blog is simple enough, given his interests and occupation. She deletes her name in his posts "The Woman", "By Royal Appointment", "Christmas", and "Happy New Year" and invents a reasonable stand-in. If, somehow, Vernette were to get past Irene's tedious defenses, she never need know that her mother and Sherlock Holmes ever met. That her mother and Sherlock Holmes have a history.
Regulating her breathing is difficult given the state of wonder she's currently in. Why would her mother steal her laptop? It makes no sense.
Maybe she just needs it for something. Ha. That's a logical conclusion. Why look up something on your amazing cellphone when you can use your daughter's computer in the middle of the night? Knowing that the coast is clear, Vernette rolls over and examines the cracks lacing her ceiling, then out the window to the ivory latticework of birches in moonlight. Simmering with boredom, Vernette clambers out of the window and shimmies down the tree, bare feet clinging to the bark. Maybe Irene will notice her annoyance when she sneaks in to return the laptop.
Vernette doesn't worry that her mother will greet an empty bed in the morning. The occurrence is common. Ever since she was a little girl, Vernette would leave during the night, first wandering the garden then graduating to the sleepy town. Irene never addressed her odd behavior. Vernette never wondered why.
Until now, it seemed routine. But an awakening stirs in the back of her mind, and Vernette realizes that Irene is a terrible mother by normal standards. Neither of us are exactly ordinary though. While meandering through sleek roads, the pavement haggard by the feeble light of the few streetlamps, Vernette gives up puzzling out the dynamic between mother and daughter; it just doesn't apply to them. Suddenly it seems a tragic loss.