*So. Hi there. This is what I blame on my Sherlockie mood. That's right – I have a 'Sherlockie mood'. That doesn't even exist. Fear me. Be afraid. But, please read this? I need some love!*

Curiosity Killed the Dog

Sherlock Holmes was curious. He was never confused, rarely perplexed, and even more rare, puzzled. His deducing skills granted him with such premises to go by, of which he prided himself on in private circumstances. He was not a selfish man. Usually. And certainly not greedy – for anything other than the truth and knowledge, of course.

Sherlock Holmes was curious. Dr. John Watson knew as much. The two had been in the cluttered sitting room, seated in their respectable armchairs. The consultive detective had been puffing out breaths of smoke from the pipe clamped between his pursed lips and plucking away at his violin to and unfamiliar and indecent mood, dark, calculating eyes unfocused and staring at something in front of him that wasn't really there. Watson, meanwhile, had been skimming through the daily paper, searching for a case difficult enough for his friend, one that would actually intrigue him. He hadn't found one.

Sherlock Holmes was curious. It took a lot for the man to become curious. He was almost always positive of everything that went on around him. It left little for the imagination, for curiosity. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he had truly felt the emotion of 'curiosity'.

And so, the weak, hesitant rapping of knuckles upon the door to 221b Baker Street had sparked a surge of curiosity pulsing through Holmes' bloodstream like miniscule spiders. As Watson lowered the paper, looking up in what Holmes could only describe as schoolboy joy at the prospect of having a visitor (or, in this case, a client), the scruffy man blinked out of his reverie, shoving his intricate thoughts to some unoccupied crevice in his vast and overcrowded mind to look over at a later date.

Immediately, he began scratching down, in a mental notepad, the reasons he believed the person wouldn't use a doorbell; It couldn't be Lestrade, although he knows the doorbell doesn't work. His knock is harder, more demanding of attention. Clarke knocks precisely four times and calls upon me before entering. Perhaps one of the Irregulars – although, they don't bother to knock. Hmm. The person may be too short to reach said broken doorbell. Or, the person is in far too much distress to bother to try to test it, hence the way the knocks sounded.

Curious, indeed. Holmes knew this was not an ordinary client – if it were a client at all.

The two of them heard the distinct click, click, click of Mrs. Hudson's heels as she made her way to the door. There was an audible creak as it opened, followed by a warm, "Why, hello there, young man. Are you here to see Mr. Holmes?"

Watson shot Holmes an irritated glance, though the man ignored it, for the most part, chewing on the tip of his pipe. He knew it wasn't one of the Irregulars; they would never come here alone unless he told a specific one of them to complete a specific task and report back as soon as the information was acquired. Not only that, Mrs. Hudson was not at all fond of his little… erm… "guests". She never called them "young man". That only left said Irregulars hiring a new posse member, and even that was out of the question; they needed his permission, and he had seen neither hide nor hair of the boys for a week straight.

"Sherlock Holmes?" A pause. "Yes, please, ma'am."

Well, that settled it. It wasn't an Irregular, that much he was certain. Whoever had spoken, the child, was not, in fact, a boy. It was a girl. He could spot a well-practiced voice over from a mile away. Either the girl's parents taught her how to do so, or she taught herself (the latter of which was unlikely due to how it had fooled Mrs. Hudson, who had grown accustomed to voice overs much like Watson over the years.).

Perhaps her parents have gone missing or have been killed, he reasoned. That would be a wealthy opportunity for such a young child to be out on their own in the middle of –

His thought process was interrupted by his medical colleague. "Holmes?"

"I didn't do it!" he told the doctor, gaining a quirked brow in response. Before he could open his mouth to retort, Holmes was on his feet, tossing his violin unceremoniously onto the settee as he strode over to the doors leading to the rest of the flat.

"Holmes!" Watson had tried to lure him back, but he was already out the door.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson!" Holmes greeted, working a swift smile upon his lips. The landlady looked up at him, cleaning a tea cup with her rag. The little girl he had heard from before was seated at the kitchen table, swinging her legs back and forth on the stool and nibbling on one of Mrs. Hudson's homemade chocolate chunk almond cookies. Holmes would never admit it to her or Watson, but those cookies were delicious with a capital "D".

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson said. She nodded to the girl, who was studying him inquisitively, much like he was her. A cap was what tucked and hid her hair away from onlookers, though he could just see the few errant tendrils of the darkest brown curls he had ever seen – other than, well… he didn't want to think about her right then, but chalked it down as a theory, nonetheless.

The girl's face was narrow, shaped like a heart – so unlike the others of her age. Other than the tight fitting, pristine white male dress shirt (of which did nothing to hide her petite but firmly toned muscles, despite how old she was), the black suede vest with a silky indigo backdrop on the other side, and the pinstriped black trousers that clung to her scrawny hips with a leather belt, Holmes knew it was a girl. Her nose was round and splattered with a handful of blotches of freckles; her lips were a rosy pink in color; her skin was smooth and unflawed, though a delicate, fair color – not quite pale, but not tan, either. The shadow the brim of the cap produced blackened her eyes from view, although Holmes could still see the glint of mischief in their depths as they reflected off the sunlight beaming through the window. I was obvious to him that she was not here on clientele business. It was something else entirely.

The faint aroma of Persian perfume clouded his senses and echoed around her like some kind of aura. This caused Holmes to accept the former theory he was hoping this wouldn't have to come to, albeit reluctant. It was not like Irene to send a messenger to fetch him – let alone a five year old girl in men's clothing!

He had deduced that in a matter of six seconds.

"I will escort my guest to my room, thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Holmes nodded his gratitude as the girl hopped down off the stool, still gnawing on her cookie. Once the landlady had turned her back, the detective snatched up his own, biting off a piece and chewing it up. Then –

"Sherlock Holmes, get out here at once!"

Dr. Watson. Apparently, he had discovered his flat mate had been experimenting on his clothing yet again. And, if the grunts and whines emitting from the sitting room had anything to say about it, Gladstone was currently under the influence of the after affects of the stains on the fabric. An audible thump sounded (signifying to Holmes that Gladstone had dropped unconscious), followed by the stomping footfalls on the floorboards.

"Now, now! Hurry up!" he called to the girl, resulting in picking her up and throwing her over his shoulder because he believed her to be taking too long. She gripped her cap with both hands so as to make sure it didn't fall off, squirming desperately in a fretful attempt to escape. The rest of her cookie was stuffed between her lips, which she tried to eat up despite the circumstances. Holmes' own had been placed back on the platter on the table before Watson's outburst had begun. "We mustn't fall ill to the good doctor's wrath!"

"If he's a good doctor, then how come he had wrath that we mustn't fall ill to?" the girl queried once Holmes had plopped her down on his messy, unmade bed. The sheets reeked of tobacco and sweat that she knew wouldn't come out in the wash. That was probably the reason Mrs. Hudson refused to come in here, the look on her face had figured as she examined the room. It was in a state of utter catastrophe, like a hurricane had torn through it. Holmes didn't find it unorganized, though; quite the contrary. He knew where everything was, and didn't intend on cleaning it up soon.

Holmes shut and locked his bedroom door behind him, leaning his back against the wood nonchalantly, even as the thunderous footsteps moved closer and closer. He grinned calmly at her, explaining, "Dr. Watson is just the smallest bit temperamental –"

"Quit telling stories about me to clients, Holmes!" a furious voice sounded through the door, followed by vicious pounds upon the door's surface. "Fix my dog this instant!"

"Well, technically speaking, he's not only your dog –"

Holmes was cut off. "He's the only bloody dog you know, Holmes! I don't care if he's both our dogs or no, get out here this instant and fix him!"

"I told you, didn't I?" Holmes began coolly, "I didn't do it –"

"You're lying!"

"I am not!" Though it was painfully obvious he was. He silently damned the fact Watson had grown used to his mannerisms since they've been living at 221b Baker Street. "Now, do go back to your business, Watson, as you well know that I have a guest present." He peered over his shoulder to the girl, who was currently laid flat on her back on the smudged – with – some – unknown – chemical bed sheets, hands covering her mouth as she relentlessly tried to smother her laughter.

Holmes heard a huff of agitation, and the crooked thump of Watson's departure. He turned back to the girl, watching as she propped herself up on her elbows, legs outstretched in a way that reminded Holmes of a cat. She was smirking lopsidedly at him with her head cocked ever so slightly to the side, jaw resting on her shoulder. It looked uncomfortable to Holmes, though she didn't seem to mind.

A moment of silence. "What a unique specimen you are, young lady." He figured if he frightened the all – to – familiar smug look from her ageless face and struck enough fear or disgust into her, she could leave without incident and go back to her mother. Hence the 'specimen' comment.

She didn't look the slightest inch surprised or horrified that he had known she was neither a female nor what he had spoken to her. In fact, she just smirked a little broader in response. Holmes upper lip twitched at the sight of it; so much like her mother's. The likeness was unbelievable, even for the five year old.

Holmes merely tapped his fingertips together in thought as she spoke once again. He did not have the time to catalogue her tone or way of speaking before. Watson could be unbearably distracting at times. "So. You're the great Sherlock Holmes." It was a blunt statement. The girl had a smooth, flowing voice, so like Irene's, but it was somewhat coarse in depth. He could sense the slight slur of the tongue at the "sh" sound, though the undertone was somewhat cocky, like she was knowledgeable of something he was not. And sarcastic. Very, very sarcastic. That came from Irene, too.

"Does that bother you, Miss…?" Holmes trailed off, leaving room for input.

"Adler." Even though he already knew so, Holmes' overactive mind viciously cursed. Physically, he remained positively stoic, except for the minute twitch of his brow, and allowed her to continue. "Veronica Wisteria Adler, actually." Holmes felt his eyes widen to an undetectable degree; Wisteria was his mother's name. "And no – it doesn't bother me. My mum told me to expect as much from you."

"I see." Holmes' tone was clenched, just like his jaw. He had been talking through his teeth.

Veronica heard it. "I can tell you're not truly appreciative of my mum." Holmes had to hold in a snort at the understatement. "But…" she drew out, "she's the one that dropped me off here in the first place."

Holmes merely raised a brow at the admittance. "I know – out of the ordinary, isn't it?" Veronica began explaining, "She was heading to the Americas, I believe she said. Something about 'dangerous' and 'potentially life threatening' business she had to deal with, you see. I was used to that, though, but the she said she couldn't take me with her. I, of course, have never been out of the continent, so I was a tick upset, not that important, you know? She bought and dressed me up in this get up – which is actually more comfortable than a dress and corset, mind you – before dropping me off here. She said a Mr. Sherlock Holmes would 'gladly'" – the way she added air quotes when saying said word was the smallest bit humorous to the detective – "watch over me until she returned."

"All this pressed down and spewing out of the mouth of a five year old girl," Holmes said flatly. He sighed, cataloguing the summary into his memory bank. "Mrs. Hudson will not approve – then again, since when have I ever cared?"

"She makes great cookies, doesn't she?" Veronica said, sprawled out like a star on the bedspread, arms and legs unwound. She was gazing at the canopy of the bed and ceiling in utmost interest, almost in a reverie, but not quite, because in the shadows, Holmes could make out how her eyes danced in the reflecting sunlight in this room as well as the kitchen. Most eyes do that, he knew, but hers were different. He just didn't know why.

Holmes moved forward. "Yes, she does," he admitted, tossing a swift, unimportant glance over his shoulder, as if he expected to see the landlady standing there to witness said admittance. He saw no one, and continued on. "But don't tell her I said so. If she catches wind that I've complimented her baking, she'll never let me live it down."

"Understood." Veronica nodded as Holmes climbed onto the bed, collapsing onto his back with an exhaled breath of relief of not pacing or sitting uncomfortably in his armchair and brooding over not being able to do anything.

After a few calm minutes of utter silence, each person locked into their own mind and wild imagination, Holmes spoke up, disrupting the peace, but in an airy, not – actually – disrupting kind of way. "I would greatly appreciate it, Miss Adler, if you would kindly remove your cap. I'm not truly that fond of formal, in all honesty."

"Wow, you are nothing like mum," Veronica mused to herself, plucking in up off the top of her head. She shook free her loose curls, combing her fingers through them to rid the bundle of any knots or pins that had held it up out of sight. Holmes categorized, with a quick glance to the side, that the tendrils ended just below her shoulders when completely undone, and looked as soft as silk. Multicolored beads lay imbedded in her bangs, keeping them out of her eyes.

Her eyes…

They were a rich, chocolate brown outlined in an even darker sepia with almond shaped dots of light caramel surrounding the pupil. He would know those eyes anywhere. All of it made sense to Holmes, then; her handful of freckles, her semi-tanned complexion, her actions of sudden intrigue and study, and her extensive vocabulary…

"Veronica," he began steadily, keeping his tone even despite his racing thoughts. "Do you know where your father is?" He was dreading the answer.

As Veronica settled back down into a laying position, hands resting on abdomen, she peered over at the concerned detective, eyebrows knitted together. "What's a father?"

Holmes muttered a swift, "later" before gathering the girl into his arms and hugging her gently as he maneuvered her onto his chest. The five year old laughed at the action, crossing her arms and supporting her chin on them, gazing innocently up at Holmes in way that could only be described as admiration.

He now understood why she had been dropped off at his doorstep in the first place. He'd bet Irene wasn't even headed to the Americas.

She wanted him, Sherlock Holmes, consultive detective and most eccentric person in London (and most likely all of England), to care for their five year old daughter, Veronica Wisteria Adler. Holmes had not even known Irene had been with child!

Well, he thought, cracking a crooked grin Veronica's way. She giggled again. That would certainly explain her uncanny absence for the past five or so years.

They stayed like that for quite some time, making funny faces at one another, until it began to get dark outside his bedroom's window. The golden orange sun was sinking past the brick buildings and cobblestone – pavemented streets, warning passersby that night was soon to come. Beams of magenta violet and silvery grey light swirled off and around in the sky, peering through the glass in a brilliant display of colors.

Veronica soon yawned in a most undignified manner, not bothering to cover her mouth or excuse her rudeness. Holmes enjoyed it; she was raised properly. He would despise having a "lady" as a child.

"Mr. Holmes?" Her voice was sleep – heavy. He let out a faint, "hmm?" to show he was listening, shifting so as to be more comfortable under her weight; despite her trimmed appearance and slender body frame, she had a good amount of meat on her bones. "Will you tell me a story?" she asked, "A real good one?"

Holmes' forehead creased, going unnoticed by the girl due to her closed eyes. "Like what?" He was being ridiculous, he was positive, and he knew he would undoubtedly regret it in the morning, but he honestly didn't care. This girl was his daughter, for goodness' sake, and albeit he knew she was going to cause and handful of trouble sooner or later, she did deserve at least a little fatherly affection.

"Well…" Veronica trailed off, yawning again. "Mum always used to tell me real good stories. I had a favorite one, too. She called it 'The Cyanide Machine'. No idea why, though."

Holmes instantly knew where this was headed. "And, would you allow me to tell you my interpretation?" he surmised. Veronica mumbled something unintelligible, but nodded. Holmes smiled, beginning, "Well, if I remember correctly, it started with me and my good friend, Dr. Watson, getting hired by a missing girl's parents…"

*No, Gladstone's not dead, in case you were thinking of asking. Second, I have no idea what Sherlock's mother's name is, but I figured 'Wisteria' would fit. Third, this does take place after the 2009 remake, but Watson never met nor married Mary Morstan. Its not that I have anything against her, I just think that is I were to continue this, it'd be much funnier if it was Holmes, Watson, and Mrs. Hudson taking care of Veronica instead of just Holmes and Mrs. Hudson. I'm complicated. Spare me my grief. REVIEW THOU DEMON! I COMMAND OF THEE!*