Intro: This is a story idea that's been swirling in my head for awhile. There will be no smut; the M rating is for language and some later violence. This is the first Sherlock story I've written and my first multi-chapter story. Feedback is always appreciated, flaming is not. Enjoy!
New Year's Eve. Sherlock hated New Year's Eve. It was so- sentimental. People creating lofty goals that they'll likely abandon within a week of their inception. Not to mention the drinking. Baker Street was littered with drunkards, some still holding bottles of cheap whiskey and overpriced vodka. He watched them from the window, shuddering at the remembrance of John's miscalculated stag night.
BANG!
There was a loud pop, similar to a gunshot.
"John!" Sherlock yelled up the stairs. "There are bombs outside!"
"They're just fireworks, Sherlock. Calm down," John shouted back.
After learning of Moriarty's supposed resurrection, John had insisted that Mary stay with her sister for a while. Not pleased at the idea of an empty house, John had elected to stay with Sherlock.
"Turn them off!"
"I'm not the one launching them, you git!"
Sherlock groaned loudly. "I can't think with all this clatter!"
BANG!
"John!"
Sherlock could hear the doctor's heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. An exasperated Watson soon appeared in the living room.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
Sherlock paused for a moment.
"Nothing. But if I needed to, I would be unable."
John sighed. "Well just- don't think."
Sherlock snorted. "You know me, John. I can't go for a period of longer than fifteen minutes without thinking."
John threw up his arms. "What do you want me to do about it?"
"Turn off the fireworks!"
Ding!
The doorbell rang suddenly. They both turned to look at the entryway.
"Who could be looking for us this late at night?" Sherlock wandered aloud.
"Probably just some drunk looking for a place to sleep," John offered.
Sherlock turned to John, a wide and slightly unsettling smile on his face.
"Or a client."
Sherlock began to walk towards the door, but John intercepted him.
"Sherlock. It has been less than a week since you shot a man in the head. Less than a week since you got on a plane going God knows where to do God knows what. Less than a week since that same plane returned four minutes later. Less than a week since Moriarty's second coming. We are not, under any circumstances, taking on a case."
Ding! Ding!
John took in a deep breath. "I'm going to answer the door. You are going to sit down in that chair and not say anything."
Sherlock scowled. "Fine." He begrudgingly walked to the chair and sulkily sat down.
John made his way to the door, taking in another breath before opening it.
On the step stood a girl, no older than sixteen. She was slightly shorter than John, and slender. Her light brown hair was pulled into a tight bun, and she wore an anxious expression on her face.
"Not a drunk," John thought to himself.
"Can I help you?" he asked cautiously.
"Um, hi. Is this the residence of, um, Sherlock Holmes?"
John instantly placed her accent as American.
"What could an American teenager be doing at Sherlock's front door at quarter past eleven?"
John was struck with an inevitable realization as Sherlock's words rang in his ears.
A client.
"Yes, but he's, uh… not in right now," John lied.
At the utterance of his name, Sherlock sprang from the chair and ran to the door. "Yes! Yes I am!"
John sighed. He shouldn't have trusted the detective to be quiet. He should have just locked him in a closet.
"Sherlock…"
"I presume that you have a matter of which needs investigating?" Sherlock half stated, half asked.
"Yes. Yes I do," the girl replied, slight relief in her voice.
That scheming grin reappeared on Sherlock's face.
"Come in."
Introductions were made quickly. The girl was from a city called Indianapolis in the United States. She was sixteen years old. Her name was Ann Vanhorn. She was an eloquent girl, though slightly meek in nature. She reminded Sherlock of Molly.
"So what brings you to London?" John inquired, taking a sip of his tea.
"Like Mr. Holmes inferred, I have a matter that needs to be investigated."
"You took a ten hour and twenty-five minute flight and spent £620 to come see me?"
Ann looked down, a subtle look of embarrassment crossing her face.
"Yes. Mr. Holmes, my situation is of a very… specific nature, and I believe you are the only one who can help me."
John set down his tea. "Because Sherlock needs more justification to be an arrogant bastard," John muttered to himself. Sherlock scowled at John, the comment not slipping by his ears.
Sherlock sat on the edge of the couch, intrigued by the possibility of and international case that only he could solve.
"Elaborate," Sherlock said sharply.
"Please. Elaborate, please," John added.
Ann sat up in her chair, taking a moment to work up the courage to begin.
"Two weeks ago, my mother was found dead in her office. The doctors were unable to determine how she died, but ultimately ruled that it was due to 'natural causes.' But I didn't believe them. My mother was in perfect health. I remember how she and I used to run around the park every morning." She paused to take another deep breath. "Anyway, the night after they found her body, I decided to go through some of her things. She had a drawer in her bedroom dresser that she always kept locked. I never could figure out how to pick the lock. With her being gone, I figure there would be no harm done if I just… broke the dresser. That fact, coupled with my emotionally compromised stated, led to me punching out the drawer with a hammer. I know I shouldn't have done it. Even though she's… no longer with me, it feels like a betrayal of her trust. I just-"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, spare us the sentiment."
"Sherlock! Not good!"
"Sorry. Continue."
Surprisingly, Ann seemed not to be phased by Sherlock's remark.
"In the drawer, there were some letters and photographs. The time stamp said they were taken in 1996. My mother would have been nineteen at the time. My mother spent the fall semester of 1996 studying in Dublin, and I was conceived during that same semester."
Sherlock leaned back into the couch, slightly bored by the girl's story. "Did you know your father?"
She shook her head. "No. I never even knew his name. My mother refused to even speak of him. I never prodded. I didn't want to upset her. But these letters… these letters contain almost everything I needed to know. She didn't realize she was pregnant until she returned to America, which was in January of 1997. There were four letters from the man I presume to be my father. The letters were only signed with his initials: J.M. And then I looked at this photo…"
Ann withdrew a photo from her coat pocket and handed it to Sherlock. Upon seeing it, he drew in a sharp breath. The photo slipped from his hand and onto the floor, landing facedown.
"What is it?" John questioned.
"And then I saw the headline in the news."
Outside the window, John heard the chanting countdown of a group of people on the street below.
"10!" they shouted.
"It said 'Master criminal returns from the grave.' I saw his name."
"9!"
The wheels began to turn in John's head. "Oh no…"
"8!"
"I recognized the man in the accompanying picture."
"7!"
John picture up off the floor but didn't turn it over.
"6!"
"And his initials."
"5!"
John turned to Sherlock, realizing the implications of the girl's statements.
"4!"
"He's the same man in that picture."
"3!"
John slowly turned over the photo, gasping at the face it featured.
"2!"
"The photo. The initials. If it means what I think it means, than my father is-"
"1!"
The two men turned to her as Sherlock completed her sentence.
"James Moriarty."
"Happy New Year!"
Author's Note: Dun dun dun! Anyway, I hope you liked it. I apologize for any inaccuracies in John and Sherlock's dialogue (I'm American, so I'm not completely familiar with British English). Stay tuned for more!