Mycroft is the one who told them about him. That's the very first thing the man and woman say when Sherlock finds them at his door. As if, somehow, this would ensure that he'd even consider taking the case. And they are so wrong about that.
It's something typical, at first glance. Their teenage daughter has disappeared and has now been missing for a week. The police hasn't been helpful; big surprise there.
Their names are Paul and Hannah McCormick. The woman sobs during the entire interview, much to Sherlock's disdain and John's discomfort. On the photograph the tearful woman hands him, Sherlock sees a young girl with shockingly bright red hair, wearing sunglasses and smiling happily as she shields her eyes from the sun and waves at the camera. Her name is Jacqueline.
oOo
Two days later, he tells Mycroft he won't take the case. He has three very good reasons for doing so.
"Dull, predictable, boring." He says to his brother, plucking random strings on his violin by the window, as John examines the photograph closely, yet another time. And then, to emphasize his point, he adds, annoyed: "She ran away from home. Rebellious teens full of angst rarely get kidnapped, Mycroft. Chances are she'll be back within two days time. She'll have stayed at some friends, tried cocaine, lost her virginity and the reunion with her parents will be one full of tears and apologies."
"You can't know that for sure," John frowns. "What if something happens to her?"
"Consider this carefully," Mycroft adds, sinking deeper into the leathery armchair, gazing thoughtfully at his brother. "The client is a rich one."
"Money does not interest me, as you know." John grits his teeth not to remind him that there are several overdue bills sitting on kitchen counter. To keep his hands busy (and at a fair distance from Sherlock's throat, one can never be too careful), he fidgets with the file Mycroft just brought along with him, additional information to help with the McCormick case. There's another photograph in it, and John picks it up, curious despite his better judgement; this one is larger and he can see the girl – Jacqueline, isn't it? - better. Not particularly pretty, not especially ugly, he notes. Average looking, red curly hair falling past her shoulders, a couple of freckles on the bridge of her nose. She is grinning in the photo, one of her front teeth chipped, her entire face seemingly unsymmetrical. Nothing special, really. But there is something, John notices, about her clear, gray eyes; something he should make the connection with, but is unable to for the time being.
Meanwhile, the two brothers continue arguing, Sherlock is staring out of the window, Mycroft's nails digging into the leathery armchair in frustration.
"This is already a done deal."
"Hardly."
"And if I forced you?"
"I'd like to see you try."
"Don't be such a child, Sherlock."
"Don't boss me around, Mycroft. I won't do the case. Please leave now."
"Enough, Sherlock!" Mycroft growls, his voice suddenly deeper, as he stands up, his umbrella tapping the wooden floor threateningly. "You must find the girl. Don't make me make you."
Sherlock turns back towards his brother, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Ah," he whispers, gaze narrowing. "I guessed as much. There's more, isn't it? Is she some lost Dutch heiress or a Swedish criminal mastermind on the run since she was thirteen? Time to own up, Mycroft, if this really is of such importance."
Mycroft blinks, and narrows his eyes, mirroring his brother.
"Very well. If you must know, Jacqueline has just learned her parents are not her biological -"
"Obviously!" Sherlock throws his arms up dramatically, cutting his brother off. "I knew that the second I laid eyes on the photograph. Her freckles, Mycroft! Quite uncommon with dark eyes, and her parents both are brown-eyed. Simple. Too easy and hardly worth my time or energy."
Mycroft looks chagrined for the first time.
"Very well," he says after clearing his throat and getting to his feet. Taking the second picture from John's hands, he shoves it into Sherlock's, who looks down at it automatically, eyebrows raised. John waits for Sherlock to laugh and cast it aside, before shoving his brother out of the flat, but his friend seems to have frozen. His appearance remains unaltered, perfectly poised and stoic, and yet there is something alarming in his eyes that John is unable to make out.
"1995." Mycroft says in the silence that has fallen over the little room. "Your first year in college. If I recall well, her name was Samantha Jenkins, and she was-"
"Sam," Sherlock corrects automatically, and for the first time, his voice isn't as smooth as he would like it to be. "Her name was Sam."
oOo
"She called me when she had her daughter. I was able to help out, financially speaking."
"I'm sure."
"I didn't tell you because I knew the technicalities would only bore you. Samantha didn't want the child. I found her a good home, gave a large sum of money taken directly from your bank account every month, and ensured she had a nice childhood."
"That's good."
"The parents panicked when she ran away. They'd just told her she wasn't their daughter the night before. They thought, naturally, that she would try to find you."
"…"
"Do you know where she is, Sherlock?"
oOo
"She has your eyes. That's why I thought I'd seen them before when I-"
"Yes."
"And… her face, and hair? Samantha's?"
"Yes."
"I can't believe it! How can you be so cold about all of this? Jacqueline… She's your daughter, Sherlock!"
"Yes."
"Well, what are you going to do now?"
oOo
He walks slowly and stands about a meter from where she sits, face turned to the wind. A quick glance informs him of absolutely everything he needs to know. Her grey hood barely hides her much too recognizable red curls; she's cut her hair anyway, for better measure, and it barely reaches her chin now. Her eyes are closed, but he can distinguish the five freckles on the bridge of her nose that aroused his wonder just a few days ago; all because Paul McCormick has brown eyes, as does his wife Hannah, and light freckles such as these do not go hand in hand with dark eyes. Simple. Her arms are wrapped around herself, but she isn't shivering, despite the harassing gushes of wind; so it is not for warmth, but comfort. She's tired, he realizes, seeing the dark circles under her eyes, tired and afraid. But even though the last couple of days have been hard for her, she doesn't want to go back to her parents just yet; if she did, she'd be crying and have a duffel bag by her side. He still doesn't understand what she hoped to achieve by running away from home, but he sees that she's looking for something, and still hasn't found it. He doesn't know what it is, but he can't help but admire her tenacity. And just like that, the realization that this young woman sitting near him is his daughter hits him like a ton of bricks.
"You can sit down, if you want."
It takes him a few second to realize she's the one who said it.
"Sherlock? You can sit down, if you want."
He barely spares her a glance.
"Why would I want to sit down?" the question doesn't come out quite like he wanted it to. His voice is sluggish, high-pitched, and disgustingly not his own. He looks down at the glass clutched in his right hand in disdain and almost loses his balance, swaying dangerously towards the ground. The girl grabs his elbow, keeping him upright.
"I think you've had quite enough," she says sternly, and takes the drink from his sweaty grip.
"You can sit, if you want to. I don't mind." The girl repeats, eyes still closed, face leaning towards the sky. Her fingers drum some sort of fast beat on her crossed arms. Sherlock sits next to her slowly, despite the wet and cold ground, not quite knowing if he should.
"Why should I?" he asks anyway, sounding haughty despite himself, because he just doesn't know how to start conversing with her any other way. It's never been easy for him to talk to anyone, ever.
"You were sort of swaying. I just didn't want you falling from the edge. People might blame your death on me." She grins to herself and finally opens her eyes, staring straight at the ocean.
"That would indeed be… unfortunate." Sherlock says under his breath, but she doesn't seem to be listening anymore. Head cocked to the side, fingers lightly moving on top of her sleeves, she is waiting.
"Do you think," she asks suddenly, and he is startled by the desperation underlying her tone. "that you could wait – just until I see the sunset?"
"Wait?" he repeats, throat dry, although it is quite obvious that she is in no way stupid; that she understands why he's here and what it means for her.
"Before they drag me back. I'd like to see this." She gestures towards the view. "It's kind of important to me."
"The sun will not set for another thirteen minutes."
"And that's not a lot to ask for, is it? Thirteen minutes of freedom." He senses that she is much too proud to say "please" and likes her all the more for it.
"That would be… manageable." He assures her and she visibly relaxes, resting her chin on top of knees once more. They fall silent again. Sherlock wonders if she would prefer being alone.
"You can stay," she whispers, as if reading his mind. "It's been days since I've talked to anyone. I'm kind of desperate for human company." For the first time, she glances at him and all he can see is her grey eyes, his eyes, reflecting back his surprise to him. But she doesn't see it yet.
"You're not the police," she says matter-of-factly. "Too well dressed for that. Are you a private detective? Did my parents hire you to find me?"
"I'm a consulting detective." He waits for her to tell him she's never heard of anything like this before; instead, she offers him her hand.
"I'm Jackie, and I appreciate the thirteen additional minutes you're granting me."
"Samantha," he gasps as she helps him up the stairs to his apartment, struggling to keep him upright. He looks at her bright red hair, eyes wide. "You're Samantha from economics class! I know you…" she leans him against the wall as he keeps rambling and fishes out the key from his torn jacket to open the door for him.
"Sam," she corrects, turning the lights on, and pulling his arm over her shoulders for support once more. "It's Sam."
"Jackie," he repeats, shaking her hand, taking in her features, making the connections over and over again, trying to engrave them into his mind before the police comes and takes her back to the disgustingly sugary, dull and boring people that aren't her parents. And he is disappointed, although he knows the feeling is irrational. "I'm Sherlock Holmes."