Author's Note: This was originally posted on Tumblr, after an anon asker requested an AU of the 2010 movie "Flipped". Should be noted that this is set in the movie's time period of the late 50s/early 60s.

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The first time Sherlock Holmes meets her, he's just two months shy of his tenth year, and she's warm, she's friendly, she's funny, her eyes sparkle when she laughs and she's terrifying.

She proudly tells him she's "about the same age" as him and offers him an apple from her lunchbox. It's some kind of gesture of friendship, he's sure. Unfortunately, another thing he's sure of is that he doesn't have friends. He tells her as much. Infuriatingly, her only reaction is to laugh. Her dimples deepen a little with the act.

"Everyone has friends though!" She once more offers him the apple. He still refuses it. Her eyes grow dim and her smile tightens, far less genuine than before—but it isn't because she's sad. She seems to feel pity for him. She gives a shrug and drops the apple back into her lunchbox, snapping it shut.

"Oh well." She flashes a smile. "Maybe we can just settle for being neighbours?"

She's persistent, he will say that. That's just another reason for him to instantly forget her name.

It would be difficult then, to describe the gargantuan amount of definite annoyance felt by him when he finds himself that night, wrapped up in his favourite duvet, surrounded by piles of boxes of his belongings, dreaming of her smile, an apple and her name: Molly Hooper.

The next day, he cycles past her house (he has to, her house is part of the neighbourhood after all) and on stopping, sees party balloons fixed to the fence. Outside on the lawn, there's a gaggle of adults, stood around a table which has more balloons and ribbons strewn over it. In the centre of them, there she is, grinning and laughing with excitement. The adults present a cake to her. Atop of it are sixteen candles, with a large 8 right in the middle.

He scoffs. About the same age. That's another reason he shouldn't want her for a friend—she's terrible at maths. Before he can cycle away though, she spots him. He doesn't try to hide his displeasure at the fact, but if the way in which she runs up to him is anything at all to go by, she's nonplussed by it. Further evidence of that is provided when she offers out a piece of cake. Despite her kind words telling him it's his choice whether he eats it or not, he knows exactly what she's trying to do. She's trying to feed him into friendship.

He will admit, it's a strange tactic. The fact that she's using it on him is even more puzzling. She smiles wider, pushing the plate forward slightly. He sighs, and makes a grab for the cake. One bite—one sodding bite, that's all he'll take. She'll no doubt read it as such, but it's not a sign of friendship. He bites savagely on the crisp and cool vanilla icing, never once breaking her gaze as he ploughs through the soft, sweetened chocolate sponge. Even when he swallows it back down his throat, he doesn't stop staring—glaring, actually—at her.

Her only reaction (again) is to laugh. It's maddening.

It's only after he's cycled, his legs pumping furiously, back home and happens to look in the kitchen mirror that he sees the source of her humour; there's a mixture of vanilla icing and chocolate sponge smeared all over and around his lips.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes blushes.

His mother tells him it's okay to be nervous on his first day. In fact, she tells him that about four times in a row. Partly to get her to stop speaking, he assures her that he isn't nervous. He isn't like the other kids after all. That seems to reassure his mother, who kisses his cheek, hugs him tightly, promises to be there at the end of the day and steers him towards the school building, waving before she strolls back to the car.

He resolves not to be nervous all the way to his classroom. It's no big deal, after all, walking into the school as the new student in a class full of people who have no doubt known each other since they were small. "Big fuss over nothing," he mutters as he pauses outside the classroom door, looking through the frosted glass. He takes a hold of the door handle and steps inside, to find it—well, empty. Pretty much. The nerves (that he does not have) still into something more resembling surprise.

A teacher, smiley and nice with thick rimmed glasses, rises to her feet and tells him that it's lovely to meet him, but he's a bit early, so if he just takes a seat beside Molly and waits for everyone else to arrive, she'll introduce him then. He opens his mouth to argue, but his eyes trace over the rest of the desks. Name placards, handwritten and hand decorated, they all proudly sit there, happily claiming each and every seat. Except for one.

He huffs as he flops down beside her. He hates seating plans.

"You could make your own name plaque, if you like," she offers, a tentative edge to her voice. He twists his head to look at her. She holds a piece of card in her hand. As always, she's offering it out to him. Why does she always offer him things? Sitting up, he snatches the card from her fingers.

"Might as well."

He won't put on any decoration though. His name doesn't need it.

She just won't leave him alone. It's not just the fact that their proximity means they apparently have to be partnered for absolutely everything. It's other things too. Every time he's in the library, she's in the library. Every time he cycles home from school, she's walking home from school. Every time he's made to hang out the washing by his mother, she's out in her garden, playing with some grey furball she calls Toby. It seems that Molly Hooper is determined to make herself a part of his life.

"I've got a solution to your problem." He almost drops the books in his arms at the sound of John's voice and he whirls around, swallowing.

"P-problem?"

"The Molly problem," John whispers. "Greg was telling me about it. Apparently it always works."

Although Greg is an older boy, no doubt experienced in the art of getting girls he doesn't want around him away, Sherlock wouldn't usually trust any plan he made with a very long barge pole, but well, he is desperate.

"What's the solution then?"

"Apparently, you ask out a girl the girl you want to keep away hates, and she gets so upset, she doesn't fancy you anymore."

"W-wh – but I don't fancy anyone. And Molly doesn't hate anyone. She's bloody well sunshine and rainbows," Sherlock hisses, hugging the books to his chest. "Honestly, I'm surprised angels don't sing when she passes by."

"It's not a case of fancying anyone," John says with a roll of his eyes. "You just have to ask them out – that's it. Nothing else."

"Oh. Well, who do I ask out?"

"Irene Adler?" John suggests with a whisper, shrugging. "She's one of the most popular girls in the school – Molly's bound to hate her."

Sherlock bends down, peeking through the bookshelves. Through the books, he sees her, the girl who's been plaguing him since he was nine years old. It's ridiculous that he has to resort to such playground tactics to get rid of her, but there's no bigger hint he can give her, aside from speaking to her. She lifts her head, her gaze falling on the books. Gasping, he ducks away. John raises an eyebrow at him.

"What?" he hisses. Yet John says nothing. He clearly thinks his expression is enough (it's not). Sherlock gives a huff. "Fine. I'll ask out Adler."

The word of his date with Irene spreads quickly through the school, and he knows it's reached Molly when he feels her tap at his shoulder (quick tap, to the left shoulder—something only she dares to do). He whirls around, and she greets him with a slight smile.

"Mary was talking to me – she said you're going to the cinema with Irene this weekend."

"Y-yes – I asked her," he says quickly. She blinks, smiling wider.

"Oh. Great!" She reaches forward, squeezing at his arm. "I hope you have fun."

He peers at her, but there's no tightening in her smile; no wetness around her eyes; no biting to hide a trembling bottom lip. She's irritatingly genuine. He can bloody well see the angel wings, fluttering behind her.

"Thank you." He just about manages to bite out the words. She departs from his company with a cheery goodbye, and he gives a heavy sigh. He'd started this scheme in an effort to get her to leave him alone. Yet she's still more persistent than ever. His bad mood only worsens when he, later on that evening, receives a phone call from Irene.

"You could just tell Molly you don't want to be friends with her, Sherlock," she says with a light sigh. "Or better yet – just tell her the truth."

"The truth?" he echoes.

"That you like her."

"But I don't like Molly Hoop—"

She hangs up before he has the chance to argue any further.

"So, how did your date go?" She's far too cheery—if she liked him that much, surely her eyes would be that little bit pink from crying over the weekend—and she sits beside him, picking up a stick of lettuce. She snaps it between her teeth, raising her eyebrows in a gesture for him to answer. If he was sensible, he'd get up and leave without question. Maybe then she'll get the hint.

"Didn't go in the end," he mutters, picking at his food.

"Oh." She sounds disappointed. Why's she disappointed? Surely, she should be happy his 'date' fell through! "That's sad. What happened?"

"Irene – she was busy. Couldn't come." It isn't the truth, not by a long shot, but if she's not going to be happy, then she's not going to get the truth. Not from him, anyway. She smiles again.

"Oh, okay. Happens to everyone I suppose." Before he can register it in order to dodge the gesture, she reaches forward and squeezes his hand. He can feel himself freeze. She, Molly Hooper, is holding hands with him. He tampers down the shudder that threatens to shoot up his spine. She grins. "You'll get over it in time, I'm sure."

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see John at the other side of the table, chip hovering against his mouth. Molly continues to hold onto his hand, unaware of the ramifications her choice of action holds for her intended target. Or perhaps she is aware. Perhaps she's elongating the torture for her own fun and games. She's the kind of person who would.

"If you ever want to talk Sherlock, I'm happy to listen," she says with another beaming smile and she finally relinquishes her hold on him and gets up from the dinner table, strolling through the hall.

"Wow…" John murmurs. "You've got a bigger problem than I thought."

The problem only grows in size as time passes. Month after month, year after year, Molly Hooper grows taller and bigger and happier. Her family is poor; one of the poorest families in the whole of the neighbourhood, but that doesn't seem to affect her. She still smiles, still cracks jokes and still has the skill of finding pleasure in substantially banal things. If she weren't real and wasn't intent on haunting his psyche every five seconds, he might think her to be one of those Disney characters.

One of her pleasures is, oddly, a tree. In the middle of the town, there's a park, and in the middle of that park, there's a tree. It's a sycamore tree, and it's been growing in the town for centuries, apparently. She loves to chatter about that tree. She's always talking about its gnarled old branches and its thick green leaves which grow so crisp in the autumn and burn bright gold in the autumn sunlight. She likes to pick the leaves off its branches and show them to him, tracing her fingers against the intricately lined pattern. The pages of her exercise books, much to the consternation of her teachers, are dotted with drawings of leaves, all of them trying to capture that same intricacy. He's once or twice asked her why she draws when she can easily trace them. She's never yet deigned him with an answer.

"Sherlock?" He's tempted to cycle straight past the tree and her, but there's something in her tone of voice that causes him to stop. He cranes his neck up, and her smile, which has become so familiar to him, has gone. She winds her arms tighter around the trunk of the tree, and she sniffs a little. Her cheeks are wet. She's upset—over a tree? She rubs at her nose, and tries to smile at him.

"Do you want to come up? And – sit with me, for a bit?"

He shifts uncomfortably. He should move on. Just continue cycling and pretend she never spoke to him.

"Something's wrong." Stupid, obvious thing to say, but he can think of little else.

"Your family owns this tree, right?" she asks, and there's a minute trace of hope in her words.

"Used to," he replies, grimacing a little. "I think. Dad – sold it, a few years ago."

"Oh." The hope fades, and she's back to leaning against the trunk, staring out into space. "The view's really nice up here, you know."

"Is it? That's – well, good."

She laughs, and he can feel his feet lift themselves off the pedals and press into the grass. All too quickly to stop himself from doing so, he drops the bicycle onto its side and feels the gnarled bark of the tree underneath his palms and hears the creak of the branches as he climbs up. She grins and reaches out her hand, hauling him up. Somewhat precariously, he perches beside her and he can almost feel every inch of air in his lungs disappear in a silent gasp. She's right; the view is really nice. It's better than that, actually. It's a sunset, blazing orange above the whole neighbourhood, and they're the first ones to see it.

He doesn't quite know why he looks immediately to her, but he does, and she smiles. Apparently she knows what's wrong before he does.

"You don't need to worry," she says quietly. "I've got you."

He risks a peek over the tips of his knees. The ground is a long, long way down. He gulps. "I hope so."

She threads her fingers through his.

"There." She raises their intertwined hands to show him. "Just in case you fall."

He shouldn't like holding hands with her, but here, right now, as he tightens his grip around her tiny, pale hand, he feels like she will keep her promise. He feels safe.

She makes the local newspaper with her antics. They call it a 'protest', but it's not that. It's just her, and what she does. She's heard of the plans the new owner has for that old sycamore tree, and almost as soon as the knowledge of it was absorbed into her mind, she scrambled up that old tree trunk and perched in her favourite spot, the sunlight dancing off her determined scowl, a basket of food wedged in beside her. From her perch, she throws conkers at reporters and workers alike, telling them they'll have to cut her down as well. One exasperated worker says he will, if she doesn't get a move on. Slowly but surely, the whole neighbourhood comes out to witness the spectacle of this odd little girl putting up a fight for an old sycamore that should've been pulled down years ago.

"Sherlock!" From high on her perch, she spots him stood at the base of the tree. The whole of the neighbourhood surrounds this tree, but she spots only him. She leans forward. "Come on – they can't cut the tree down if we're sitting in it together!"

He swallows, but his hesitation doesn't deter her. She sticks out a hand. Her brown eyes are slick with tears, and wide with pleading. "Please – Sherlock."

People make many mistakes in their lives and have even more regrets. That day, Sherlock makes his first. He turns, and he runs away.

When he hears her father softly encouraging her to climb down, he switches on the television and increases the volume. It still isn't loud enough to drown out the sound of the chainsaw.

Ever since the early years of her childhood, Molly Hooper's father, when not tending to his front lawn and painting his landscapes, has recounted to her his tales of her mother. Through his words and his memories, he has spun a story—an image—of a woman who had her eyes and her spirit. "Gumption," her father would say to her. "She had gumption – just like you, love."

Day after day and evening after evening, he has describe her, his stories rich with detail, and it's clear to anyone who listens just how much he loved his late wife. Just how much he misses her, even to this day. When she was five, she asked him if he believes if there's such a thing as The One. At such a question, he smiled and hugged her tighter.

"Not until I met your mother."

She smiled at that, and she smiled wider when she'd met Sherlock.

When she first meets him, she wasn't quite sure what to think of him. He's a funny sort of boy, curious about everything but careful never to get too close. Friends are a strange concept to him; but when she suggests they simply be neighbours to one another, he seems rather put out by the suggestion, as if the idea of being neighbours is far worse than the idea of being friends.

For the rest of the day after their first meeting, she ponders Sherlock Holmes. She ponders well into the middle of the night, and in the end, the solution to the puzzle slides quite easily into place. She decides to do exactly what she's promised to do. She did say she'd be a neighbour to him, and a neighbour she would be.

So when he comes cycling past her house and she sees him gaze so longingly at her birthday cake, she knows that, as his neighbour, it's her duty to provide him with a slice. Getting one from her father, she runs over to him. His features scrunch into a frown as she approaches, and almost all of her resolve dissipates. Perhaps he doesn't want the cake after all. Still, she isn't one to take back any sort of offer. So she straightens her shoulders and holds the cake out towards him. Yet he still grabs at it and takes a bite. So he did want the cake! Yet when she sees him stare at her, that inquisitive frown on his face coupled with the smears of chocolate and vanilla around his mouth, she knows something else, with a great amount of certainty. Sherlock Holmes is The One.

She remains sure of that, even when he decides he likes Irene Adler and asks her to go to the pictures with him. Although Molly is hurt when Mary tells her and although she does cry a little when she gets home from school that day, those tears soon subside when her father comes in from one of his many jobs and scoops her up in his arms to stroke at her hair and delivers soft, comforting words and stories to her ears.

In the end, the next time she sees Sherlock, she's able to deliver him a genuine message of congratulations. And when he comes in on Monday and sullenly informs her that his date with Irene had never happened, well, she's able to do as her father does whenever he sees people in trouble: she gently squeezes his hand and tells him it will all be okay in the end.

Her father only takes temporary jobs—his illness never allows him to stay on one career path for more than a month at a time—but as the years roll by, those jobs dry up. Younger, fitter men are coming up every day, seeking a way in the world. Even when they know he has a young daughter to feed, the companies prefer a younger man willing to work permanently rather than an older man who can't work for three weeks before landing himself in hospital. After a time, her father can only afford to give her clothes and food. Her aunt volunteers to take over the paying of the rent. In return, her father makes sure both the house and the garden are well maintained. "Can't look a gift horse in the mouth," he says with a smile, although his lips are often chapped and dry now from the effort he takes simply to breathe.

Molly learns to appreciate the little things. Many people don't understand her love for that old sycamore tree in the middle of the park, and many adults knock on their front door and scold her father for letting her climb up so high on what could be a dangerously old tree. Her father, at first, tells them she's fine, but she knows he's concerned. So she tells him all about that old tree. She tells him about the grooves in the bark, and about the rustling in the leaves. She tells him about the view. The view that stretches on for miles and miles and is never the same, no matter how many times she goes up there. She picks off leaves for him to examine, stuffing them into her pocket for later. After a time, she presents her findings to her father, and he encourages her to draw them for him. She readily accepts the challenge.

She gets in trouble for drawing in her exercise books or teased, but Sherlock is unlike the others—he sees her drawings and, like everything he sees or notices, he's curious. His tone is one of disbelief when she talks with him about the tree and the detail in the leaves, and she knows she's boring him when she goes on for too long, but she just can't stop. She won't stop. Not even when she learns that the big old sycamore tree, the one that she's poured her heart and soul into, is to come down. Her instinct kicks in, and she runs away. Packing herself some food, she breaks out of her house and scrambles up the tree towards her perch. The sky is a searing blue, the blazing orange of the sunset just beginning to creep in. It's beautiful, and she hugs the branch tightly. She can't help herself, and she begins to cry.

Sherlock finds her—or more, she finds him. Up on her perch, she can see everything. Even a scrawny eleven year old boy with messy black curls. She calls his name, and she tries to be brave, tries to sound strong, but she fails miserably. He'd know too soon she was lying anyway. There's something in her voice apparently, because he doesn't cycle on, nor does he make any excuse. He talks to her. He climbs up. He sits beside her. They hold hands.

The next time she offers her hand out to him though, he doesn't take it. He runs away, embarrassed by her actions, like everyone else who surrounds the tree. The workmen, hired to do their job, think of her as a nuisance (they've said as much). The neighbours think she's being overdramatic. For heaven's sake, it's just a tree, they say.

Then her dad steps up. The firemen offer him a ladder, but he's too ill to use it. So he stands at the base of it, staring up at her.

"Come on sweetheart," he says, too brightly. "You have to come down now."

"No I don't." Her words are petulant and childish and she doesn't care. She doesn't care how she comes off, or how she appears to the neighbours, or the workmen, or the newspaper people. They shouldn't be able to cut this tree down. She presses her head against the tree trunk, hugging it tighter. "I don't have to come down. I can stay here all night if I want."

Her father eyes the basket of food. She's only nibbled from it, titbits here and there. There's still enough to last her at least another day in the tree—her tree.

"I don't doubt it love," he says, and there's a laugh in his voice. A genuine laugh, not one he's putting on just for show. She bites back her own laugh.

"They can't cut down this tree, Dad, they just can't."

He sighs. "I know this means a lot to you sweetheart, but you need – I need you to come down."

He's right; he does need her. He needs her to help him tend the lawn, to cook dinner, to help him when he has a fall or when he gets dizzy. He needs her because he can no longer look after himself. His illness has stripped that away from him, and she's all he has left.

She loves her sycamore tree. She loves the tranquillity, the peace and the beauty of it—but it's not worth more than her dad. She wipes her eyes and picks up her basket and gives in. The tree comes down later that afternoon, and she weeps.

Molly Hooper no longer stalks Sherlock Holmes, and it's a dream come true. Except it's not. He should be happy. He should be cycling to school, free as a bird from her smiles and her chatter and her strange gifts of food, but he's not. Somehow, he finds himself setting his alarm clock that little bit earlier so that when she shuts her front door and begins the walk to school, he just so happens to be shutting his own front door. Unlike in the past however, she doesn't wave hello to him. Something stirs in his stomach and his chest at the sight of her with her chin tucked back and her books hugged close to her chest. It's a feeling somewhere between discomfort and confusion. It's not a feeling that leaves him, however much he tries to ignore it.

The feeling only increases when he walks into school one day and sees that Molly Hooper's chair is empty, and her name placard is gone.

It's been a week, and the feeling still hasn't left him. He watches her house almost constantly, chin buried against his palm. He knows he shouldn't, he knows it's wrong to do so, but the door barely opens anymore, and the only time there's any activity whatsoever, he sees only a glimpse of either her arm or her leg as she deposits her cat out of the house or lets him back in. A broadly set woman, well dressed, visits on a weekly basis. Usually, she's be laden with grocery bags, and she greets Molly (who always stays just inside the doorway, impossible for him to see) with a smile before she heaves herself and the bags inside. Sometimes he wonders if this sudden exclusion from society is partly his fault. He didn't sit in the sycamore tree with her, after all. Even though he's just a neighbour to her, he's an awful friend.

"Ever think that maybe you should talk to her?" He whips around, and his father is stood in the doorway, a smirk on his lips and his arms folded over his chest. He tilts his head. "Or are you too scared?"

"I'm not – I can't talk to her, Dad." He gives a sigh, eyeing his father who merely strolls into the bedroom and sits down on the edge of the bed. "She hates me."

"Or maybe – you're too scared, and you're inventing excuses not to see her? It's okay to admit that's the case, by the way."

"No, she genuinely hates me."

"And how do you know that?"

"Because I didn't sit with her in the sycamore tree," Sherlock says, his voice growing quiet. "On the day it was pulled down."

"Ah. What if you apologise?"

He shakes his head fervently, and his father gives a laugh, slapping at his knees. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Did I ever tell you about when I first met your mother?"

"No, because I was never particularly interested."

"Well, I think you will be now," his father says, skilfully skipping over his son's remark. "I was terrified of her. Absolutely head over heels for the woman, but terrified. In fact, I think I might have seen her coming once and jumped into the ladies toilets in order to avoid speaking to her. And do you know why I was so scared? Because she was perfect. She was gorgeous, she was smart and she was funny. Every bloke worth his salt might've wanted her, and they did, but she got a bit of reputation for having – well, a bit of a sharp tongue on her. Any bloke that asked her out was quickly sent packing. Naturally, I decided that it was best to just sit back and let myself admire her from afar. Funny thing was, she never let me."

Sherlock frowns. "Never let you?"

"Nope," his father says, chuckling. "I didn't get even a chance to play the wounded Romeo before she stormed up to me and asked me when I was going to take her out to the pictures. Took me quite by surprise – but it also taught me a lesson. Because I was so convinced that she didn't know of my existence, and was so prepared to give up before I'd jumped the first hurdle, I came dangerously close to losing her."

"How does that help my situation at all?"

His father rolls his eyes, and he leans forward. "Go and talk to her, before it's too late. Otherwise I'll tell your mother."

"Fine," Sherlock says after a moment. "I'll talk to her."

He knocks on the door, and on the second knock it swings open. Whatever words he's been meaning to say soon slip away. Her father smiles up at him, his body hunching forward, his fingers wrapped around the tip of a sturdy cane. His grip is shaky. Sherlock almost freezes at the sight before he manages to rouse himself into a small greeting of "hello". He, like everyone in the neighbourhood, knows of the man's illness—but the growth of its severity is obviously something Molly's father likes to keep hidden, at least for the time being. It's easy to see that via the way her father, despite the obvious pain he experiences, remains perfectly at ease with the idea of visitors.

"Yes, hello. Sherlock is it? Good to see you." His speech is slightly slurred. Clearing his throat, her father turns slightly to wave him on through to the living room. "Sit down, sit down."

He obeys, gingerly sitting down on the sofa. Mr Hooper sinks into an armchair with a groan, but he still smiles as he tucks his cane in by his side. These social niceties are more for her father's benefit than his, he's sure of it.

"I'm sorry." The words are out of his mouth far too quickly, and the meaning is too obvious, for him to take them back. "I thought—"

"Everyone thinks," her father says, briefly waving a hand. "So don't worry about that. I'm guessing that it's Molly you really want to see, hmm?"

"Err, yes. How do you know?"

"Because A) you don't know me, and B), she speaks about you all the time."

"Ah. Okay. Well, I, um – I wanted to speak to her about – about the sycamore tree."

"Oh. The sycamore tree." His mouth upturned with knowing. "You didn't climb the sycamore tree."

"No, I didn't."

"Hm. That tree meant a lot to her. And if the way she speaks about you is anything to go by, you mean a lot to her too."

He nods, but doesn't say anything. He already feels guilty enough. Her father's smile widens.

"Maybe there's a way to combine the two?"

Sherlock has often prided himself on knowing what people have to say before they say it, but he has to admit; he's lost for an answer on this particular occasion. His eyebrows knit together in a frown, and his mouth drops open.

"Pardon?"

Slowly, her fists clench and unclench as she watches the travesty that is going on outside on the front lawn that she and her father have cultivated and looked over for so long until she can take it no longer. She whirls around.

"Dad, he's digging a hole!"

"I know love," her father replies, wincing as he shifts a little in his armchair. "I told him to."

"You told him to!" she spits, advancing forward. "Why?"

Her father arches an eyebrow, biting at his cheek to stop himself laughing. "Stand by the window and watch. You'll see."

She huffs, glaring, but her father holds firm. He holds so firm that she can do little but obey, stomping back towards the window where she sees no Sherlock, but a gaping big hole, right in the previously pristine lawn. She scowls at her father, but he only nods back towards the window. She growls, rolling her eyes, but still turns her head back. Her scowl fades and her arms drop to her sides when she sees Sherlock reappear. Only this time, he isn't empty-handed.

In his arms, he carries a tree. A very familiar type of tree. Carefully, he kneels by the hole and lays the tree, a small, tiny thing, into the Earth. He handles it like one might handle the world's most precious jewel. Her heart lifts and she feels light as a feather. She only knows she's been bouncing on the balls of her feet when she sprints quickly from the house, her father's happy laughter echoing in her ears.

She's thinner than before, tired, has the weight of the world on her shoulders and she's grinning from ear to ear. And when she bursts through her front door and runs towards him, throwing her arms around his waist, she smells of watermelon and fresh grass and firewood and he knows that she's beautiful. He'll continue to think she's beautiful for the rest of their days.