Emily Holmes

This fanfict came to me in a dream. I'm not quite sure how I'm going to finish it though.

ALL characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle except my OC.

Summary: Watson is in for a surprise at the breakfast table with Holmes. Written in Watson's POV

'I have a daughter.' said Holmes suddenly.

I choked on my coffee in surprise, gasping for air as the liquid dribbled down my chin. 'What?' I spluttered over the breakfast table.

Holmes looked at me warily over the morning paper.

'Why tell me now?' I demanded.

'Because, Watson, she needs a place to stay and since I am her father...'

He was clearly insulting me, but I chose to ignore it. 'But you never liked children! Children are scared of you, Holmes!'

He chuckled. 'I suppose they are. But this is my daughter we are talking about. She will be just as observant and endevious as I.'

Mrs. Hudson, the landlady walked in on us. 'What's this I hear of a girl staying with you two?' she inquired.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Holmes looked smugly up at her. 'My daughter is coming...nanny.'

'Oh, Mr. Holmes, you have quite a way with words.' she chuckled, picking up his plate of less than half eaten toast.

'Its true.' I confirmed glumly, pushing myself out of the chair.

She froze, her knuckles turning white from squeezing the plate she was holding so hard.

Just as quickly she composed herself and said nothing as if it never even happened. She briskly walked out of the room. I stared after her before turning back to my companion. He seemed indifferent, but I was sure he noticed.

'Where will she stay?' I sighed.

'Well, I was hoping you could help me clean up the spare room.' he replied, sipping his tea and folding the newspaper in half.

'Holmes, I have patients to see!'

'Take a rain check, my dear Watson. They will understand.'

I sighed and punched the bridge of my nose with my fingertips 'sometimes, Holmes. Sometimes.'

Gladstone, our English bulldog, wined from his spot under my feet as if to agree.

I reached underneath to rub his wrinkled head. His tiny stub of a tail wagged happily

'Watson?'

I looked up to see the spot in front of me empty.

I heaved myself to my feet, my leg twinging in pain.

I followed after my companion and opened the door to a room with papers, books, an old lamp, dishes, and old newspaper clippings tacked to the wall.

'I was always careful to avoid this room, and now I know why.' I said aloud.

Holmes was digging through a box when he came across a large scrapbook. Embroidered on the front was "Sherlock Holmes." he blew the dust off the top and handed it to me. I opened the first page to see a faded photograph of Holmes as a baby, 'you were an ugly little thing.' I said.

'I was probably more of a stud than you were as a baby, Watson.'

I scoffed and flipped through the dusty worn papers. Pictures of Holmes and Mycroft at what seemed to be an estate, pictures of Holmes by himself, and at the very back was a picture of a small girl. She had Holmes' dark hair hidden under a bonnet, a dress completed with a pedicoat and corset. Her eyes were similar to his too. I couldn't tell for sure because there was no color in the photograph.

Underneath the photo in Holmes' childish handwriting it read: Emily Holmes.

'Holmes?' I said, lifting up the scrapbook.

He looked up from moving a box.

'Is this her?'

He put down the box and looked over my shoulder at the girl in the photograph. He nodded slowly. 'Yes.' he said softly.

There was something in his voice. Sadness? Longing?

I turned to look at him, but he had his back turned to me.

Maybe Holmes' daughter coming to stay will be a good thing...if she survives.