Hi :) so this is the second installment. I've corrected the grammar issues that were kindly pointed out to me. As always, pretty please leave a review. I love feedback, good or con/crit :)

Charlotte stood by her mother's grave, feeling awkward in the expensive black dress; apart from that she was oddly numb. Shouldn't she be more upset? Probably. From the little information she had on her father she had worked out that he was a diagnosed sociopath, so maybe she had inherited some of his tendencies. Or maybe she wasn't bawling because they had never been close, what with her mother's line of work. Yes, she had still offered her services after giving birth to her daughter, although, to be fair, she had waited a whole five years before returning to work. By then Charlotte was ninety percent self-sufficient. She didn't have friends, she didn't have any proper family. It was just her, and that was fine. More than fine. Although it would have been nice to meet her father once in her fourteen years on earth.

"The dominatrix in a grave, hm? I didn't think I would live to see the day."

Charlotte turned her head slowly to face the man standing maybe a foot from her, three-piece-suited and black umbrella in hand, despite the weather, warm and dry. He perhaps didn't see the sun too often, not often enough to gauge the weather by any means. He even looked uncomfortable under the shade of the large oak tree, squinting at the fourteen year old in through the blinding July sunlight.

"Were you a regular customer, if you don't mind me asking? Ah, no. You look a bit...well..." he looked at her quizzically, his eyes still adjusting to the odd amount of light. "Oh, I didn't mean that as an insult. I was merely stating the fact."

"You are remarkably like your father."

"That's odd, I'm usually told that I'm remarkably like my mother. But then again my father didn't have many friends, did he?"

"I'm not a friend, actually. I'm an enemy."

"Oh?"

"Arch enemies."

"People don't have arch enemies."

"Your father isn't people; he's barely a person."

"Look, I would love to hear you ramble nostalgically about my irresponsible father but I think it would be rather a waste of both our time, so you should get to the point."

"About fourteen years ago, when Sherlock discovered that your mother was pregnant, he left. Just...left. Came back to life- he had faked his death and was hiding with your mother, you see. I am now the only person alive who knows this."

"He trusts you, then?"

"In a way. Had we not grown up together he would have less trust in me than a mouse has in a particularly hungry cat."

"Ah, you're his brother. You'll have to forgive me for being slow on the uptake, we don't bear much resemblance. Why haven't you made contact with me before now?"

"It's...complicated. I've wanted to, many times. I've watched you your whole life- I apologize if that is somewhat unsettling, I'll admit to being slightly paranoid. I'm fiercely protective, you see, and looking after you was a way of making things up to your father."

"Things?"

"Ah...there's a black limousine waiting for us just outside of the cemetery. If you'll accompany me- not that you have a choice in the matter -then I'll explain everything on the way."

"On the way to where?"

"Dear me, Miss Adler. You didn't seem one to ask such obvious questions."