Gretchen Holmes knew she was clever. At nine-years-old, she regularly out performed much older children in her mathematics courses. Her French accent was perfection according to Madame, and while her violin instructor rather despaired over her technique (her little brother Timothy was the musical prodigy it seemed), she was competent—perhaps the violin isn't your instrument, Mummy consoled her when she felt a pang at being left out when Timothy played duets with Daddy on those evenings that Daddy wasn't out late on cases or lost inside his mind palace. She wasn't without musical talent. Gretchen did have a lovely voice. Daddy called her a "little Nightingale" when she sang for him while they built wooden models or pinned shining beetles to cotton batting for further study.
That Gretchen was clever was not so surprising considering who her parents were. She was also kind, compassionate and fair—something inherited from her mother, Daddy was sure. Daddy sometimes stroked her straight brown hair and smiled, a loving soft smile that he reserved for only her and Mum and said that she had inherited her mother's warm heart. At this point, he usually directed his gaze at Timothy and wrinkled his nose at the boy, "if only your brother had been so fortunate."
Timothy would roll his blue eyes and toss his curly head at his father and poke his tongue out at his sister. At seven-years-old, Timothy was what was known as "a holy terror" according to Mrs. Hudson, who sometimes shook her head severely at the boy who delighted in hanging upside down outside of the second story window, who thought nothing drop-kicking Billy the skull (and chipping his front tooth), who thought nothing of driving the entire household to distraction so long as his curiosity was satisfied.
Despite it all, Mrs. Hudson adored Timothy, just as she adored Dad who could sometimes be accused of similar antics—the apple didn't fall far from the tree there. Mrs. Hudson also adored Gretchen because she was thoughtful and kind and polite. The girl knew she had the old woman wrapped around her finger, though she didn't push the advantage the way Timothy (and dad) did.
Gretchen knew her daddy loved her. He didn't usually say it, not to anyone, but he showed it. It was in the way he assisted her with her insect collection, in the way he cuddled her as they sat together in his chair—telling her about his latest case, just as if she were a grown up like Uncle John or Uncle Greg. It was the way he patiently helped her correct her fingering when she was practicing the violin and the way he listened to her tell about Simon at school who teased her for spending recess watching ants or carefully cupping a grasshopper in her hands, feeling the delicate scratch of its legs on her palm. Simon called her "Bug-eyes" (Her dark- brown eyes were large and round) and "Sticky"—as in the stick-insect (she was rather lanky, all knees and elbows with a recent growth spurt. Mrs. Hudson was determined to fatten her up). However, when the teasing escalated to Simon pulling her braid, hard—hard enough for tears to come to her eyes— and pushing her down in the play yard, Mummy stepped in. She's said quietly and firmly in her sweet voice—"Take care of it, Sherlock." And he did.
Gretchen never knew exactly what Daddy did, but it wasn't long after Mummy's request that Simon had to stop going to her school. His father had done something very bad with other people's money and now he was in jail and Simon and his family had to move away. At least that's what Mummy told her when she asked one night at bedtime. Mummy often worked late, but she always had time to tell Gretchen a story before bed. Gretchen loved stories. She excelled at literature and writing—not something her dad had ever been especially good at, despite his many talents. And Mummy was, quite frankly, an atrocious speller, at least if it wasn't a scientific or medical term. Gretchen loved her fairytales, had an enormous tome of them that she would beg her Mummy to read to her each night. Daddy always refused. He'd tell her about new scientific research or the art of observation. He'd tell her about interesting things he'd observed that day and how he memorized them—he was teaching her how to build her own "mind palace." Hers was hardly a cottage yet, but she was getting the hang of it. Sometimes he might tell her pirate tales—historical accounts, not fairy tales, but they were close. Other times, he told of his childhood, like how he'd once pantsed Uncle Mycroft during a Christmas party where aunts, uncles and cousins were in attendance. Those were some of the best stories. But he never would read her a fairy tale.
Uncle Mycroft—sometimes Gretchen thought Uncle Mycroft didn't like her much, nor Mummy neither. She wouldn't go so far as to say that he hated her or anything, but she knew he loved Timothy more. She sometimes thought Uncle Mycroft might respect her insofar as a grown man could respect a child, but he had a way of staring at her face, her eyes, so hard, so cold. She felt a little like one of her insects under Daddy's microscope. Once she was sitting next to Daddy during one of Uncle Mycroft's not infrequent visits to 221B. His eyes had flicked between Dad's face and hers, searching for something, but she didn't know what. A line had appeared between his eyebrows and he looked almost angry or sad or both. Dad was angry for some reason.
"Stop it now, Mycroft!" he'd been harsh, almost yelling. Dad yelling wasn't unusual—he yelled quite a lot about different things—being bored, Timothy messing up his socks, Mummy using the last of the formaldehyde—but this was different and it made her feel shivery to hear his tone.
"Apologies, Sherlock. The truth is in the interpretation, not the facts, as you have said. Forgive me for attempting to deduce the facts." He smiled, or at least his lips turned up, "I am not completely convinced that I was wrong when I said caring is not an advantage. I do hope you are sure of what you are doing."
"It's been ten years, Mycroft. Let it go." Daddy's voice was cold and angry. And that was the end of that. Uncle Mycroft stood to leave and then he did a strange thing. He laid his hand on Gretchen's head, "Dear little girl. You have a father who loves you very much. Do keep that in mind," and he left, swinging his umbrella as usual. That night in bed, after telling Mum about the strange thing Uncle Mycroft had said and done, Mum told Gretchen a beautiful story, made just for her, about a golden queen and her great-hearted knight and a broken man with a sliver of ice in his soul who did great evil but still managed to produce the most beautiful things. It seemed cobbled together from many other fairy stories, but it was still new and just for her. Gretchen knew without a doubt that her Mummy loved her.
Uncle Greg told her stories sometimes. His were funny and full of jokes, usually, and Uncle John, ah! If she ever wanted to hear a story about dad, Uncle John's were the best, though sometimes she felt that Uncle John wasn't quite comfortable with her. He and Timothy seemed to speak the same language, and whenever Uncle John and Aunt Mary came by, Timothy would be stuck to Uncle John like glue. Gretchen tried not to feel hurt by this, and Mummy and Aunt Mary explained that it was a boy thing, and Uncle John really didn't know how to deal with little girls, but that didn't seem right because Aunt Mary and Uncle John had a little girl called Susannah, though she was still a very little girl, only 4 years old. Mum said, well that explains it then. He didn't know what to say to big girls who were growing up so fast! Sometimes she felt Uncle John's eyes on her, a little bit like Uncle Mycroft sometimes looked at her, though it didn't seem cold, just curious. Sometimes she thought Uncle John seemed offended when he looked at her, like she'd hurt his feelings. She made a special effort to be good for Uncle John, and mostly he was kind and loving.
There was one day, though, when it seemed that Uncle John was terrified of her, and it really wasn't fair. It was Timothy's fault if it was anyone's. Or blame Toby for not being there. Recently, it had been discovered that a mouse or two had invaded the kitchen of 221B. Old Toby had died recently, and apparently, he'd been keeping the mouse population at bay. Traps had been set, and one afternoon, after school, Gretchen and Timothy had discovered that one of the traps had done its work. A mouse was caught, back broken, but still alive and squeaking terribly. Gretchen was shocked by the rage and the life that was still in the broken creature. Timothy leaned over the ruined little thing, fascinated by its struggles.
"Hey, Gretchen," he piped excitedly, "fetch the stop watch. Let's time how long it takes it to die." His ice blue eyes were alight with the idea of the experiment. Gretchen felt sick. She didn't mind death, exactly. Mummy cut up dead people. Daddy's job often required him to figure out why or how people died. Billy the skull, chipped tooth and all, sat on the mantel. And while it didn't happen often, Gretchen had seen body parts, a lung, a brain—always carefully packaged and preserved, on Daddy's work table (Mrs. Hudson sometimes told horrible stories of heads and feet in the fridge, but that didn't happen anymore, and Mummy assured Gretchen that the refrigerator where she kept her yoghurt and grapes was brand new and had never chilled body parts). So, death didn't bother her really, and while she herself had pinned insects, that was very different from seeing this warm, furred mouse give off dying shrieks, its little body twisted in the trap.
"No," Gretchen told her brother, who was now poking at the mouse with the eraser end of a pencil, "the experiment would be flawed. We don't know when the trap got him. The data would be off." She pulled the pencil out of Timothy's hand, "Don't. You don't need to torture it." Timothy was affronted.
"I'm not torturing it! I was investigating," he leaned down again. Gretchen made a decision. Going to the bookshelf, she retrieved her heaviest book, Grimm's Fairytales. She returned to the kitchen, placed the book inside a plastic baggie she found in a side drawer, and came back to where Timothy was eyeballing the mouse through their dad's magnifying glass. She pushed her brother aside. She raised the book high over her head and with all her strength, she brought it down on the mouse, ending its struggle.
Timothy was outraged, "What'd you do that for! I was going to watch it die! I've never seen that before. Toby was stiff by the time we found him." He shoved his sister's shoulder and she fell with a thump on her bottom. She shoved him back.
"It was suffering, you little monster!" she hollered. The thud of the book made her feel ill, but at least the squeaks had stopped. It wasn't hurting anymore. She felt a little shaky, but reminded herself that it was a rodent, a nasty little thing that had been eating holes in the cereal boxes and gnawing on the apples in the fruit bowl. Timothy was about to launch himself at her when he was brought up short by the appearance of Daddy and Uncle John staring down at them from the doorway.
Dad appeared very calm. He walked over to where the children sat on the floor, and hunkering down lifted the book to peer beneath. He glanced at Gretchen and quirked an eyebrow at her.
"Efficient and merciful. I commend you on your quick thinking." He took the book out of the baggie and handed it to her. "Go place this back on the shelf. I know it's your favorite." She took the book from her Daddy and stood up. He looked up at her from where he was crouched next to Timothy and what was left of the mouse. Dad gave her one of his soft smiles, "It's fine, Gretchen. Now put the book up. Timothy will fetch a dissection tray and we'll see what we can learn from this." She smiled back at her father with relief and he reached out briefly to squeeze her hand.
She turned to leave but Uncle John was blocking the exit. He seemed to be rooted to where he stood and he was staring at her with—dismay? She saw him swallow hard and his eyes, those friendly blue eyes, were looking at her so hard. Gretchen felt cold and prickly as he stared down at her.
"Uncle John?" She asked, not certain what she was asking. Please move out of the way? Why are you looking at me like that? Why aren't you disgusted with Timothy who wanted to prolong the suffering? Any and all of those questions were implied, but Uncle John didn't answer. He just nodded and moved out of her way so she could replace her book on her shelf. She hesitated to return to the kitchen where her father and brother were scooping up the remains of the mouse she had killed—but she hadn't really killed it! The trap had killed it, and she hadn't set the trap. Dad did. So, really, the death of the mouse was all on Dad's head, not hers. She just helped it along. Gretchen returned to the kitchen, heading to the sink to wash her hands, and she caught a fragment of conversation between dad and Uncle John that they broke off when they were aware she was behind them.
"Do you really know what she's capable of—especially now that she's older? That was a rather disturbing display. I don't know, Sherlock, that seemed—" Uncle John was saying when his father cut in smoothly.
"It seemed to be a difficult and compassionate act," Daddy said firmly, looking up at Uncle John. "I'd say she's remarkably, and fortunately, just like her mother. Such strength and empathy is rare, don't you think?" He noticed Gretchen standing and staring, and beckoned her over. He stood up and placed one strong arm around her thin little shoulders.
"Well done, Gretchen. Let's help Timothy satisfy his curiosity and then you'll have quite a story to tell mum when she gets home. A mouse autopsy! Perhaps you and mum can compare notes." She grinned at her dad and hugged him tight—he wasn't always good with words, but he always made her feel like he understood. Dad was the best dad, such a good man. He may not like fairytales, but he was her knight in shining armor. She was a lucky girl to have him for a daddy.