(Author's Note: Let me start by saying how sorry I am that it's taken me this long to update. I could give you all sorts of excuses, but the long and short of it is that I just got busy. Thankfully, I've got me EOC's-end of course exams for anyone outside the US- this coming week, and so I should have plenty of time to update. Again, I'm very sorry to everyone who read and liked my story, but I am most definitely not giving it up! Thanks for reading!)
Despite the conversation I have with my father the day I arrive, he, for the better part of a month, ignores me. It seems either he has no cases to engage him and is therefore in a sort of stupor, or he has no idea how to deal with a grieving teenager. In any case, I am left mainly to my own devices. I've been spending a lot of time in my room, reading, experimenting, and watching Netflix. The only time I really get out of the house is when Sherlock is "busy" and John and I are being too "loud" and we go out for dinner or to the shops. Finally, at the beginning of my fourth week at Baker Street, the monotony is broken by the arrival of a visitor. Eagerly, I run down the steps, hoping to see someone interesting. I arrive just in time to see a portly man in his forties walk in seemingly uninvited and seat himself in the living room. When he sees me, he smiles.
"Hello. You must be Sadie. I'm Mycroft, Sherlock's-"
"Brother," I interrupt. "I can see the resemblance." He looks surprised. I do so love having that effect on people.
"Sherlock and I look nothing alike!" he protests.
"Not in looks. It's the way you carry yourself," I explain. As I say that the aforementioned brother himself walks in.
"Mycroft."
"Sherlock."
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asks contemptuously. Mycroft rolls his eyes.
"Seeing as you place no value on your daughter's education, I thought it was up to me to do something about it." I roll my eyes.
"I learned everything I need to know ages ago." Mycroft looks amused.
"I can see, you do have your father's arrogance. But you need to at least start in a home-school program." I look at him, offended.
"That's not what I meant. I literally graduated secondary school. About six months ago, actually. Mum just made me go because she had this ridiculous idea that I would make 'friends'," I say. He looks mildly impressed.
"Well! I'll have to check up on that, but you shouldn't just stop your education." I give him a look.
"What do you suggest? Uni? I don't want to go to class and listen to some boring professor drone on about things I neither need nor care about," I say disinterestedly.
"Sherlock could teach you what he does." I feel my breath catch in my throat. I've honestly never thought about being involved in criminal investigations, but now that Mycroft has presented the idea, I am fascinated. I can't help the feeling of hope that wells up within me as I turn to my father, eyes pleading.
"I have no cases, and if I did, I certainly wouldn't take her along," Sherlock snaps. "Honestly, Mycroft, a crime scene is no place for a child." I fight the urge to shout and force myself to speak calmly.
"I am not a child. I am fourteen years old. And I'm certainly more than capable enough to go along on a case." He frowns.
"Doesn't matter. I have no cases," he fires back.
"Actually," Mycroft intercedes, "I believe you are about to get a text from Lestrade in three, two-" The phone buzzes.
"Well, Dad, are you going to take me or not?" Sherlock looks at me, curiously. I realize now that I have been avoiding the matter of what exactly to call him altogether-and if I speak of him to John or Mrs. Hudson, then I use "my father". But now that I've called him "Dad", even in jest, it seems to have solidified something.
"Go and get your coat," he says to me, idly. I dash up the steps, eager to get ready before he can change his mind. My cheeks flush every time I think of calling him "Dad", and I laugh. How weird is it that I feel uncomfortable even addressing my father properly?
When I get back downstairs, fully ready, Mycroft is gone and John has left, so it's just me and Sherlock. He's turned around, studying something on his desk.
"Hey, uh, I'm ready. To go." I stumble awkwardly over my words, deliberately avoiding addressing him. He turns and gives me a small smile.
"You don't have to avoid directly addressing me. Names are of no consequence." I give him a small, sheepish smile in return. "Now then, let's be off. Lestrade said this should be a good one."
"The same Lestrade whose police badges you nick? I found them in a drawer," I say, holding one up. He waves a hand which I take to be an affirmation.
"Keep it. I pick-pocket him when he's annoying, which is often." I put my hand up to hide a grin.
The cab ride over to the crime scene is quiet. Dad is thinking over the case, and I'm thinking about him. Is he actually going to start acknowledging my presence?
"Why do you insist on wearing those everywhere you go?" Dad's voice breaks the silence. Following his gaze, I see him looking at my well-worn black combat boots.
"I like them." A quiet pause. "And I don't wear them everywhere."
"Yes, you do," Dad says smugly. If it were anyone else I'd say he was smiling.
"I don't either. Just the other day I wore my grey ones to dinner."
"No, you didn't." For some reason, his smirk annoys me. Perhaps it's not only that I know I'm right, but the fact that he thinks he can't possibly be wrong that causes me to blow up.
"Well how would you know? You've spent the last month on the couch alternating between nicotine patches and injecting cocaine into your arm!" I turn to the window, suddenly angry at the way he's ignored me for the past four weeks. The loss of my mother left me numb, and it's only now, talking to him, that I realize how many emotions I've been feeling.
I turn to the window, uncomfortable. Yes, he's ignored me, but isn't he trying to make up for it now? Should I pretend that I haven't said anything, that I am not currently seething?
"We're here," my father says quietly. I perk up, my resentment set aside for the moment.
"What's she doing here?" a woman asks, frowning at me. I look at her, analyzing her with a glance. Her clothes are slightly wrinkled, as if she's worn them the day before. I sniff lightly and notice she's wearing men's deodorant. I look down at her wedding ring and realize she must be having an affair. Glancing around, I see a man who is undoubtedly her adulterer.
"You're having an affair," I say placidly. She looks at me, more than a little upset.
"You can't believe everything he says," she warns, pointing at Dad. "You know-"
"I didn't need Dad to point out a thing. I'm perfectly capable of seeing the obvious myself." She gapes at me, her mouth opening comically. Once again, though, I'm disappointed in that her surprise isn't for my deduction skills.
"Dad? Freak has a kid?" she exclaims. "How the hell-" I roll my eyes.
"I should hope you don't need that explained to you, Donovan," Dad interrupts irritably. Meanwhile, my statement has caused a bit of a stir. The majority of the police force on duty has wandered over to see the world's only consulting detective's kid.
"All right, everyone, clear off. We've got a body to deal with," a voice says after only a moment. A man, presumably the force's captain, walks over.
"Sherlock. I see you've brought a guest." He gives me a once-over, seemingly displeased.
"Needed a fresh pair of eyes. It was her or the skull," Dad says breezily. Lestrade raises an eyebrow.
"I don't have a problem if you think she can handle it."
"Handle it? She's excited." It's true. I'm eager for my first crime scene. And that it's a murder, and there's a body to analyze, well, that's just a bonus.
"Well then. Right this way," he says, motioning us into the building and up the steps. We arrive at the top and the room is bare, with nothing but the body in the center.
"Tell them what you see, Sadie," Dad directs me. I know this is a test of sorts, and I'm determined to pass. I clear my throat and examine the body carefully. I note her appearance, her clothing, and her unpolished wedding ring.
"I see a young woman in her mid-thirties. Probably a job in the media, giving that alarming shade of pink. She's been married, at least ten years." I glance up to see the effect my words are having on my father. He is neither frowning nor smiling, so, nervously, I continue.
"And- wait, where's the suitcase?" I look around expectantly, but I don't see anything. Dad indicates for me to continue.
"But she did have one, within the past few hours. One mo," I pull out my phone and do a quick search. "She came from Cardiff with a suitcase, probably intended to stay for one night."
"And what of the markings on the floor?" Dad prompts.
"No need. Rache is German for 'revenge'," Anderson cuts in. I snort derisively.
"Yes, a media blonde who is obviously from the area used her last bit of energy before dying to scratch the German word for revenge on the floor. It's not at all likely she meant the name 'Rachel'," Dad says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Suddenly, he jumps up and heads for the door. Raising an eyebrow, I follow him.
"Suitcase! Has anyone seen a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?" he calls.
"There is no case!" Lestrade says exasperatedly.
"They chew, swallow the poison themselves. There are clear signs!" Dad exclaims.
"Even you lot couldn't miss them," I add. Lestrade looks a little offended, and I almost feel bad, but then I catch the tiny smirk that crosses my father's face for the briefest of moments.
"Right, yeah, thanks. And...?"
"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how," my dad admits.
"They're not suicides, they're killings. Serial killings," I venture.
"A serial killer," Dad says with a slight grin. "Love those. There's always something to look forward to."
"Why are you saying that?" asks Lestrade as I follow Dad outside.
"Her case! Come on, where is her case, did she eat it? Someone else was here and they took her case," my dad says loudly.
"So the killer must have driven her here, forgot the case was in the car," I surmise.
"Exactly! But then- oh!" he says suddenly.
"What? What is it?" Lestrade asks urgently. It's almost amusing, the way these people alternate between hanging on his every word and dismissing him as a psychopath.
"Serial killers, always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake." Dad's voice is low and urgent, the tone I know he takes on when he is completely serious about something.
"We can't just wait!" protests Lestrade.
"Look at her, really look! We're done waiting."
"What mistake?" Lestrade shouts after us as we walk out the door.
"Pink!"
We walk quickly down the street, away from the crime scene.
"That was good in there," Dad says, almost approvingly. I give him a strange look.
"You think?" He nods.
"A bit of training and I daresay you'll be nearly as good as me." I look at him, offended.
"Nearly? I was spot-on!" He smirks.
"You didn't make the connection about the string of lovers." My brow furrows.
"Sorry, what?"
"The ring," he explains, "was dirty on the outside and polished clean on the inside, but the rest of her jewelry was clean. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. She's from the media, doesn't work with her hands, so: a lover. This has been going on for quite a bit of time, but, she's still wearing the ring. She can't keep her marriage a secret from one man long, ergo, a serial adulterer."
"A minor detail," I say dismissively.
"One that could decide the whole point of the case. The smallest details are the most important," he says reprovingly. I scowl.
"All right, fine. But how are we going to find the case?" He gestures with his hand.
"Follow me." He motions for a cab and tells the cabby to drive slowly down the street, turning down any alleys wide enough for a car to fit through. At each alley, Dad and I get out of the car and check for the case, which I assume is the same garish shade of pink as the woman's outfit. After I realize his strategy, Dad seems content to let me take charge of the search. I assume he's still assessing my abilities. Finally, after nearly forty minutes, our work pays off and I recover the case from a dumpster. I move to open it immediately, but Dad stops me.
"Wait until we're back at the flat. You'll ruin the evidence," he scoffs.
"You're worse than the police," I mutter. He makes a noise that could either be an amused snort or an annoyed huff. I don't complain as he directs the cabby to take us back to Baker Street.
When we get to the living room and sit down with the case in front of us, I don't hesitate. After unzipping the case, I rifle through its contents.
"There's no phone. Where's the phone?" Dad mutters. We look at each other and reach the conclusion at the same time. The killer has the phone.
