A/N: Yay for quick updates! Unfortunately, this is the last of my quick updates as all I was doing before was typing up what was already in my notebook, so now it'll take me a lot longer because I don't have anything more pre-written. On top of that, I won't be able to put up another chapter until next week because my orchestra group is going on a trip. I am really sorry. Anyway, please enjoy this chapter.

WARNING: This chapter contains insanity and implied (non-sexual) child abuse.

Chapter 3: It's Personal

Ceridwen Holmes did not by any means consider herself a particularly emotional person. That being said, she had not yet learned the art of staying calm in high stress situations. As she sat on the hard floor of a rundown factory, her body shook with fear. Two of her three captors were watching her closely as the third, the woman, was writing on index cards. They had taken away her boots and her feet and legs were numb with cold. She would not be able to escape. No matter how hard Ceridwen tried, she could not make herself calm down. Everytime she took a deep breath, it was greeted with a wave of terror that started at the base of her spine, crept up to her brain, induced panic and came out as a soft whimper.

"I expected more from someone who has the blood of Sherlock Holmes in her veins. I expected confidence and biting wit. I guess you're weak and ordinary like your mother. A shame, but then again, having a clever hostage is more work." the woman said, looking up from her writing when she grew tired of listening to Ceridwen whimper. At the crack about her mother, the girl felt like she had been punched in the gut and angry tears threatened at the corners of her eyes. The woman laughed. "Look at you. It must be so confusing for you, all these emotions you can't shut out. You're just a sniveling child. Disappointing." Overwhelmed and wanting nothing more than to escape this nightmare, Ceridwen shut her eyes and filtered out the physical world. She refused to cry. It would be weak. It would do nothing to help her and she would not give her captors the satisfaction. As she slipped into a meditative state, calm came over the girl and shut out her anger and fear and pain.

Ceridwen went to the quiet place in her mind. It was a place that her father had taught her to use and she went there whenever she truly wished to be alone. Suddenly, she was in a cozy room in a cottage. It was warm and she sat down on the soft, dark green carpet. She was relaxing slowly. Her eyes wandered over the bookshelves that lined the walls and the sound of a beautiful violin solo reached her ears. It was a tune Sherlock had composed for her as a Christmas present a year previous.

"Interesting. She's willed herself into unconsciousness." the woman's voice suddenly cut through the air and the violin stopped. Ceridwen looked around frantically. What was going on? How was the woman here? Then she felt a burst of white hot pain and her eyes snapped open. The girl quickly realized that the woman was standing over her and had slapped her. Reaching up to her cheek, her hand came away with blood. "Sit up, little girl. I have a message for your daddy." One of the men roughly pulled her upright and the other put her phone to her face while the woman held up the cards for her to read. The ten year old complied as calmly as she could, for her fear was creeping up on her again.

Sherlock and John sat in silence at 221B. They had received a message from Lestrade, telling them that the blood on the floor and the note matched as Ceridwen's. The consulting detective's face seemed perminently frozen in an expression of deep seated frustration. He couldn't think of anything that might tell him where his daughter was. All he knew was that someone was playing him like Moriarty and was doing so intentionally. John seemed to think that it was Moriarty himself, but Sherlock knew that was rediculous. No, this was different. Whoever this was wanted something much more primal than distraction. Revenge perhaps?

Suddenly, the detective's phone rang and he answered it with haste.

"Hello?" he said. The sound of Ceridwen's uneven breathing could be heard from the other end.

"Do you like chess, Mr. Holmes? I do. It's a wonderful game, isn't it? A battle entirely without emotion or justification with no other purpose than to defeat one's opponent. Whittling the enemy down until there is nothing left but the weakest piece. That's my favorite strategy. Will you play a game of chess with me, Mr. Holmes?"

"Who are you? Speak to me in your own voice." Sherlock replied coolly. He did not want to play this person's game, especially when his daughter was one of the pieces.

"Telling you would spoil the game." Now this was getting more Moriarty-esque and a feeling of illness was manifesting in his stomach.

"What if I don't want to play chess with you?"

"Oh, I wouldn't do that...that would...that would..." There was a pause and a whimper from Ceridwen that pulled hard on Sherlock's normally tightly wound heartstrings. "...that would knock over your king and you'd never see it again." At this, Sherlock closed his eyes and John looked confused for a moment, trying to figure out what was meant by 'king'. It only took a few seconds for it to hit him.

"Oh God." the blond breathed.

"And if I want my king back, I must play for it."

"Precisely."

"Whose turn is it now?" The dark haired man was outwardly calm, but on the inside, he was burning with anger and worry, like the time Mrs. Hudson was attacked by Americans.

"After this call, it will be yours, Mr. Holmes." Ceridwen's voice answered. It was clear that she was trying her best to keep her head. A part of Sherlock was feeling pride in that and brought him a small amount of assurance. "Just remember that ponds freeze over in the winter." With that, Ceridwen hung up and the detective's mind began to race. Everything that had been said was of importance. It would give him everthing he needed to make his next move.

"This Moriarty reenactor means to do what Moriarty failed to do." he said grimly, silently cursing himself for believing he could have a family and keep the child safe because he had destroyed Moriaty's network. That had been wishful thinking. Clearly he had missed someone crucial in the network. He had grown too comfortable and confident.

"What do you mean?" John asked, hoping his friend wasn't referring to what he thought he was referring to.

"Moriarty tried to destroy me completely, but he failed because I turned my weakness into a strength. This time my enemy has made sure it is nothing but a weakness. This time, my enemy wants not a distraction, but blood." Sherlock replied, his words full of the weight of solemnity. His friend looked back at him with an expression of anxiety. He still didn't quite understand what Sherlock meant, but whatever had occurred to the detective, it was clearly more serious than anything they'd dealt with since the detective's fall all those years ago. "I need to think." Sherlock said abruptly before reaching over to the draw in his desk containing his box of nicotine patches.

"No, Sherlock. You can do this without those." John scolded. "I know you can."

"What does it matter to you? I need to think. This is a five patch problem." the dark haired man retorted, moving to open the drawer. The doctor quickly got up and snapped the drawer shut. "John! My daughter's been taken from me and her very life is in danger! I need something to help me focus so I can figure out how to save her as quickly as possible!" Sherlock yelled this time, baring his teeth slightly.

"Right, and that means we can't afford to have you OD on nicotine! She needs you, Sherlock!" John bellowed back. The consulting detective's eyes widened at this, his friend's point sinking in.

"Fine." he replied simply, steepling his hands again. How was he going to do this? Suddenly, he got up and fetched his violin. He quickly tuned it and a moment later, a soft, sweet, sorrowful melody filled the room. John immediately recognized it as Molly's Requiem. It's like he's asking her for help.the blond thought, a sad smile coming across his face. He wondered how different things would be if the pathologist was still with them. Everyone would be so much happier and Sherlock and Ceridwen wouldn't have many of the problems that they did. John tried to remember how Ceridwen was before her mother died. Memories of a lively, laughing little kid appeared in his mind...

It had been a long day, finishing up that serial killer case, but never the less, John decided to go with his best friend back to 221B, if only to see his favorite child in the world (second only to his own little one, Dean) and her mother.

"Hello, Molly!" the doctor greeted cheerfully, though he was very tired, as he came in. The woman smiled brightly at him and gave him a hug before gesturing for him to take a seat if he wanted to. Immediately, he collapsed into what had once been his armchair. Looking around, he marvelled at how different the place was from when he had lived there. Everything was neat and tidy. Not something you'd expect from a place where a child lived, or Sherlock Holmes for that matter. It was a mark of Molly's presence. From the corner of his eye, the blond could see Sherlock and Molly exchanging a particularly affectionate greeting (something that had taken him a long time to get use to seeing) and talking about the case the two men had just completed as they went into the kitchen. Then John spotted a dark haired little girl in her pajamas and dressing gown, peeking out at him shyly from the doorway, her bright silver-blue eyes looking back at him sleepily.

"Hi, Ceridwen. I'm sorry if we woke you." he said, smiling at her.

"It's okay." she replied in her soft little voice. As she started to really wake up, it registered in her mind that she was talking to John and she beamed, coming out into the sitting room so that she could talk to him properly. "Hi, John. Did you and dad catch the bad guy?" The doctor nodded and Ceridwen bounced up and down excitedly, obviously keen on being told the story. That was when her parents came back to the sitting room. Upon seeing his daughter, Sherlock grinned and lifted her up in his arms. She giggled joyfully.

"Ceridwen! Would you like me to tell you about the exciting case John and I completed today?" he greeted her energetically, though how he managed to be so lively after not having slept for three days, John had no idea.

"Yes, please!" the four year old exclaimed. She looked very fragile in her father's arms, despite her excitement. She was quite noticeably thin and pale and everything she wore looked big and baggy on her. However, she never seemed bothered by her own frailness. Perhaps because she had yet to encounter children other than John or Greg's, who never made fun of her for it.

"I think that story can wait until tomorrow. You need to be in bed, Ceridwen." Molly spoke up and the little girl made a pout face. Sherlock laughed.

"Your mum is right, but I promise I'll tell you everything as soon as you get up in the morning." he told Ceridwen, kissing her on the forehead before handing her off to Molly.

"Okay. Goodnight, Dad. Goodnight, John." the girl said as her mother turned to carry her upstairs to bed.

"Goodnight, Ceridwen." John called, waving. When Molly and Ceridwen disappeared, the blond turned to look at his best friend, still smiling. "She is such a great kid." He knew that if he had told Dean to wait until tomorrow to hear about his dad's adventure, he would have refused to go to sleep until he was given the story. It was remarkable that Sherlock's little girl didn't fuss at all. In fact, John couldn't recall ever having seen Ceridwen have a fit. If she was displeased, she moped for a little while in her room and then came back out cheerful again. Molly said she had been like that when she was small. Sherlock rarely talked about his childhood, so John had no clue what temperaments Ceridwen had inherited from her father.

"Indeed." Sherlock replied simply. He seemed lost in thought, but he still wore a grin. It was one of those wonderful moments in which John got to see him be blatantly happy about something other than work...

Ceridwen was like a different person now, full of cynicism and cold logic unsuitable of a ten year old. She was becoming Sherlock. Suddenly, a thought occurred to John. What if Sherlock was Sherlock because of a death? What if Sherlock had been bullied as a kid? That would explain so much about him. The doctor watched his best friend with a look of deep sympathy, a little humbled at the thought of Sherlock as a sensative child.

"Who are you?" Ceridwen asked the moment the phone was hung up. The woman laughed as she stuffed her index cards in her coat pocket.

"Did your daddy ever tell you about James Moriarty?"

"No. That name is very hush hush." the girl replied, her confidence gaining a little strength. The woman looked disappointed at this and frowned.

"A pity. And here I was hoping to enjoy the look of shock and horror on your face when I tell you my name is Cecilia Moriarty." Despite not really knowing about Moriarty, Ceridwen wasn't stupid. It had been obvious to her that the man was someone who had caused her father and his friends a great deal of pain. That was why her reaction to the woman's words was still full of surprise. "Oh, look, I still get satisfaction." Cecilia smirked, her dark amber gaze locking intensely with Ceridwen's gray orbs. "You and I are very much alike, Ceridwen." The ten year old grimaced at this and the woman laughed. "We are both enigmas, children born of men who are supposedly free of sentiment."

"I am nothing like you." Ceridwen hissed. "I'm not psychotic woman who finds pleasure in harming others." This earned her a slap across the face that continued to sting, which the girl concluded meant blood had been drawn again.

"You're right. I am a psychotic woman who takes pleasure in harming others." Cecilia responded, making it clear that the slap was to illustrate this and not an act of retaliation. "Where's the fun in being sane and kind?" The woman kept grinning at Ceridwen devilishly. "You and I are just afterthoughts. Somewhere along the line, my father decided he wanted an heir to his criminal empire, so he seduced my mother and she died having me in an orphanage long after he had forgotten about her. You are the product of Sherlock Holmes giving in to sentiment on a whim. He's not a proper father. To him, you're just a needy flatmate." At these words, Ceridwen glared at Cecilia, trying to hide the sudden rush of painful emotions that were threatening to take over her.

"You're wrong." she managed to say softly, causing Cecilia to laugh.

"Look at you, in denial. Why did it take so long for you to show me your defiance? Still, you are weak, even for a child. Convinced that your daddy is going to save you. You're almost not worth killing, but I need you so that I can enjoy the death of Sherlock Holmes. You see, you're the bait to my delicious trap. I'm going to enjoy watching you both die slowly." Ceridwen's eyes widened at this and she started to back away, but Cecilia grabbed her arm. "In the meantime, I'm going to have a little fun. Pain reveals the true nature of a person, so let's find out who you really are, Ceridwen."

It was many long hours before Sherlock Holmes moved again, but John stayed at 221B with him the whole time. The blond exchanged texts with his wife about what was going on. Apparently Dean had gotten upset when he had been told what had happened to Ceridwen and shut himself away in his room. John could just picture in his mind Mary putting a plate of jammy dodgers outside the boy's door to get him to come out.

Suddenly, the sound of the doorbell shook both men from their trains of thought and a moment later, Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs holding a cardboard box.

"This was at the door when I opened it." she explained and Sherlock rushed to take it from her. Something not all that heavy was packed inside. When he opened the box, a look of comprehension came across the detective's face and he took from the box Ceridwen's coat. As he began to look it over, a strong smell of chemicals reached his nose. "Has this got something to do with poor Ceridwen?" the old woman inquired.

"Why did they send you her coat?" Sherlock didn't seem to be listening to them. He was too busy rifling through all the pockets.

"John, we need to go to Bart's." the dark haired man said abruptly and for a moment, John was confused, but then he caught sight of the pieces of collapsable magnifying glass in Sherlock's hand, one of which had blood on the jagged edge of the glass. Mrs. Hudson put her hand to her mouth and looked like she might cry. Moments later, the two men were rushing out the door.

A/N: Well, I certainly hope that was not disappointing. I'm going to let your imagination run wild for a bit about what the deal with the magnifying glass is. How was it broken? What was it doing in Ceridwen's coat pocket? Who's blood is that? All questions with multiple possible answers. Please let me know what you think. Cheers! ~T.Z.