Chapter 3:

The coffee John had just sipped suddenly went down wrong and he choked for a moment. The drink suddenly spewed out of his mouth and jetted across the table he coughed sputtering.

"WHAT?" John coughed, looking at Sherlock for an explanation. Mrs. Hudson's mouth hung open, speechless; she had the stupidest expression as she stared at poor Mercy and Sherlock. Sherlock's face was completely blank but his wild eyes told all. He stared at her, pupils dilated, like a frightened animal, his mouth hang open a crack. His eyes darted as he looked her up and down multiple times; his mouth kept opening as if he was about to say something, but then he shut it after forgetting what he was going to say. The tension in the room was electric, and it was so silent you could hear a needle drop.

Sherlock was finally about to say something when a sudden, loud knocking came from the front door, breaking the silence. Everyone stood staring at each other, unsure what to do. There came another knock, and finally Mrs. Hudson decided to go downstairs and answer the door. Sherlock, Mercy and John remained upstairs and listened intently to hear who it was. While they listened, John stared at the two of them, his eyes looking back and forth between the girl and his best friend. From what he could tell, he saw very little physical resemblance between the two, but there was something about her, the way she spoke, the way she stood…

"Hello Mrs. Hudson, I'm here to deliver these to Sherlock." they heard Detective Inspector Lestrade's voice say from downstairs. John and Sherlock looked at each other in a panic.

"Oh, hello Greg, come on in." Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully as she invited him in. Sherlock's eyebrows shot up as he mouthed a frustrated 'NO!'. He waved his hands in the air in frustration.

"What is he doing here?! Now? I thought he said he would stop by in the afternoon!" John whispered frantically.

Mercy looked at the both of them, the two frightened men who obviously knew the visitor well and didn't want her to be discovered. She understood they did not want him to know she was Sherlock's daughter, at least not yet. She quickly walked up to Sherlock and whispered,

"Where is your toilet?"

She gave him a look of understanding and watched as a brief wave of relief washed over his face. He nodded and grabbed her by her coat then quickly ushered her down the hall and stuffed her into the small apartment washroom. Mercy shut the door behind her. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and then joined John and Lestrade who were standing together in the living room.

"Ah." Lestrade said, grinning when Sherlock entered the room and handed him a file of police documents. "Here you are, Sherlock. Everything we have on the victims."

"Thank you." Sherlock said, his voice unintentionally wavering. He coughed, trying to cover up his reaction, then snatched the papers from Lestrade's hands.

The Inspector stared at him, tilting his head,

"Are you getting the flu Sherlock? You're paler than usual. In fact…" he turned and looked at John and then back to Sherlock, "You both look somewhat pale…"

John looked at his friend, his face bent down, stiff. "I don't know about myself, Inspector, but I do think Sherlock is going to be sick. He's just experienced some… unnerving news."

"Shut up, I'm fine!" Sherlock snapped, glaring at John in warning.

"What type of news? Has one of your experiments backfired on you?" Lestrade chuckled, curious. He grinned teasingly.

"You could say that I suppose…" John mumbled. Sherlock angrily interrupted him,

"John, Shut up!"

"Well," Lestrade began as he made his way back towards the stairs, "If it has anything to do with exploding human eyeballs in the microwave, I don't want to know." He nodded goodbye to the two and made his way down the stairs. He said a farewell to Mrs. Hudson and then went out the door.

John crouched down, his hands resting on his knees as he breathed a huge sigh of relief. Mrs. Hudson hastily ran up the stairs to join them again. She looked nervously at her 'boys'. Sherlock rushed down the hall to the bathroom door and briefly paused before knocking on the wood cautiously.

"Mercy?" he called, his voice cracking. He was unable to bear with the suspense of waiting for her to come out and explain. He had thousands of questions for her whirling around in his mind. For what felt like an eternity, there was only silence from the other side of the door when suddenly he heard her respond.

"One would think that two grown men like yourselves would, by now, remember to put the toilet seat down after you were done." came Mercy's muffled voice from within. Sherlock heard the door unlock and watched as she stepped out and into the hall with a displeased look on her face. Sherlock frowned, then led her back into the living room, and sat her down abruptly into a chair. He stood before her with piercing eyes, blank faced.

"Answers. Now, Miss…" he broke off, not wanting to mutter her last names. His face twitched. He cleared his throat and continued, "I want explanation. I want proof because I can guarantee you that what you are suggesting is impossible. I was never involved with your mother. I've never been involved with anyone in fact." He stated, beginning to pace before her.

"Well, I'm here. I exist, so obviously that's not entirely true," Mercy stated as she gingerly removed her coat and scarf. Mrs. Hudson gasped when she saw the scars and bruises that decorated her neck and lower arms. Mercy sighed; disappointed she couldn't hide them from the kind, older lady.

"Really? No-one?" John asked, somewhat surprised. Sherlock shot him an annoyed look and John looked away, embarrassed. John looked back to Mercy again tilting his head as he tried to remember her mother's face.

"Well it's obvious who your mother was, you look so much like her and you have many of the same injuries…" John said softly, looking at the abuse that she had suffered. Mercy nodded grimly, she knew she looked just like her mother in many ways.

"Yes, the majority of my looks come from my mother. I know I share very little with my father here; my mum always said that was a shame." She gave a half smile, looked up at her father and continued,

"Ok, your answers." She said leaning forward in her chair and clasped her hands in front of her. She grinned as she addressed Sherlock, her eyes following him as he paced in front of her. She spoke almost as quickly as the speed of thought, creepily similar to Sherlock, as she explained everything to him.

"How did I come to be? Well you're a grown man, and a man of science. You should undoubtedly know how human reproduction occurs, so I need not explain the 'birds and the bees' to you, however, you obviously do not recall the conditions under which I was conceived. Obviously I was not there to witness anything so I can't give a firsthand account, however my mother has told me enough to explain the situation. You were very young at the time, probably around nineteen and on the night you visited my mother you had a ton of drugs in your system because you were, trying to escape your depression…"

"How did you…?" Sherlock interrupted, his voice cracked, his eyebrows furrowed in shock.

"Wait, Sherlock. Do you have depression?" John asked, suddenly concerned. Mrs. Hudson gave a small gasp, covering her mouth and looking sadly at Sherlock.

"Sherlock…" She whispered, resting her hand on her chest.

Sherlock said nothing; he glared at Mercy, who had had no idea he had never told anyone. She was now regretting saying that.

"Well, anyway," she began, trying to change the subject back to the story.

"My mother was around twenty five at the time and also happened to be under the influence that night. She had become drunk to try and get over her recent breakup with yet another man. She was feeling lonely, desperate and frustrated that she could not stay in a relationship. She was looking to feel loved and she had been attracted to you for quite a long time, and that night you happened to come to her door higher than Big Ben. You came at the wrong time, and under the wrong circumstances. You were originally looking for drugs but you got more than you bargained for."

Sherlock stood staring, speechless. I became a father at nineteen? He thought to himself, in absolute shock. Mercy coughed awkwardly and paused as she removed her fedora and held it in her hands. She looked up at her father with a sad expression.

"My mother never saw you again after that night. Someone told her that you had gone into rehab and, surprisingly, she was happy for you and wished you all the best of luck in getting clean. When she found out she was pregnant with me, she had decided to keep me but she felt she didn't deserve to have a child. She knew that having a mother who was a drug dealer would be a dangerous life. 'God have mercy on me' she said. But she kept me and hoped to someday find you and introduce us. She never expected to fall in love with you and live happily ever after once we were reacquainted but she felt that if I was part of your life I could help you and that I needed a father figure. But before she got the chance, she met Mike, Mike Birch, her lover and now, her killer. It was a perfect relationship and partnership at first. He took over the dealing while she raised me. However, he was never my father, I never liked him and he didn't like me either. In fact, he was scared of me, thought I was a monster. But he was the monster. About three years ago, he began to take some of the drugs himself and he believed he was in control. I discovered this and confronted him while he was caught in the act. He threatened that if I told mum he would beat me, I told him 'good luck with that'. I then told my mother and he was too cowardly in the end to lay a finger on me. My mother tried to make him stop but he started hurting her, calling her stupid and saying she didn't love him and overall manipulating her and making her like a possession. Watching first hand a loved one be destroyed by drugs, my mother wanted out of the drug business. He became terribly abusive towards my mother and I would literally have to fight him off most nights to stop him hurting her. He was a weakling though, he didn't know how to fight, I always won. But every time I kicked him out, he always came back and somehow convinced my pathetic mother to let him stay. But my mother was becoming terrified of what I was becoming. I was aggressive, full of rage and I would not hesitate to take a knife and threaten him if he got within three steps of her. She wanted to take me and run away to a shelter and start a new life. But he found out our plans and didn't want her to leave. Thursday night, my mother and I were at home. I had kicked him out of the house two nights before and we didn't expect him to come back so soon. He barged into our house and without warning, he shot my unaware mother dead. I ran into the living room and saw my mother and saw the gun. He had never owned a gun so I don't know where he got it. He pointed it at me, smiling. He was going to shoot me, but he decided that strangling me to death would be much more enjoyable. He chased me into the kitchen and cornered me against the wall, then tried to choke me but I was wearing my coat at the time and I knew I had my baton. I hit him over the head with it. he dropped his gun in pain and I knee'd him in the crotch and it gave me enough time to run out the back door and escape. I've been living on the streets since that night; I knew if I stayed with friends the police could find me."

John shook his head in amazement.

"Oh my, you poor dear!" Mrs. Hudson said, tears filling her eyes.

"You were able to take on a grown man in a fist fight and come out on top? I have to say it's a little hard to believe, considering your age and how small you are." John said, standing up as he spoke. Mercy raised a disapproving eyebrow at him.

"Sorry to be blunt Doctor, but you don't have an impressive height yourself. Height makes no difference for me in a fight."

"But you need experience. I was in the army, I've been to war. I'm a trained fighter."

Mercy chuckled and looked at him in challenge,

"I've been in wars, Doctor, just they were different. You were fighting for your country, I for my mother. At first I didn't know how to fight and I would lose but over time I got stronger, I'm self-taught, self-trained. Never underestimate a young person because they are short and female. I'm stronger than you would think and what I lack in strength, I make up with the power of my mind which gives me a distinct advantage. Also, I have my weapons besides my methods of defending myself."

"Yes, where did you get your baton? May we see it?" Sherlock asked, stretching his hand out towards her. Mercy shrugged and took the expandable black baton from her coats inner pocket and handed it to him. Sherlock looked the weapon over and with a jerk of his wrist, he expanded it to its full length.

"This is a policeman's baton. How did you come across this?"

"Oh, I pickpocketed an annoying policeman who wanted to ask questions about my mother a few years ago."

John looked at her with amusement now, seeing more and more similarities between the two.

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment; he looked at the young lady for a long time, silent. His hands were resting under his chin, clasped as if in prayer. He was lost deep in thought, his eyes glazed over.

"Well…" He said finally, suddenly clearing his throat and smiling at Mercy as if he was amused.

"This is definitely a very interesting story. However, just because your story consists of some facts and considerably possible circumstances that I could not recall because of my addiction… It does not make your story true. I cannot and I will not accept what you are stating as fact without proof. I refuse to believe that you, a young, short girl who looks nothing like me, are my daughter without all the facts and evidence made clear to me," he said skeptically. His icy eyes glared coldly at her for a moment then he turned away and picked up his violin from its open case near the fireplace window. He held it in his hands but didn't play; he just looked at it and stroked its smooth, varnished wood as if in comfort.

Mercy frowned and looked up at him bitterly,

"I knew you wouldn't believe me. But it's true, Dad," she spat, protesting.

Sherlock put his beloved violin down and turned toward her again, his annoyance and embarrassment building inside of him.

"I will not accept it as truth unless you can provide concrete and factual evidence to me. There is only one way of truly determining whether you are or are not my offspring, a DNA test."

John nodded in agreement. He had almost bought the story but he remembered that he had to be reasonable with the facts.

"Alright. I do not object to that but they will only confirm my story, I'm afraid." Mercy nodded in understanding, but then remembered her situation, "May I stay here until you have the results? I know these things take time and in the meanwhile I can still assist you with your investigation."

Sherlock grimaced slightly because he honestly didn't want to be around her for much longer. He felt very uncomfortable about the whole situation but she had a point, she had to be protected and she was a key contributor to the investigation.

"Would that be alright, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked, turning to his landlady.

Mrs. Hudson looked thoughtful for a moment. She still felt very unsure about the whole thing.

"She can stay until you get the results of the test, but after that, whether she's your daughter or not, someone will have to pay for her rent." She said, sighing, then she went downstairs to her flat to make herself a cup of tea to calm her uneasiness.

John knew what to do now; it was made clear when Sherlock looked at him while mentioning a DNA test. Someone had to arrange it and John was, after all, a doctor.

"Well, DNA tests do take a while. It should give us enough time to sort it all out with the rent."

John said, scratching the top of his head. He got up, grabbed his laptop, sat down again and began to write out an email to Molly Hooper to ask a few questions about Bart Hospital's DNA testing.

Mercy sat silently for a minute, then looked up at Sherlock, blank faced, and spoke.

"So..."

She began, trying to change the subject back to her mother's murder and get over the extreme awkward vibe of the room.

"Do you have any more questions about two nights ago? Or how my mother and Mike worked?"

Sherlock nodded, relieved that they could talk about something else.

"Yes... What role did your mother play in working for the...?"

He was cut off suddenly when a loud grumbling came from Mercy's stomach. She held it in embarrassment.

"Sorry…" she said, blushing, "I haven't eaten in 2 days."

Sherlock sighed and walked into the kitchen to see if there was any food. Other than a little milk, pickles, and some moldy cheese, there was nothing in the fridge to eat. Unless Mercy wanted to eat some frozen pigs eyes that Sherlock was saving for an experiment. But then Sherlock suddenly remembered they had some cereal so he found the box and poured a bowl for her.

Mercy got up when she realized it was slightly risky to eat the cereal in the nice arm chair she was sitting on, so she started picking up the papers and files that cluttered the kitchen table and put them into a nice little pile so that she could eat there.

"Thank you," Mercy said quietly as Sherlock placed the bowl and spoon on the table in front of her. He sat across from her and waited for her to get a few mouthfuls into her stomach before he continued asking questions. After a few bites, he cleared his throat to get her attention. She looked up from the bowl and swallowed. She nodded at him, ready for his questions.

"Who did you work for? What role did your mother play in drug dealing?" He asked her patiently, his voice strangely calming and clear; his tone like any adult asking a child a question. She ignored his tone. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and leaned back into the chair, smiling warmly at him.

"She worked as a drug dealer for a Chinese criminal organization called The Black Lotus..." She began.

"Yes, I know who they are." Sherlock stated, interrupting her.

Mercy raised her eyebrows, surprised,

"Really? I thought they were an extremely secretive and hidden part of London's underworld. They seem very resourceful and very careful to get rid of loose ends. I guess I should be careful then, eh?"

She said calmly before taking another bite of her cereal. She continued, her voice slightly muffled by the food in her mouth,

"She would also supply to the local druggies, like you those years ago, but her main income was from the Black Lotus. Every month they would send a smuggler to our door to pick up a large stash of drugs and transport those to a warehouse that was located about 8 miles from Baskerville, I believe. The stash you found in the basement was to be picked up any day this week by a smuggler. Once they retrieved the drugs and paid us, they would then they would distribute it in smaller portions to different smugglers to smuggle into Hong Kong via planes, boats etc."

"How did they get through the border security?"

Mercy shrugged, "They wouldn't tell us. We didn't need to know, I guess."

Sherlock grabbed a file from the pile Mercy had made and showed it to her. It was a record of the dealings.

"And this shows her dealings with the Black Lotus, yes?" He asked, pointing at it. Mercy didn't even glance at the sheet of paper; she continued to look at him with dull eyes. She shook her head and smiled smugly at him.

"Remember, I told you that you would find nothing linking her to the Black Lotus in any of those files. She recorded them somewhere else..."

"Where?" Sherlock asked, leaning in, becoming more interested.

Mercy leaned in too, her grin growing wider.

"She wrote them on her legs with a permanent marker then she would wash it off after a month. The only real record she kept was her bank deposits after she was paid, but she made sure to deposit approximately the same amount every two weeks like anyone else with a regular income," She said looking at him. grinning at the cleverness of it.

"You'll have to examine her body."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose in admiration of the genius. He called out to John, who was in the living room. "John, we need to go to Bart's. I need to go to the Morgue."