A/N:

I stumbled upon some blogs on Tumblr about South Africa. I'm so happy :']

This chapter is short-ish and pretty uneventful, but I plans soon, fun, exciting plans.

Stuff Amelia says:

Ag man is the Afrikaans equivalent of "oh man!"

Now now means "later."


Belofte Maak Skuld / Promises Are Binding

Vier: Transition


The great thing in this world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving

Oliver Wendell Holmes


Sunlight streaming through the blinds is what wakes her the next morning. She's only lived here for three days, but the angle at which the light is coming in tells her that she's not in her room. It appears to be the right angle for the guest room at Uncle Titus's…has she only be dreaming about being in London, then?

No, she finally opens her eyes and doesn't recognize the room she's in. She'd be lying if she said that she wasn't hoping that this was a dream. Rather, a nightmare. Stop it, she scolds herself. You and Dad had a row last night, that's all. Just apologize to him and it'll be all right. Now, whose room am I in?

Amelia hops out of bed and opens the door and peeks outside. "Living room," she thinks aloud in a whisper. "I slept in Dad's room."

"Logical deduction, Amelia."

"Why?"

Sherlock looks up from his book- something about chemistry- and nods to the couch. "Your room was too far to carry you. You're heavier than you look."

"Thanks…" she says, walking into the living room. "I guess?"

He nods and goes back to reading his book. Silence fills the flat. John is at the surgery, leaving nobody for Sherlock to talk to while Amelia forages for some sort of breakfast. The next half hour or so passes by in silence until Amelia steps out of the kitchen.

"Dad."

"Hm."

Inhale, exhale, and resist the urge to snap. "Look at me. Please."

Obediently, he closes his book and looks up at Amelia who is slowly making her way to the armchair across from him.

"About last night," Amelia forces. "I want to apologize for…everything. It was uncalled for, especially comparing you to Gabriël. Dad you're nothing like him, you're-"

"There isn't need to go overboard, Amelia."

"It's not overboard, Dad. It's the truth. I'm sorry, all right? I shouldn't have said that. I missed having my dad around, and, you know, I don't want to muck it up after three days. I…you…get the idea, I guess."

In vain she hopes that he will reciprocate her apology. Surely even he knows that that is to socially acceptable thing to do! Even if his apology is insincere, she wants it. Unsurprisingly, after a full sixty seconds of complete silence, no such luck. Her father's coldness makes her want to cry (a lot) but she's too angry about other things to let tears of utter sadness take over.

"I'm taking a shower," she says unceremoniously. "I'll try not to leave my bra there again. Heaven forbid you live in a flat with a female and occasionally see one." No, Amelia you bloody idiot! Don't give him more attitude; it's perfect angel time.

Amelia is just about to close the bathroom door behind her when "Wait. Don't turn around, just stay where you are. I haven't been very kind. For you, Amelia, I can try to be less-"

"Of a blerrie miserable prick?"

"Yeah," she can hear the laughter in his voice. "That."

John she apologized and I didn't know what to do. –SH

What did you do? –JW

I may have accidentally apologized. –SH

What did you say? –JW

Told her I knew I was being unkind. –SH

And? –JW

I told her that I would try to be less of a miserable prick. –SH

The lack of a reply told Sherlock that his friend was satisfied with his answer and had returned to doing whatever locum work doctors do.

How dull.

He reaches down to pick up his violin, but pauses when his phone goes off.

Did you get my voicemail about Amelia? –MH

No. –SH

I thought not. The headmaster of Bartlett School was impressed with Amelia's file and requested to meet her today. –MH

And you're coming by to take her? –SH

We both are. I'm not her parent, Sherlock. You have to sign the papers. –MH

:-:

Showers. Amelia has always enjoyed showers. Maybe it is the way the warm water relaxes her ever-tense shoulder muscles. Maybe it's because it's the best place for her to make an idiot of herself being a human mp3 player. Or maybe it's the voluntary solitude that being in the shower grants a person. It's not like being left out on the playground, not being invited to a party, or being the last one picked for kickball. It's like relaxing in bed with a good book, taking a walk in a park at sunset, or opting to stay home alone while the family goes grocery shopping. There is a fine line between loneliness and hapy solitude. In Amelia's mind, showers rest nicely on the side of happy solitude.

Despite the alone time being her favorite part of a shower and her numerous life changes, she can't help but to slip into her lifelong habit of singing in the shower. With her song indecision, she never can stick to a full song, with commentary thrown in:

Largely undiscovered gems such as Jenny Don't Be Hasty. 'You said you'd marry me, if I was 23. But I'm one that you can't see if I'm only 18. Tell me who made these rules, obviously not you. Who- ag man I dropped the soap!'

Pop hits. 'I wanna hold 'em like they do in Texas plays. Fold 'em, let 'em, hit me, raise it, baby, stay with me. Love game intuition, play the cards with Spades to start…'

90s grunge, while giving her commentary in tune. 'He's the one, who likes all our pretty songs, and I hope Dad is out, and John is still at work, because this is embarrassing.'

'Someone call the doctor, got a case of a love bi-polar...'

'I kissed a girl and I liked it!'

A rather eclectic range of songs from German-language pop rock to mainstream American pop fill the bathroom while the water runs and afterward. Amelia is mostly silent white she dries off, dresses herself, and she quietly sings 99 Luftballons while she applies minimal makeup for her planned trip to the grocery.

Step 1, foundation. "Hast du etwas Zeit für mich, Dann singe ich ein Lied für dich Von 99 Luftballons-"

Mascara. "99 Luftballons, Auf ihrem Weg-"

Eyeliner. "Hielten sich für Captain Kirk-"

Gloss. "Streichholz und Benzinkanister -Hielten sich für-"

Exit the bathroom. "Mann, wer hätte das gedacht dass-"

Pause, see relatives sitting in the living room with identical smirks.

Lose brain function and keep going for about two seconds. "-Wegen 99-"

Regain control of brain, make a rainbow with hands, and say, not sing, "Luftballons. Yay for luftballons!"

Amelia is surprised to see her uncle and her father sitting in the living room not going at each other like seas turtles vying for a mate. Immediately, the youngest Holmes's face flares with heat from the embarrassment of being caught shower singing by The British Government. And her dad, but mostly, it's the Government she's embarrassed about.

Sheepishly, she waves at the men in the armchairs and points to the general direction of the staircase. "I'm just going to go…not here. See y'all now now."

"I don't understand that lexical regionalism, but I'm going to assume that it means the opposite of what I think it does."

"You're such a posher Uncle Mycroft," giggles Amelia. She playfully mocks his accent while she begins to walk away, "'I use flowery phrases like lexical regionalism because I'm a posh government official.'"

Sherlock smirks at his daughter's mockery, wishing that it were more disdainful than playful, but he'll take what he can get. "Actually, Amelia. We would greatly appreciate it if you joined us."

Amelia raises her eyebrows and cautiously pauses in the door frame to the staircase. "This…isn't like the time you tag-teamed me about the difference between 'England' and the 'United Kingdom' is it? Again, in my defense, I was seven."

"Just sit," Sherlock sighs, his exasperation showing.

Not wanting to risk another tiff, she throws herself onto the couch opposite the men. "Is there any particular reason for this family chat? Mycroft is here, there must be a reason."

"I need to have a reason to visit my brother and favorite niece?"

Amelia grins at the eldest Holmes. "Niece, no. Brother, considering the two of you don't get on, yes. So, what is it?"

"You," Mycroft begins. "Are a teenager. Teenagers belong in school. The headmaster of an excellent school just outside of the city was quite impressed by your information."

"He's an old acquaintance of yours, isn't he?"

"Yes, but the bit about him being impressed is true. He wants to meet you today to see if you live up to your file."

Amelia cracks her knuckles as a nervous habit and examines the men's faces. "By 'excellent school,' how do you mean?"

Sherlock cuts off his brother before he can begin. "Bartlett International is a boarding and day school. A fair number of boarders are international students, but most are from the United Kingdom or Ireland. Most of the day students are from London, and there are a handful of scholarship students."

"Ag man," Amelia groans. "It's a prissy rich kid school, isn't it?"

"We went to Bartlett," Sherlock says monotonously.

"Exactly my point," she laughs. "Oh come on, Dad, don't pretend that you two didn't grow up upper crust British society. Mycroft's told me too many stories- and I've been to the Holmes Estate. You could fit four of my childhood homes there. Anyway, I don't mind. My old school was full of German expats, some of which were Richie Riches compared to the general population. I'll manage."

"You will do more than manage," Mycroft says with confidence. "You will excel."

Amelia bursts into a mild fit of laughter and quickly composes herself. "Oh, Mycroft. Ye of too much faith. What time is he expecting me to be there?"

"You've a little under an hour."

"An hour? Under an hour!" Amelia leaps from her seat and gestures to her denim shorts and FIFA 2010 tank top. "I need to change my clothes! I didn't even pack anything remotely appropriate enough to- I really need to go clothes shopping. I mean I have my green chiffon hi-low skirt…would that be okay?"

The men stare in confusion, not understanding what 'hi-low' means, and is chiffon a fabric or a brand name?

"Right," Amelia squeals in a panic. "You're my dad and uncle. You're men and you wouldn't know the difference between a hi-low, mini, or pencil skirt if it jumped up and bit you on the arse. Running along, now."

:-:

Amelia is no stranger to 'fancy' schools.

Deutsche Internationale Schule Pretoria's campus is fairly large. The school itself is comprised of two two-story buildings with several smaller buildings for other purposes. One of the smaller buildings is a workout centre complete with any sort of machine a gym buff could ask for. The interior of DISP was always well-kept and walls were always painted at the slightest evidence of chipping. DISP put a heavy focus on their sports teams, as well as their academics, and was complete with: a football pitch, a cricket field, a baseball diamond, a rugby field, an Olympic swimming pool, a field for archery, a gymnasium specifically for gymnastics, tennis and basketball courts, a volleyball court, and a track around the rugby field. The teachers were obviously paid well above the average teachers' salary and drove nicer, newer cars than Anelle and her lawyer colleagues.

In theory, DSP and Bartlett International are one and the same. Both schools offer the International Baccalaureate programme, which Amelia was in, and both attract students from all over the world. The only difference, really, is that the international students of DISP are expatriates living in the country. The international students of Bartlett are both expats taking residence as well as students sent thousands of miles from home just to attend school.

Theoretically, the schools are the same…until one pays a visit to the BIS campus. Seated on 21 acres of land outside of London, complete with a large metal gate, is Bartlett International School. The sheer size of the campus puts Deutsche Internationale Schule Pretoria to shame. The fact that members of Britain's elite might attend the school is frightening. She's seen those cheesy movies, about how people that go to 'rich kid' schools are supposed to act a certain way, and allows the childish side of her to take over for a short while as she irrationally fears that they're true.

"Do I have to wear a uniform, Uncle Mycroft?"

The man laughs at her as he extends his hand to help her out of the car. "You have to ask, Amelia dear?"

"A girl can dream," she shrugs. Uniforms are the bane of her existence. "Thanks for ditching whatever government business you're not focusing on for me. Again."

"I have people with whom I can trust minor tasks," he replies. A simple 'you're welcome' has always been too pedestrian for him.

The wait outside of the headmaster's office wasn't even five minutes, but, cliché, feels like a lifetime. The brothers do not so much as look at each other while they wait. Regardless of the slight awkwardness of having both her father and uncle there, Amelia is relieved that Mycroft tagged along. His people skills surpass Sherlock's by a longshot, and if anybody knows how to talk someone up, it's him.

Amelia is about to excuse herself to locate the ladies' room when a door opens and a deep baritone voice laughs out, "Mycroft Holmes. What's it been, five years?"

"Six, David," replies the politician, shaking the headmaster's hand.

"Right then," says the portlier greying man. "Step into my office, you lot. Have a seat, have a seat."

Amelia seats herself in the middle chair and adjusts her posture so that she's comfortable but still looks presentable.

The man opens up a folder at his desk and glances down at it. "Rachel Holmes," he says, offering his hand. "Pleasure meeting you. My name is David Coffrey- your uncle and I attended Bartlett and Cambridge as classmates."

"The pleasure is mine," she says, nervously shaking his hand. "And, um, I usually go by Amelia."

"Yes, Mycroft mentioned that. Apologies," Coffrey beams and takes his eyes off of the folder. "Tell me about yourself, Amelia Holmes."

No, no, no. He asked it. He asked the question. She wipes her suddenly sweaty palms on her skirt while her eyes dart around the room. Inhale, exhale, allow panic for no more than three seconds, clear throat, talk. "What do you want to know?"

"Anything that makes you unique, Ms. Holmes."

"I have a funny accent for one," she chuckles. The glances she gets from her male relatives tell her the humour isn't a good springboard, but what else can she do? Have a panic attack? "On a serious note, I was born in Oxford and grew up in Pretoria, South Africa. I hold dual-citizenship, which my friends always found pretty lekker- I mean- different. I previously attended-" okay, Ames, it's time to show off your fancy German skills- flawless German speech, activate! "-Deutsche Internationale Schule Pretoria. I have a wide range of interests, and…there isn't much that I dislike. I'm willing to try almost anything once. When I was five my favourite Disney film was Mulan and I was convinced that I could grow up to be Chinese until I was seven. Talk about crushing a girl's dreams."

To Amelia's relief, Coffrey is laughing. "Tell me more about your family."

"I didn't know school interviews were so personal," Amelia chuckles. "All right, I suppose I could start with my Mom's side. My mom was a lawyer. My stepdad was" a bastard, a murderer, a drunk, a monster who beat me senseless. I have to lie. "was an airline pilot before a disability rendered him unemployed. I had five step siblings and a half-brother; let's just say that I was never bored. Past tense because my mother and step-dad divorced around two years ago, and my mom died two months ago. My stepdad didn't speak English at all- South Africa has eleven official languages- but he spoke Afrikaans. English was forbidden in the home. My mother's family is of Dutch ancestry and spoke Dutch around me all the time; it's very similar to Afrikaans. I understand Dutch, but cannot speak it. Dear, I'm getting off-topic. What was I talking about? Family! Right, okay, dad's side. I don't know all that much, as until now, I've only been to England to visit. I've met several of my father's cousins and their children, my grandmother, and, of course, my Uncle Mycroft. You went to school with my uncle, I'm sure you know all about him. My dad is a consulting detective and if you want my opinion, he's a remarkably great dad."

Sherlock casts his Amelia a sideward glance, entirely certain that she's lying about that last but, but says nothing and mentally deduces Coffrey: Receding hairline, went to school with Mycroft, so forties. 40. Possibly 41. Married, happily, keeps his ring polished. Obviously his wife doesn't mind his portliness, or maybe, he's stopped caring what she thinks. The more likely reason is that she is also a large woman. He wears his watch on his left hand, so right-handed. Colourful marker lines on his right hand indicates that he's a father of a small child, but the photograph of his children on his desk shows four girls and two boys whom are all too old to leave those marks. One of his daughters must have gotten pregnant a few years ago and had the child. Expensive suit, expensive shoes. Obviously cares about appearances. Body language indicates that he is relaxed and not trying to appear threatening. Evidence of further relaxation presents itself throughout the interview- he likes Amelia.

Coffrey responds to Amelia's latest. "I offer my condolences about your mother."

"Yes," she murmurs. "Thank you."

"I apologize for how personal these questions are, but accepting you to this school under the circumstances is rather unorthodox. This interview is a special favour for Mycroft. We must ensure that you will be an asset to Bartlett."

"You've obviously never been to a girl's slumber party nor had your spine operated on," Amelia jokes, humour being her natural defence. "Fire away, sir."

"What would you change about your pervious school, had you the ability?"

"My old school is fantastic," she answers. "But I would have liked a wider selection of foreign language courses."

"So you have an affinity for language?"

"Yes, sir. I am fluent in English, German, and Afrikaans. I can understand Dutch, and I'm fairly proficient in French after studying it for years. Language comes easily to me, I find it difficult to understand why it is tedious for others."

Headmaster Coffrey scratches his chin and thinks of his next question. Amelia meets Mycroft's glance and searches for signs of approval, disapproval, anything- but he's pokerface. Sherlock isn't, he's obviously disinterested and couldn't care less about the interview- he's here to sign papers, end story.

"Have you ever done something that you regret?"

"Headmaster," Amelia begins slowly. "The answer is a firm no. I've done things that, had I the chance, I would undo, but I have zero regrets. My motto is to live life with no regrets, because at one point, it was exactly what I wanted."

"Impressive answer," Coffrey clears his throat and grins at her father. "What is your least favourite subject in school and why?"

Amelia giggles uneasily and shakes her head. "I don't really have one. I enjoy school, but if I had to pick one, it would be chemistry."

"Why are you interested in Bartlett International?"

"For one, the IB program. Also, the archery. The academics are more important, of course, but archery is quite the bonus."

"Amelia, tell me who your heroes are."

"I have far too many to discuss," she giggles. Nerves, darn nerves.

"Share two."

There are a hundred answers running through her head. Each answer is true for at least one reason: Gandhi, soldiers, doctors, Nelson Mandela, Abraham Lincoln, Katniss Everdeen, Mom and Daddy, my uncle, Susan B. Anthony, feminists, John Lennon, Finn The Human Ayn Rand, Winston Churchill, Elie Wiesel, Tolkein, C.S. Lewis, autistic children, cancer survivors, Julie Andrews, William Wilberforce, David Bowie, The Queen, Alexander Fleming, Hayao Miyazaki, Buddha, Jesus Christ, Paul of Tarsus- excellent answers, some of them, British answers.

Out of all of these names, she blurts out: "Dobby the House Elf and Ellen DeGeneres. Oh, no! Can- can I have a do-over? I have better ones."

As expected, Coffrey ignores her request. "Dobby the House Elf, why him?"

She knows that she can't afford to screw up this interview, not this answer. This answer hasto be articulate, has to flawless, has to be intelligent. Inhale, exhale, avoid Dad's side glare and Mycroft's embarrassed face, inhale, exhale, swallow spit, now swallow again, inhale, speak. "D-Dobby is my hero because he didn't let being the least of creatures in the wizarding world, define him. He was loyal to Harry until the end, even when it meant severe punishment or, ultimately, death. He fought for better treatment of house-elves, and I feel like anyone could identify with him. Feminists and minority groups who fought for their rights can certainly identify. The significance of Dobby rings true for me because I grew up in post-apartheid South Africa. Apartheid-era South Africa was horribly plagued with stereotypes and racial inequality among other things. I've seen the positive effects of post-apartheid life. I can imagine what it would have been like for Dobby to succeed in seeing house elf equality."

"Can you list some others?"

"Sure. Um, John Lennon, Abraham Lincoln, doctors, Clara Barton, and, I guess my dad would be one."

Coffrey is beaming at the nervous wreck before him by the time she stops talking. "Where do you see yourself in ten years?"

"I want to be a doctor," she answers. "I want to be a paediatric surgeon. I'd love to travel, though. See the world, experience other cultures. I could do work with Doctors Without Borders or something after I gain experience."

"Have you ever received a grade that you didn't think you deserved?"

"Yes, sir. My biology teacher once slapped a zero onto my lab report because my lab partner was playing with the pig organs and I didn't stop him. Actually, I was laughing with him…rather loudly. All right, maybe I did deserve a low grade, but I thought that the zero was uncalled for."

Coffrey clears his throat and makes eye contact with Sherlock. "Your brother impressed me with your daughter's file. He neglected to mention how charming she is. Mr. Holmes, Amelia is a perfect fit for Bartlett."

"When can she start?"

"As soon as she can obtain a uniform- as today is Friday, Monday."

"Perfect," Sherlock drones when he's handed the necessary forms. He fills them out as Coffrey continues to talk to Amelia about the school.

In the backseat of the car taking father and daughter back to 221B, Mycroft takes one look at his niece and he laughs. He really, properly, laughs. "Dobby and Ellen DeGeneres."

"Shut up."

:-:

When Amelia filled John in that evening, his reaction was similar. He was pleased to hear that one of her 'better answers' was doctors and that she planned to go into medicine. 'I have a minion,' he said. 'Sherlock should be jealous.'

Amelia is starting to feel like she belongs here. Here being Baker Street. Here being London. She's starting school next week, her dad's flatmate is a cool guy, her uncle is same old Mycroft, and her dad is…Sherlock Holmes. There isn't a way to describe the sonorous-voiced man to the degree necessary for an exhaustive description. He's Daddy. No matter what, he's always going to be Daddy.

He's clean, now. No drugs. No heroin. Not even cigarettes.

It's like Christmas and Hanukkah all in one. Chrismakkah.

"Amelia."

"Ah!" she screams and falls off of her bed, knocking her head against the bedframe. "Ouch!"

Sherlock rushes forward and sits on the edge of her bed. "Let me see."

"I'm fine, you scared me is all. Stop playing caring father. Doesn't suit you," she laughs. "Owww."

"I care, Amelia. You know that."

"Used to know. I'm know so sure, now."

He purses his lips and moves over so Amelia can sit next to him. "Rachel," he says, not meeting her gaze. He only ever calls her by her first name alone when he's being serious. Usually, it's 'Amelia' or 'Rachel Amelia.' Never is it just 'Rachel.'

Amelia says nothing and inches a bit closer to him, maybe, possibly, hoping for a hug.

"What you said in Coffrey's office. About me. Don't lie like that again. You can lie about your mother's husband all you want, but not me."

"I was being truthful, Dad. You are one of my heroes, and you're a great dad…sometimes."

"I'm not a hero, Rachel."

"That doesn't mean that you can't be mine."

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, but hesitates and choses to say something else. "I am sorry about your mum. I'm truly sorry, Amelia. And all of the stuff that Gabriël did, the stuff that you're not telling me yet. I never wanted you to go through anything like that. I wanted better for you. Amelia, I wanted so much better for you. As far as being a father goes, I'm rubbish. I hate that you're stuck with me, but I'll never hurt you like that bastard did. You know that I won't, you do."

Amelia looks up at her father's face. Emotionless, stoic, pokerface as always except his eyes. In his eyes, is a tinge of apologetic sadness, the kind that is only bred out of love for whomever their apologizing to. He would deny it should she ever bring it up. For this reason, she doesn't mention it. For this reason, all she does is throw her arms around him and cry, allowing her tears to soak his purple shirt. She feels his body go rigid at her close proximity. Rigid is better than pushing her way. It's better any day.

"Daddy. Dad. I love you, and I know it doesn't matter to you, but I do. I know that emotions aren't at all your area, or, whatever. It would just be really nice if you could say it back one day is all."

The consulting detective frowns and awkwardly pats his daughter's back. "I do, Amelia."

"But you can't say it," she counters.

Sigh, defeated. "Yes."

She hiccups and cries a little harder. "I miss her."

"I know you do."

"It's my fault. I went for dinner after archery practise w-with some of my teammates. She was supposed to be at-t the school when she was shot. If I hadn't texted her about dinner, she wouldn't have been home."

"But you both would have been home when he showed up later." Sherlock pats her back again. "He was obsessed with you two. He would have lied in wait for you both to get home and killed you, too. There is nothing that you could have done to warrant a better result."

"I want my mom."

"I know."

"W-Who's going to help me at my wedding?"

"Mycroft can wear a dress and do your hair."

Amelia laughs dryly before sobbing some more. "I sound like a spoiled first world white girl, but I s-seriously hate my life."

My fault, kid. Sorry. Too much touching, I can't. I need to think of an 'out.' "It will get better, promise." he slides her arms from around him and inches away. "Hey, try getting some sleep. I'm setting you free in the city with my debit card tomorrow. Do try to not go overboard."

Her tears subside and she grins. "Really? You're letting me go shopping? Alone?"

"You're fifteen. No point in babying you. Get sleep, Amelia."

"Goodnight, Dad. Love you."

Sherlock stands up and flicks off the light. "Sleep."