They had finished their course with the language institute, three weeks of intensive study and sight seeing had left Gretchen with little time to ponder over the cold doubt in her heart planted by the icy woman at the airport. She'd had to bunk in with a roommate, which had been a trial. Gretchen was not unpopular exactly, but she wasn't wildly fond of people either. She was a little awkward, a little weird ("Hi! My name is Gretchen Holmes and I like to look at bugs! Have you met my folks? My mum cuts up dead people and Dad's in the papers."), and while she could be friendly and charming, it took some effort. Timothy didn't even try most of the time, though he did have a few good friends. He liked people as a general rule, but he didn't stoop to them. They proved themselves to be interesting and worth his while or he did without.

Now, though, they were alone, or at least alone together, at an old estate in the country. There was the elderly aunt the children had never met before though they'd had a vague knowledge of some distant family in France; Mycroft kept up with her, had visited her regularly throughout the years, though Sherlock didn't even remember she existed until a few months ago when Uncle Mycroft had informed Sherlock of the plans he made for the children. Sherlock had shrugged and delegated to Molly who though uncertain at first, was reassured by Mycroft that it was perfectly safe and that she and Sherlock both were welcome to join the children as a vacation of sorts.

Martine was kind enough, but she was very old, a crone in an abandoned castle— piped up Gretchen's inner child, the part of herself that was always a little lost in fantasy,-and while Tante Martine was content to have the young people about, she didn't bother herself to entertain, so Timothy and Gretchen, quite used to entertaining themselves, had spent much of the three days before Mummy and Daddy arrived roaming the outdoors, wading in the lake, climbing trees, and as they were doing this afternoon, capturing specimens for Gretchen to study. It was idyllic, almost out of a dream thought Gretchen. She would have been perfectly happy except for the worry that now had time to bloom in the quiet and peace of the country.

Gretchen and Timothy had traipsed over the property for the better part of the day, but now they were tired and hungry, and the brother and sister were resting on the back steps, nets and collecting jars nearby, enjoying the sunshine before they went inside. It was quiet and peaceful—even Timothy seemed calm—but the quiet gave her time to think, time to wonder at the blonde woman's words, repeat to herself the old story her Mummy made up, just for her, about the golden queen, the great knight and the broken man, except here in real life, it was Gretchen who had ice in her soul. Gretchen wasn't a fool. She could interpret and remembering Mummy's special story and the woman in the airport, putting it together with Uncle Mycroft's stares and Uncle John's worry, well, it all began to point to a conclusion that she didn't want to believe.

"Is there something wrong?" Timothy asked her abruptly. He'd been watching her brood, silently for a long time before he spoke up. "You seem—not okay."

Gretchen turned her head to look at her brother, somewhat surprised at his tone. It's not that he couldn't be sympathetic, but it was unexpected. He was a fourteen-year-old boy—not at an age known for sensitivity and tact. Well, that and he was raised by Sherlock Holmes, also not known for sensitivity and tact no matter what age he was. Luckily for all concerned, Molly Hooper was Timothy's mother, and compassion and empathy were some of her greatest strengths that she passed on to her children. It tended to balance out.

"What do you mean?" she asked, knowing full well what he meant. She wasn't okay. Not at all. She continued to look at him noticing that despite the blue eyes, the curly hair, he looked a lot like Mum at that moment—his expression earnest, his mouth sweet as he struggled to explain what he meant. Her heart squeezed. She wanted her mum. She didn't want her mum. She didn't know what she wanted.

"You've been different since we've come to France. I thought you were just missing home," he paused as she shook her head, no, that wasn't it—not entirely. "You've been upset since that-that woman at the airport talked to us." He reached out to her, laid a long-fingered hand on her shoulder. "You don't believe what she said, do you?"

Gretchen's ducked her head, chin on chest—so like Sherlock, if she only knew—and felt tears prick at her eyes. "What do you mean?" she asked again. She didn't look up.

"That we have different fathers, for God's sake!" laughed Timothy incredulously, "She was probably just another fanatic, stalker, reporter—they're always coming out unexpectedly. Remember that lady who kept knitting us those ear-hats and waiting outside the front door every Christmas? That's part of the reason we moved to the bigger house!"

Gretchen laughed at the memory of that silly woman and her silly knitting (she'd always liked those hats, though Daddy and Mummy didn't like strangers getting too close to the children), but it was a laugh that turned into a strangled sob and she laid her face on her knees and wept. She didn't have a right to wear those hats.

Timothy was utterly baffled. There was absolutely no reason for his highly intelligent, emotionally resilient sister to be so utterly broken by the random comment of some random freak in the airport. They'd dealt with outsiders being rude or overly familiar before. Their dad was a kind of celebrity, like D-list level or something, but a public figure, nonetheless. These things happened.

Gretchen raised her tear streaked face, her round brown eyes red-rimmed and wet. "I'm a cuckoo." She almost laughed, but it came out as a sniffle. Look at her, sniveling. She disgusted herself.

Timothy's lip curled in confusion. "You certainly are, but what do you mean?"

"A cuckoo bird!" she raised her voice as her brother shook his head, not getting it, or refuting it. No, he got it alright. "Oh, for goodness' sake, some birds use a kind of mimcry—"

Timothy rolled his eyes, "Skip the metaphor and get to the point. Why would you even believe such a stupid idea?" He sounded like Daddy and it was a comfort and a torture to hear.

"I don't look like Daddy." She said flatly—let's lay out the facts. Most people see but do not observe. She was going to lay it out and have Timothy see for himself, see if he came to the same conclusions.

"No. So what? I don't look like Mum. I think I looked a little like Uncle Mycroft when I woke up the other day—the ears…" he shuddered.

"Yes, you do look like Mum—parts of your face are hers," disagreed Gretchen. " People just notice Daddy's features more—he's flashier—genetically speaking." Timothy shrugged. Again, so what? His expression said. Gretchen took a deep breath and trying to control a sudden shaky feeling that overcame her, she reached into her satchel which held her computer tablet and other reference materials she used to identify her insects.

"I don't look anything like Daddy, but I think, I think I may look a little like this…" She quickly navigated to a saved image and handed it over to Timothy. He perused the article the photograph illustrated and snorted derisively.

"Moriarty!" laughed Tim. "You've gone mad. Have you gotten into Tante Martine's absinthe? That stuff will make you crazy, I hear." He tried to hand the device back to his sister. "This is stupid. You always had your head in those fairy tales and stories and here you are finally, lost in fantasy. Ridiculous!"

"Don't make fun, Timothy," said Gretchen seriously, "but look here—he died 17 years ago. He was the one who made Daddy fake his death. He dated Mummy to get to Dad." She'd been reading Uncle John's blog, the old one in his archives. There was so much she hadn't known. Why hadn't she known? Was she too self-centered to care about her parents' past—partly, but mostly it had never been relevant—Dad had taught them to ignore, delete useless information-until now.

Timothy was staring at the photo of the man again-Moriarty. It was taken at the trial, and he stood refined and elegant in his grey suit, a twinkle in his black eyes.

"The timeline is off, Gretchen," protested Timothy, "He committed suicide when dad jumped off the roof of St. Bart's. Your birthday would be off if he was your dad. "

Gretchen hesitated. She had considered this. "Daddy didn't die when everyone thought he had. What if this—Moriarty didn't either."

Timothy was bent over the image, he'd enlarged it to look at the face more closely. He looked up at Gretchen and studied her face. Timothy had never her looked at her like this before and for a moment the resemblance to Uncle Mycroft was rather amazing. The little splinter of ice in her heart, planted by the cold blonde woman's comment, twisted as she saw her brother making connections, the same ones she had made herself. If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true, she thought to herself, and knew Timothy was thinking something similar.

"Hmm. I guess, there may be something around the eyes. Pull back your hair, from your forehead." Gretchen obligingly caught up her long dark hair in a ponytail, pulled straight back from her brow.

"Well…yeah, the forehead is distinct, maybe." Timothy stopped suddenly and threw the tablet on the ground. "This is idiotic, Gretchen! You could do this with any random stranger. It's not like brown eyes and a big forehead are uncommon features in the human race!"

He was upset. He saw it too.

"This isn't a random stranger, Tim. It's someone who knew Daddy, who dated Mummy. It's someone they never talk about even though all the press shows his involvement with the greatest mysteries Daddy ever solved." She looked at her brother with fearful eyes, "They tell us everything else. Why not this?"

"I don't know. It's old history, boring, irrelevant—Dad deletes stuff he doesn't need and Mum's too busy to worry about some bloke who took her out a few times decades ago." He was panicking, she could tell, but he was trying to stay calm, "Besides what does that say about Mum!" Timothy loved his mum. A lot.

"Uncle Mycroft gives me those looks. Makes me feel like a bug under glass." Gretchen stated solemnly.

"He looks at everyone like that, Gretchen." Timothy wasn't going to admit it, though he knew it was true, had said as much to her before.

"No, this is a special stare just for me. You know it," she insisted.

Timothy stubbornly shook his head.

"Why does Uncle John act like he's afraid of me? ME! And he served in Afghanistan!" Gretchen felt hysteria rising.

Timothy shook his head again, "You're a girl. He doesn't know how to deal with girls—look at how he deals with Susannah!"

"That's the old lie Mummy and Aunt Mary give us. It's bollocks. He deals with Susannah the way he does because he's a ladies man, and the fact that his daughter has boobs now terrifies him because he knows boys like him exist—that's the gist of what Daddy says." She was being very serious, but as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted it. Timothy was going to use it to change the subject.

"True. And you really don't have any boobs to scare him with anyway…OW!" Gretchen grabbed in the soft part of his arm, just below the armpit and pinched.

"Shut it. I told you not to make jokes. This is serious."

"Say it is true, Gretchen. What does that make you? What does that make mum?" He was angry, angry with the idea, angry with Gretchen for bringing it up.

Gretchen tucked her chin into her chest again and stared at her hands, "I don't know."


Gretchen had kept her conclusions to herself throughout the rest of their stay in France. If Mummy or Daddy noticed her silence or Timothy's moodiness, they didn't say anything. It wasn't exactly unusual behavior from them.

They were home again, and Gretchen had draped herself across her parents' bed, watching her mother unpack her travel bags. Her make case, her jewelry—not that there was much there—mum kept things natural, generally, but she liked to have everything in order. Daddy would help later, sorting her things into their most logical categories. Dad's sock and underwear drawers were something to be admired, though woe to anyone dared disturb them.

It was domestic and homey and happy. The strains of the violin drifted down the hall. Gretchen felt safe, safe enough to ask her question. She took a deep breath.

"Where is my father?"

"Daddy's in the living room trying very hard not to say something psychologically scarring to your brother. I do think Timothy may be even better than Sherlock at the violin," Molly smiled with pride, cocking her head to listen. The smile was genuine, but underneath it lurked a different emotion, something fearful.

The question came out wrong. She was nervous. "Let me ask it a different way. Who is my father?"

"What a silly question, Gretchen. What are you on about?" Molly was soft and earnest, the same Molly and Mummy she'd been since…well, since forever, but there was a sharp edge to her voice. She dropped her task and turned to face her daughter.

Gretchen sighed and then nodded. Okay. Let's try again. She tried a different tactic—one that would appeal to her mother's scientific mind.

"Who made you pregnant with me? Who, biologically speaking, fathered me?" She asked calmly and directly. Molly's brown eyes widened. Gretchen stared back with her own brown eyes, unsmiling and determined to get an answer.

Molly's expression hardened and her lips went tight before she looked down quickly. When she looked up again, her eyes were damp and her face had softened, she looked…fragile. Mum never seemed fragile. Everyone knew that Dad was the one most likely to fall apart in an emotional moment. Mum was the backbone and Gretchen had shaken her. For the first time, Gretchen was honestly frightened. She'd suspected, worried, but this terrible look on her mother's face. This was confirmation.

"Nevermind, Mummy. Nevermind. I'm sorry. I don't know why…" she began, but her mother put out a gentle hand and cupped her cheek. Mummy's eyes ran over her face, so much like Uncle Mycroft or Uncle John (but never Dad. Dad never analyzed her features looking for a stranger's face, because that was what the others were doing, wasn't it. Was it because he didn't want to know or because he didn't care? And if he didn't care was it because he loved her and mum too much or not enough? Oh God.)

"Who set you on this line of questions?" Mummy's voice calm, but she was very terrible in her stillness. Mummy was furious. Not with Gretchen, never with Gretchen. "Was it Mycroft? John?" Those warm brown eyes had gone flat—no sparkle at all.

"No! No, mum—it was at the airport, in the terminal, there was this woman—" Gretchen began. She described the woman, recounted the exchange and how the woman had looked at Timothy, looked at her. She told about her own digging into Uncle John's case files. Mummy's face was pale as death, and her eyes…oh God, she'd never dreamed Mummy could look like that.

"How did she know Daddy? Who was she?" Gretchen asked, voice small. Her mother was in another place right now. Wheels were turning, her sweet, smiling mouth was grim.

"No one of any importance at all, love. No one you will ever hear from again," Mummy's voice said, but it didn't sound like Mummy. This was a wolf whose cubs had been threatened. This was a queen preparing to deliver a death sentence.

"Mum, mummy!" Molly's eyes snapped back to her daughter. Mummy was quiet and calm, but righteous anger radiated off her. Gretchen almost couldn't look at her mum. The quiet rage was too awful to see.

"Who is my father?" Gretchen asked again, afraid of her mum, but she had to know and really who else was there to ask?

Mum was made of steel, surgical steel under that soft sweetness, but she was upset. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to see that. Gretchen Holmes saw all too clearly the way her mum's pulse had sped up in her neck and the way her hands clutched the bedspread, bunching it up in her capable little hands. Those hands could cut, very calmly and efficiently, a grown man, a grown woman, even a little child into pieces and break them down—see what made them tick and what made them stop ticking. But she was scared, scared of her daughter's question. Scared of the answer, it seemed.

"I ask because I figure you are the only one who really could know the answer. Who is my father?"

Molly opened her mouth to speak. Her voice squeaked as she began "I-I…" she smiled bitterly a moment at herself, and began again, "I'm not sure," she admitted.

"You're not sure?" Gretchen blinked stupidly, "What do you mean you're not sure? Mum!" She was shocked. Mum wasn't the sort to sleep around. Mum was the original Miss Perfect. Wasn't she? What was the truth anymore?

"It doesn't matter, Gretchen. Don't you see, Daddy loves me, loves you. It's…it's the truth, he is your father, whatever the biological facts might be." Molly looked panicked. Mouth opened. Words tumbled out. She was flinching as she heard herself saying the words. She reached out with her hands as if she could take them back into herself.

"Might be? Might be, Mum? My God! You really don't know?" Gretchen exploded and she felt her Mum's eyes taking her apart piece by piece, her eyes, her chin, the shape of her hands.

That dissecting gaze was really all the answer Gretchen needed. Mum knew. If she didn't know, she'd have the tests run. Mum was a scientist—she looked for answers, craved them. Mum literally cut people apart to solve the mystery of their deaths. Mum didn't like unresolved questions. Mum's eyes running over her face, her hands, cutting her down into her parts told her everything.

"I don't look like Sherlock." Gretchen said quietly, "At all."

"You look like me," said Molly hotly, "and though I suppose I could apologize for that again, I won't. Don't be foolish, Gretchen. You are familiar with genetics. Genes manifest themselves differently—you cannot go by looks alone. And I won't take any blood tests, nor will your dad. I suppose Uncle Mycroft would be delighted to help you out, but I warn you, you may find yourself cut out of his will " she laughed that terrible laugh again. "Or you could con Tim into giving you a cheek swab, I suppose. I won't help you though."

Gretchen did look like her Mum. She was a mini Molly, just as Timothy was a mini-Sherlock, but just as Molly's lips, Molly's nose softened Tim, made him an individual and not just clone of his father, so too did Gretchen's round, dark-brown eyes, fine-fingered square palmed hands, and high forehead mark her as something, someone's other than Molly's child alone.

"Stay here, Gretchen. I need to make a call and then I will speak with you in a moment." Molly tried to smile at her daughter, but it couldn't quite stay on her face. "I promise." And then she was gone, closing the door behind her.

Gretchen curled up in her parent's bed, pillow over her head as she heard her mother speaking low and rapidly in the next room. Tears trickled down her nose.

"Take care of it. Now. No evasions. No tricks. I will want confirmation that this business is finished." Gretchen trembled to hear the wrath in her gentle mother's voice. Mum was blazing, hot, but Gretchen was shaking with cold.