Chapter 3

The sound of the violin stops short. John abruptly looks up from the notepad he's just started writing on. The flat falls into a silence so suppressing I find it hard to breathe. I look at each of them in turn, trying to hold down the desperation rising within my chest. I need a response. Please. John looks up from his notepad and turns towards me, giving me a look of pure disbelief. I look back to him, and see the disbelief fade to recognition, and then back to disbelief. His thought process comes to life before my eyes:

'Now that can't possibly be true. This is all some stupid joke the kid is pulling on him, he'll be able to figure that one out real quick. But she does look like him…a lot like him. What if it's true? What if she really is…no, she's lying. That's all this is, a lie some stupid kid came up with.'

Caught up in my thoughts (or more like John's thoughts), I don't notice Sherlock stand and walk towards me. As I turn in his direction I jump a little as I see those pale, analytical blue eyes staring coldly at me, scrutinizing everything they see. But I regain composure quickly and stare right back. I think I see a sudden interest in his eyes, but it's gone before I can be sure.

"I'm sorry, miss, but that just can't be true," I hear John say. "Sherlock doesn't…attract women." Sherlock looks at me for one more second and then turns his stare to John. John flushes with embarrassment, obviously not meaning to have said that aloud. "What I meant was…I really…" Exasperated, he nearly shouts. "He doesn't have a kid!"

Turning his eyes to mine once more, Sherlock says quietly, "John, we need more milk. Go."

"No we don't, I used some just-"

"Go, John."

John finally gets the hint. "Oh, right. It was, uh, going bad anyways."

The door closes. All of a sudden my shoulders are held in a vice-like grip and those hard blue eyes go soft and take me in from head to toe. Recognition and hope crumble the wall he works so hard to maintain. I'm working hard to keep my gaze indifferent, revealing nothing about the torrential wave of thoughts crashing through my head: He's holding me, he's close to me…would it be wrong to hug him? My father, my one, true father!

Sherlock's gaze softens immensely. "Annabeth?" he asks in a hopeful voice.

All I can do is try not to gape at him. "How'd you…how'd you…know m-my name?" The words don't come out right! The solid grasp I've kept on my emotions is loosening.

"Oh, it really is you!" He wraps me in his arms, holding me as if he'd never let go. Still, I stumble over my words as if I've never formed words before.

"How'd you…I don't-"

Pulling away, he holds me at arms' length and looks me in the face. "I'd know you anywhere. You are my daughter, after all." The ear-to-ear smile he wears throws me off a bit. "Come, sit. Kettle's just boiled." He extends an arm to John's armchair, still keeping one hand on my shoulder, not wanting to let go of the thing that he's missed all these years now that it's finally here.

It's strange to see him…care. But I soon let that thought go. He actually embraced me! He didn't laugh at me, didn't curse my name or tell me to get lost. I have what I came for: a father. Even as these reassuring thoughts run through my head, I still can't help but feel…unsure. "So you're…happy, to see me?" I venture.

His smile glows warmly. "Of course," he answers. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Suddenly, I remember the death of my mum. The memory comes rushing back and hits me like a train: she is why I was here. She spent her whole life raising me. This man left two years into it. Why would I come to him now? The anger grows rapidly.

"Because you just left me and mum!" I yell. The horrible memories of her death arise so quickly. "Obviously you weren't happy to see me thirteen years ago! Why would you do that if you cared about us? About me?" My voice is high-pitched with hysteria. "Why act like you care about me now, when you never did before?" My voice cracks. "Mum was the only one who ever cared…and now she's gone…" I begin to sob.

I feel a hand gently touch my shoulder, and I flinch away. But the hand comes again, stronger this time, and another one follows suit and grabs my other shoulder, and I am lifted off of the chair. Then I'm enveloped in an embrace that feels so comforting, so protective. My sobbing quiets to a sniffle.

"Annabeth, I am deeply sorry." I can hear Sherlock's voice rumbling through his chest. It has a soothing effect that comforts me down further. "I…when I left, I want you to know it had nothing at all to do with you. You were – you are – perfect. I'm never leaving. Never again."

I pull away from him and wipe the tears from my eyes. I don't know if I can forgive him, not completely. How do I know he won't desert me again, even if he's said otherwise? But when I see his face, there is not a hint of deceit. Before I even know what's happening, I say, "I forgive you." When these words come out of my mouth, I feel almost as surprised as he looks, but he recovers quickly and wraps me tightly in another hug.

I've pictured this moment a thousand times: his touch – one hand on the small of my back, the other at the base of my neck, holding me gently to his chest; his sound – the sound of his heart beating softly, keeping time with mine; the sheer entirety of who he is. I've imagined it all. But no dream, however vivid, could ever compare to the real thing.

Across the street from 221 B, a man stands in the window of a flat. "Interesting," he says, pulling a pair of expensive binoculars away from his eyes. "Very, very interesting." The man closes his eyes and puts a hand to his chin, stroking it absentmindedly. Quite suddenly, the nasally lyrics of "Stayin' Alive" begin to play, seemingly out of nowhere. The man's eyes snap open as he breaks out of his thoughtful state. He presses the button on his phone and holds it to his ear: "Sebastian, I was just thinking about you!" he gushes. "I believe this twosome has just become a threesome. You gotta admit that's sexier."

The voice on the other end of the line is low and muffled.

The man walks away from the window. "Oh, Sebastian, you naughty boy; I'm blushing. But Daddy is working right now, you know that. No, Seb, I'm talking about The Game."

The low, muffled voice utters a sound of realization.

"Yes, Sebastian, glad we're on the same page now." The man resists the urge to roll his eyes. "I believe you should deal another player in. I need everything you can get on Annabeth Meade."

The low, muffled voice says, "Will do, Jim."

"Excellent. Oh, and Seb? We've been through this a thousand times: you call me Moriarty when I'm working." And with that he hangs up the phone. Moriarty walks back toward the window, able to see the happy family still embracing, even without the help of the binoculars. "Oh, so sweet. Don't ya just wanna throw up?" he says with a cheerful smile to no one in particular. He steps a few paces away from the window.

"I hope you're ready for a game, Miss Annabeth. Both you and dear ol' Daddy Holmes will be put to the test - my test - and it will be oh-so-fun. There can only be one winner though. That's how all games work, right? And you'll want to win this game, yes you will! You'll both be playing for the ultimate prize-"

Moriarty pauses. Though there is no one else in the flat, he plays up the situation as if entertaining an audience. Pause for effect, he thinks. He walks back to the window and addresses the father and daughter: if they can hear him or not, he doesn't care.

"You'll both be playing for your lives!" he says optimistically. But," he says, shaking his head with an unexpectedly gloomy attitude, "I'm afraid only one of you will be making it out alive."