"A daughter is a treasure - and a cause of sleeplessness." - Ben Sirach

Watson

As I followed Sherlock Holmes into the dining room of the hotel, I could see from the absent expression upon his face and his intensely concentrated eyes that he was already drawing conclusions about the small clues we had been given thus far regarding the horse and rider that had supposedly caused the unfortunate stable master's injury the night previous.

Further proof that the detective's mind was very definitely elsewhere manifested itself in the fact that he obliviously walked completely past the table containing Mycroft's reservation card and had to be tugged back to his seat by his collar.

I watched in amusement as he opened the menu upside-down and stared absently at it for well over a minute, then finally blink in apparent satisfaction with his conclusions, whatever they might be. The faraway gleam vanished instantly from his steely eyes and he glanced down at the menu, scowling before flipping it right-side-up and glaring at me as if daring me to comment on the fact.

I merely smiled and studied the luncheon choices, knowing full well that even were I to vocalize the useless question of what conclusions he had reached, he would never tell me until he deemed the time was right. I had decided upon my meal and was closing the menu when both Holmes and I glanced up, sensing the approach of someone to our table.

Mr. George, sans Dragon and Grendel, paused at our table on his way to his own to apologise most sincerely for his dogs frightening Eve. He appeared to be genuinely sorry for causing any disturbance, unintentional though it had been, and Holmes graciously accepted the further apology and motioned the man to one of the empty seats, for Mycroft and the girl had not yet joined us.

"Your clue of the scrap of saddle blanket was much appreciated, Mr. George," my friend told the man thoughtfully, tapping his thin fingers on the tablecloth. "After seeing the inhabitants of the stable, I wonder if Juno might possibly be the horse that was heard in the woods last night. The hoofprints were quite large, and the black hair found on the blanket supports the theory that out of the stable animals, Juno is the most likely to have been out last night," he added, glancing at me.

"If you'll pardon my saying so, Mr. Holmes, I highly doubt it would be that beast," George interjected. "Mr. Calhoun and I have had multiple discussions on the matter of the horses, and that one is so unruly that the man only permits himself and his daughter to ride it. Apparently such rules are a safety precaution; it bucks anyone else."

"His daughter?" I inquired, for I had not been aware of our Scottish friend having a family.

"Oh, yes, lovely girl of about six-and-twenty, apparently," George replied. "I don't believe she lives around here, though that's not a topic that usually comes up in a conversation centering around horses and the like. I could very well be mistaken."

Holmes's only comment was a pensive frown and an annoying tapping of his fingers upon the rim of his water-glass. I glimpsed Mycroft making his plodding way through the tables towards us, a freshly-scrubbed and much calmer little one in tow who was beaming cherubically at her adoptive father.

"I shall make myself scarce and leave you to your luncheon, then," George said hastily, casting the meditative detective a curious glance after a somewhat awkward pause. "And I am sorry about the dogs, Doctor," he added, addressing me as Holmes's brain had already obviously withdrawn from the conversation.

"Quite all right, Mr. George," I replied as the man rose to leave. "I am sure we will see you around the hotel in the near future."

George nodded to me and then to Mycroft Holmes, and began to briskly make his way to his own table some ten yards away.

Mycroft was about to place Eve in the chair by me but she scrambled up beside Holmes before he could. The girl eagerly poked the daydreaming detective in the arm and, whipping out her ever-present notebook, began to scribble furiously, much to my amusement.

The elder Holmes settled with an audible creak and accompanying sigh into the remaining seat, for the moment giving up on attempting to keep the girl's curiosity within the bounds of normality for a girl of six. By becoming a member of this particular family, however, Eve had relinquished (quite willingly) any hopes of the aforementioned normality.

I watched in amusement as Holmes remained oblivious to the small finger tapping him, only snapping out of his thoughts when a smartly-wielded notebook finally swatted his forearm impatiently.

"Yes, what is it?" he asked absently, glancing down at the hastily scrawled sentences and Eve's gesturing to George at the nearby table. "Ah, he was merely apologising for his monstrous dogs frightening you."

Eve sent a wary look in the hunter's direction but nodded at Holmes, safely trusting in the protective circle of our table. My friend glanced at his brother, who was pointedly ignoring the rest of us in favour of perusing his menu and the sheaf of papers Trevor had brought out from London.

"I am happy to report that the morning was not entirely unprofitable, however," the detective went on loudly. "We have made a bit of progress at least."

Eve giggled noiselessly and I smiled when Mycroft merely turned to the back portion of the menu without moving his head or even an eye in his brother's direction, though he could hardly help hearing.

The girl fell to scribbling furiously on her notepad while Holmes looked with interest over her shoulder and occasionally made suggestions. A moment later the two conspirators stealthily pushed the small book under the older man's menu straight into his line of vision.

I counted five before the glossy paper lowered to reveal a combination of fatherly indulgence and brotherly exasperation as Mycroft picked up the quite passable sketch of the enormous horse Juno, carefully shaded a dark charcoal colour.

"No." The decisive rumble rattled the water-glasses upon the table.

"No what?" Holmes asked innocently.

"You are not going to be giving or allowing another to give her riding lessons or anything of the sort until this horseman business is cleared up, Sherlock," the older man retorted emphatically.

"I thought you believed there was nothing to the affair besides over-stimulated imaginations? In that case what harm could there possibly be?"

I settled back to watch the war and cast a fond glance at Eve, who was also observing with wide-eyed amusement. Sometimes I believed the girl truly enjoyed having the three of us squabble amongst ourselves over her care. Most certainly she was enjoying the bickering taking place at the moment – that same gleam indicating a love of mischief that shone so often in Holmes's eyes had long since lit in hers.

"Be that as it may, the fact remains that a man has been injured, whether by an apparition, a living animal, or some other agency," Mycroft Holmes stated dismissively, folding his menu and beginning to leaf through his sheaf of paperwork. "And even were she to learn to ride whilst we are here, nothing in this world, or out of it for that matter, would induce me to allow her to mount one of those enormous Percherons of Calhoun's."

A very clear He has a pony too appeared across a blank page of Eve's notebook, and her largest protector gave a slow sigh as the familiar pleading pout appeared to transform her little face. Our daughter had learnt long ago the invisible but potent power that little children, especially girls, seem to hold over fathers, and she was well-practised in the art of wielding that control to her best advantage. I would not be at all surprised to see the girl astride Calhoun's little Bristol before the afternoon were out (and no doubt Holmes would find a way to accomplish that end with or without elder brother's consent).

For now, a muttered "Perhaps" more than contented Eve, and she returned to putting some finishing touches on Juno's mane and tail while the three of us gave our luncheon orders. Once the waiter had disappeared, Holmes leant across the table toward his brother, obviously going to discuss the case whether the older man wished to hear the details or not.

"It seems to me, Mycroft, that this Juno would be the most logical choice to fill the shoes – or horseshoes, rather – of whatever beast frightened that poor fellow last night," he said, frowning and waving a hand between his brother's paperwork and sharp eyes impatiently.

Mycroft blinked and swatted his sibling's hand away from a bulging manila folder. "What of it?"

"That George fellow told us that Calhoun only allows his daughter and himself to ride the brute, since it obviously is not the most mild of mounts. The logical conclusion would be that Calhoun is the most likely candidate to be riding about in the middle of the night."

I looked at my friend in some disapproval, not willing to believe the amiable fellow would do such a thing, and Eve outright scowled and vented a glare that would melt a colder heart than Holmes's at this intimation against her well-loved and bird-providing friend.

The detective winced more at the girl's disapproval than mine and was about to either explain his words or backtrack, when Mycroft tossed a document down and turned his attention to us.

"Besides the fact that I still am doubtful as to the significance of the entire legend-brought-to-life ordeal, it stands to reason that the stable master would not be frightened of Calhoun riding upon one of his own horses," he pointed out slowly, in the patient tone he used when explaining problems to our little girl.

"It was the middle of the night, and he was half-drunk or more," Holmes protested.

"Even so, a stable master knows his animals and his employer and no amount of drink or darkness would be able to frighten him into thinking he was chased by a man without his head," Mycroft snorted. "Besides this, Sherlock, there is no conceivable motive for Calhoun to stir up fear in his own hotel."

"What fear? I should think that would be an enormous draw for publicity," Holmes said with what I felt was undue excitement. He glanced at Eve, who nodded eagerly with the same shared macabre humour, and I felt my skin crawl.

"What, advertising that a headless horseman goes trotting around at night with the intent to do bodily harm, and has already put one man in the hospital?" I interjected dryly. "It might draw an onslaught of medical men hoping to enlarge their practices or reporters seeking a tabloid story, but most normal people would steer clear of such a place."

I resisted the urge to put my head in my hands when a very emphatic Being normal is boring appeared in childish scrawl upon Eve's notebook. Holmes's grin and fond pat of approval did nothing to help matters, and Mycroft stifled a moan, attempting to return to his simultaneous scanning of Whitehall paperwork and ignoring his two youngest companions.

"Calhoun's daughter, then," Holmes pressed, as if the conversation had never paused.

"His daughter is in France and will be for another two months, Sherlock," Mycroft said without looking up, frowning at the document held in his hands. "Now do stop this ridiculous making-a-mystery-where-none-is-to-be-had and enjoy your holiday. Or at the least, permit me to enjoy mine without being forced to keep tabs upon you every second for fear you will disappear ghost-hunting or something equally non-productive."

I could have told the man that he was wasting his breath with that admonishment, rather fuelling the fire already burning in my friend's (and Eve's) active mind, but decided against it as he no doubt was already aware of the futility of suppressing Holmes's energy, and by extension Eve's.

The girl began to sketch the pony we had seen in the stables earlier, turning with a beatific smile to me for added encouragement in her art. I returned the smile and watched the spindly drawing take shape on the page for a few moments, after which my attention was drawn by a short harrumph from Mycroft Holmes. I looked up to see the man scowling at the last of his paperwork, which had now become magically sorted into three neatly stacked piles in front of him.

"What is it now, brother?" Sherlock asked absently, finishing off the last of his tea and clinking the cup back down into the saucer. "The Empire falling apart at the seams without you there to hold it in one piece? And here you were riding me about not working during a holiday."

His older brother was frowning as his clear eyes scanned the paper he held for what had to be the third time, completely disregarding Holmes's impertinence.

"What is it?" I echoed with a bit more concern, and this time the man looked up at us, his frown extending further across his face.

"One of my agents is missing, apparently," he informed us, the lines in his brow deepening in the only expression of worry he would visibly reveal. "This note says he has not been in contact with anyone for over two weeks."

"And that is cause for concern?"

"It could be an indication of trouble, yes, Doctor. The uncertainty of the unknown in this business especially is always cause for concern, and with this fellow it is highly unusual to go for so long with no contact. I freely admit that I do not like it. Not at all."

Such a free admission to unofficial parties showed more clearly than anything else just how unsettling the matter was, yet when his watery gaze fell onto Eve, her attention torn from the drawing and her expression bleak at his distress, Mycroft forced a smile and patted her head.

"On the other hand, however, two weeks isn't enough to raise the alarms," he assured her, although his tones seemed hesitant at best. "Certainly nothing for you to worry over, Eve."

The little one was too perceptive to be deceived by fake smiles, but nevertheless faked one of her own and accepted the comfort.

Holmes

Judging by the exasperated tones coming from the water closet, Eve was enjoying her bath time much more than Watson was.

When my gaze fell on my brother, brooding in the armchair by the fire with the handful of documents, the smile fell from my face. "How bad is it?" I questioned softly, knowing he would appreciate a question straight to the point.

"It could be nothing." His face was heavy with worry for it being nothing. "He's given a bit of leeway as a very talented agent, but two weeks without contact and no prior warning… I'm having nearby agents investigate it."

"I am sorry." Mycroft likely knew the man personally, and if not at least felt responsible for those under his command. I knew my brother, and at the base of his personality was a desire for control. A missing agent was out of his control, and therefore it bothered him greatly.

The bathroom door opened and our daughter bolted from it, wet hair laying limply on her shoulders. She smiled, running to hide behind Mycroft's chair when Watson followed after her looking decidedly damp.

"She's as clean as I could get her without drowning her," the doctor sighed, nevertheless smiling. "Ask nothing more of me tonight, gentleman."

Mycroft immediately snapped his portfolio shut. No matter how stressful his work became, he never let Eve be privy to it. "I suppose that means you're on tuck-in duty, Sherlock." Myself and Watson putting her to bed was a rare treat, and she made it clear she wanted us to do so while we were on holiday.

The girl shook her head, wriggling out of her hiding place and squirming up into Mycroft's lap and wrapping her arms around his neck.

Usually, her stranglehold would have annoyed my brother, but instead he blinked in surprise. "You're sure you wouldn't rather Sherlock? I can tuck you in any night at home." At the nod against his shoulder, he smiled softly and wrapped his arms around her, rising. "Well, come on, then. It's already past ten." He carried to her bedroom, closing the door halfway and dimming the light.

"Perceptive," muttered Watson. "She lives up to her last name."

"Sympathetic. She lives up to her middle one," I added, not able to restrain a short sigh. She'd known his worries and wished to ease them, sweet girl… But all the same, a problem like this would take more than a smile and a hug to solve.