A/N: I only own Amelia and her friend and non-Holmes family.
Dankie- Afrikaans- thank you
Belofte Maak Skuld / Promises Are Binding
Ses: The Forgotten
Well, don't look away from the arms of a bad dream
Don't look away, sometimes you're better lost than to be seen
Don't look away from the arms of a moment
Don't look away from the arms of tomorrow
-Green Day 'The Forgotten'
"Come on Amelia," Wes begs. "Please let me copy your science, just this once?"
"That's what you said last time," points out Elsie, the archery captain from Leeds.
"And the time before that," Josie adds. "Except it was her French."
"Yesterday as well, but it was my history worksheets. No matter," Amelia grins and slides her science homework across the table. "Try not to make it word for word. I also expect you give it back first thing tomorrow morning."
She slides out of her seat at the library table and bids her friends farewell to head to maths, her last class of the day, early. Just a few steps away from her locker, she hears what sounds like a struggle followed by laughter. Curiosity gets the better of her and she tiptoes over to where the noises are coming from.
"Muzzie," sneers a boy, younger than Amelia but the same age as the hijab-wearing girl he's taunting. A second boy, older than Amelia, knocks the textbooks out of the girl's hand. Amelia watches for another minute or so as the girl is taunted by these two boys until she has a clear plan of action.
Whoosh! Her French textbook flies out of her hand into the back of the head of the taller boy, disorienting him long enough for her to viciously tackle the smaller boy. The student in the hijab screams in surprise, but helps Amelia at by pushing a trashcan between her and the older boy.
"It's really mature of you," Amelia taunts once she pulls herself off of the smaller boy. "Having a two against one and picking on a younger student…doesn't seem fair, does it?"
The younger boy, still on the floor, uses his leg to kick Amelia's feet out from under her making her knock her head into a set of lockers. She swears and punches him in the face just before a teacher shouts, 'hey!'
Just like that, Amelia has landed herself in the headmaster's office.
:-:
Headmaster Coffrey's admiration for Mycroft Holmes apparently runs deeper than originally deduced. Coffrey was stunned to see his classmate's niece in his office, especially after just over a week after starting school at Bartlett. The boys, as well as the other girl involved in the fight, were questioned and ultimately, Coffrey took the side of the girls. School policy commands that all four students receive some sort of disciplinary treatment but the severity of it is at his discretion.
Leila Nassiri, the victim of the bullying, and Amelia received afterschool detention for that day and phone calls home, which, frankly, Amelia didn't agree with. Nevertheless, here she sits, outside of the school after detention waiting for her dad to pick her up. Four texts have been sent and three calls have been missed…it's been over an hour.
"I like your hijab," Amelia says to the girl sitting next to her. "The flowers. It's cute."
"Thanks," Leila says, bold-voiced, but her shy smile betrays her. "You really think so?"
"I'm not one to give compliments unless I mean them," she replies in true Holmesian fashion. "Small talk for the sake of small talk is dull."
Leila raises her eyebrows and glances at her ally skeptically. "Then what do you call random compliments?"
"Small talk for the purpose of uplifting someone," Amelia says. "My dad isn't going to come, and I highly doubt John or my uncle will. I'm going to start walking, maybe catch a cab. See you around Leila."
She stands up and leans against the wall. To say that she is surprised is an understatement of immeasurable proportion. Walking toward them from the direction of the parking lot is none other than Cute Scottish Guy from last week. Amelia's jaw drops as he approaches Leila and she listens to their exchange-
"What are you doing here?"
"Leila, you are lucky that I intercepted that call. Your parents would have had a cow and a half."
"Ah, manana Ramin! Thank you, I owe you."
"Aye, you do."
Amelia stares at the pair of them while she tries to comprehend that Leila and Cute Scottish Guy are…somehow related. Cute Scottish Guy eventually recognizes Amelia as well and steals a few glances her direction until he finally decides to speak up.
"You're Clumsy Sidewalk Girl!"
"You're Scottish Guy!" she decides that it is best to leave out the other adjective. "Ah, you two are…siblings?"
Leila and CSG look at each other and make faces while giggling. "Leila Nassiri? My sister? Goodness, no, not with that posh Londoner accent of hers! She's my cousin, I'm just staying at the auntie's and uncle's for the free living accommodations. Beats living on campus."
He's a uni student, she figured as much. She smiles at him, still stunned to have run into him again, and at Bartlett of all places. "Ag, hey thanks for, um, saving my butt from hitting the pavement the other day. I forgot to thank you after that guy made the wedding joke."
"Yes," he smiles, green eyes twinkling with unvoiced laughter. "That was right ill-mannered of him. Ian, by the way. Ian Shirazi."
"I-I'm sorry?"
"Ian Shirazi," he repeats, offering his hand. "My name. Pleased to officially meet you, ah…"
Amelia shakes his hand, though her nerves do get the better of her. "Rachel. No, I mean, Amy. No, Amelia!"
Ian chuckles at the girl. "Well, which is it?"
"All of them," she blushes. "I prefer Amelia. Ian…but Leila called you Ramin?"
"Yes," Ian rolls his eyes. "Technically my name is Ramin, but if you mix up some of the letters you get Ian- easier for English-speakers to remember. My father is Pakistani, mum is Iranian."
"So you and your siblings have real names and English names," Amelia assumes.
"Technically," Ian says, guarded. There's more of a story there, but not one he's about to share so Amelia just smiles and offers a piece of her own. "I'm from South Africa. I, uh, just moved from Pretoria…it's definitely different. Anyway, I should start walking. It's a fair ways to the nearest busy enough road."
She tightens her bookbag straps and turns on her heel.
Leila raises her eyebrows. "Your parents aren't coming?"
"My dad is probably working since he hasn't answered any of my calls or texts."
The shorter teenager grins and nudges her cousin. "We can give you a ride home, right Ian?"
Ian looks at his cousin and shrugs. "If you don't mind forgetting the whole concept of stranger danger, it's no trouble."
Amelia doesn't even think about it. Ian and Leila don't seem like the psycho killer type, so what's the harm? "Thank you for offering- I can give you gas money."
"Don't worry about it," Ian insists. "It's no bother."
:-:
Sherlock sits on the couch with his nose in a book, specifically, in Amelia's journal. It was easy to deduce where she'd hidden it- between the little crack between the headboard and the mattress- and even easier to pick the lock. The earliest entry is dated seven months ago and some of the writing alludes to past events- such as The Bunny Catastrophe of 2008, The Rolf and Kelly Thing, Luther's 'crying cat,' and The Whole Sankt Pölten Trip Fiasco- which had led him to believe that there are more, somewhere, but he hasn't bothered searching. Besides, it's not that he cares all that much about Amelia's life- details are oh so trivial- he's just bored. He does, however, find his daughter's journaling style interesting. She uses a mix of English, Afrikaans, German, and some basic Dutch and French, obviously in an attempt to keep any snoopers from discovering her innermost thoughts.
For most teenage girls, this system would have worked perfectly. Most teenage girls, perhaps for the best, don't have Sherlock Holmes for a father.
Amelia's journal is detailed, but dull. He wishes that he had found one written while Anelle was still married to Gabriël because at least then it will be filled with things that he wants to know. Really, he doesn't much care about how well she shot at an archery competition, or how many times she spiked the ball over the net, or who she lost her virginity to, or how the South African police almost caught her and her friends from the girls' football team smoking marijuana near the Apiesrivier so long as she doesn't get into harder drugs, nor does he care about 'what my therapist says.'
If a word must be attached to it, he is worried about her…slightly.
He isn't quite willing to admit to himself that he's feeling like her dad right now. In fact, he will probably never be willing to admit it. Regardless, Amelia is his responsibility from now on. Although, how hard can looking after a nearly-grown girl be?
When the air in the room changes, Sherlock can tell that someone has entered the room. "Back with the shopping already? I hope it was not another row with a chip-and-pin machine."
The high-pitched voice tells him it wasn't John that just walked in the door. "I called. I texted. Where were you?"
"You mean to tell me," Sherlock's eyes stayed glued to the journal. "That it was you who kept ringing?"
"You never answered."
He pretends not to notice the hurt on her face when he steals a glance. "It was on the other side of the room."
"If you'd have bothered to pick up your phone you would have known that I was involved in a fight at school and had to stay after."
"And?"
She shrugs and moves a strand of her brunette wavy-curls behind her ear. Despite the potential for anger and sass in her response, it's delivered with an even, respectful tone. "It just would have been nice if you showed up to take me home is all. The least you could have done was gotten off your arse and answered your phone. At least pretend that it matters, would it kill you?"
"I don't want to fight again," Sherlock says.
"Neither do I," Amelia shrugs and turns toward the kitchen. "I was going to make tea do you want some?"
"May as well make one for John as well," he replies. "Amelia…why don't you tell me what that fight was about over tea?"
"Sure," the corners of her mouth twitch upwards. "Just put my journal back when you're done with it. That's my safe-for-Dad's-eyes journal…you'll never find the others."
"Is that a challenge?"
"A promise."
:-:
She promised herself that she wouldn't, honest she did, but she lets it happen anyway. She allows a few silent tears to fall into a dishcloth. Today marks exactly ten weeks since she came home to find her mother murdered. Her stepfather has been charged with the murder, but today also marks three weeks and one day since somebody posted his bail. A final date on the murder trial has yet to be determined and she's counting the days until one is.
She doesn't see the point of having one. Gabriël Prinsloo killed Anelle Ten Eyck and attempted to do the same to Amelia Holmes. Why (other than South Africa's 1995 abolition of the death penalty) not just gather up a firing squad or something and shoot him? Why does there have to be some lengthy trial? Who in Gauteng province would even defend him in a court of law? For that matter, what lawyer in KwaZulu-Natal, Limpopo, and Free State provinces would?
Anelle was not only a lawyer, but a well-respected one. Her name was known throughout the entire nation, as well as The Netherlands, Germany, and a few other countries where she participated in court cases of international interest. There's no way that the trial can be held in Gauteng- perhaps not even KwaZulu-Natal, Free State, or Limpopo, as Anelle was especially respected in those three provinces. Perhaps the trial could be held in one of the three Cape provinces; after all, Amelia has listened to her mother rant about how much she disliked some of her colleagues, and she can remember several names from Eastern, Western, and Northern Cape. One man in particular, Xhosa-English defense lawyer James Gambu, is notorious for getting off obvious murderers and rapists.
Gambu most likely will not be Gabriël's lawyer but no matter what he will find a good one. If he is acquitted, she doesn't know what she'll do. He took her mother away from her, he stabbed her with a kitchen knife while she tried to phone police, prior to all of that, he beat her and verbally berated her throughout her childhood.
He deserves to rot.
Gabriël is a despicable creature, but greater than her anger is the longing for her mother. She wants nothing more than to wake from this horrible nightmare and cry into Anelle's arms while she sings Lamtietie, Damtietie to her until she stops. She hates the English weather, hates how people poke fun at her accents, and most all, hates seeing girls walk around with their mums. Knowing that she will never see her mum again makes her blood boil and heart break all over again. Worse, still, is the fact that she is entirely alone.
Who is there to share in her grief? Nobody.
Who cares enough to listen? Maybe Mycroft.
Who is willing to listen? Not even Mycroft.
This isn't the first time in her life that Amelia has had to suffer in silence, and like those other times, she'll make it. She has always found a way to cope. No matter how long it had taken her she always found a way.
For now, crying into dishcloths is it. Until she finds something better, it works just fine. So she continues to cry. Shamelessly, she allows her tears to fall into the dishcloth while the kettle warms. Her little gaspy breaths are nearly silent which prevents Sherlock from hearing her cry…not that she wants him to. He doesn't know what to do about emotional things like tears and comfort, so she hopes he can stay in the dark.
For a brief moment, she is afraid that he has caught her. A hand is placed on her shoulder and much to her relief it is John, back with the shopping. Amelia scrambles to compose herself and quickly apologizes.
"No don't," John says, keeping his hand on her shoulder. "You're going through a lot right now, it's okay to cry."
"It's bothersome," she mumbles. "You two shouldn't have to…have to deal with it."
John sighs and puts away the shopping and takes over the tea-making. "I had a friend, a best friend, back in medical school," he says. "Hugo Kelsey. We met in tenth year when his family moved from Wales to my neighbourhood but didn't really become close friends until we started university. Hugo had a rough time at school, especially after he came out in twelfth year. This was- goodness, I'm that old- around twenty or so years ago and people weren't as tolerant and accepting as they are now. People at uni were mostly accepting, but there was a group of students who weren't. Ultimately, they got the best of him and Hugo hung himself in a campus stairwell a term and a half before we were to complete medical school. It took me a long time to be able to talk about it, and an even longer time to think about him without feeling very sad. But do you want to know how I eventually got through it?"
Amelia nods. "Yes, please."
John smiled and continued making the tea. "I thought, 'Don't linger on the fact that he's gone, think about how lucky you were to be his friend while we was here.' On days when the sadness, anger, loss, and abandonment became too much for me, I thought about how lucky I was that while he was alive, he was my friend. I know that losing a mother isn't the same as losing a friend, believe me, I understand…but on days when it hurts worse than usual, try to be happy that your mom existed, be happy that she was your mom. Do you get what I'm saying?"
"I think so," Amelia says, dabbing her eyes with the dishcloth.
"Your father cares about you," he adds. "He doesn't know how to show it, but he does."
"How do you know?"
"He looks at you like you hang the moon," John laughs. "He bragged about you on one of those small cases he had last week, actually. The suspect's daughter was playing Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata at the family's restaurant and he whispered, 'My daughter has been playing it better since she was nine.'"
"Dankie. John, um, thank you. Your advice…I'll try. The thing about my dad, as well."
"Give it time," John says. "Sherlock will come 'round, I have a strong feeling."
:-:
The consulting criminal grins at the photographs in his hands.
As if Sherlock Holmes wasn't already fun enough to toy with, a new revelation has fallen into his lap. It would seem that Holmes the younger has an offspring- might he add, quite the average-looking offspring. She certainly looks like her father's daughter, other than her bright blue eyes. With the pair of them being so similar in appearance he can't help but to wonder if they're similar in other respects.
Amelia Holmes. Even her name is quite plain compared to her father's and uncle's, perhaps her intellect is, as well.
There is only one way to find out, he smirks at his reflection in the window.
Oh, he doesn't plan on involving her in his schemes just yet. No, even he has a heart- albeit, a very small one.
He'll bide his time, or perhaps send somebody after her. Not to kill her, for it is too early in the game, but scaring the living daylights out of her is certainly an option.
Placing the photographs back into the manila envelope, he scratches at his stubble and stares out the window. He was excited before, but now? He is bursting with exhilaration of the most twisted kind.