Isla was woken up by the sound of a very impatient and very rude ringing sound. Grumbling under her breath, she drew herself up in bed and reached out to slam at the alarm button. When the ringing didn't stop, it took her a moment to realise that it was her phone, the call screen glowing with Poppy's name. With a tired groan, she picked it up and clamped it to her ear.
"Isla! I am so glad you picked up!"
"Poppy, it's 2 in the morning. Can't this wait?"
"No," Poppy snapped. "It can't."
"Alright, alright," Isla said as she leant against the headboard. "But make it quick. My eyelids are already drooping here."
"Okay, so I met Mum – she's wonderful, you didn't do her nearly enough justice I swear – but we have a problem." Poppy took a breath before continuing, almost as if she was preparing herself. "Mum's in love."
Isla's only response was to snort. "Nonsense. Mum doesn't fall in love. I told you that."
"Well, she's got a boyfriend at least! His name's Mark, and frankly, he's an idiot. All blonde and cheesy smiles."
"Then we've got nothing to worry about," Isla said, snuggling down into her duvet and yawning. "It won't last anyway."
Poppy sighed. "I don't know, Em. He kept kissing her when he left today, and she didn't seem to mind it."
"Hm. Clearly she likes him a little bit if she lets him kiss her. Tell you what; keep tabs on him for the next few days, see what happens."
"Okay, I'll do that," Poppy said after a moment, but Isla knew her twin, and she knew when she was trying to hide her disappointment. She smiled.
"Just because you've got to keep tabs on them doesn't mean you can't indulge in a little bit of sabotage."
"I wasn't suggesting that!"
Isla scoffed. "Yes you were."
Poppy giggled quietly. "Yeah, I guess I was. Speak to you soon?"
"Speak soon. Love you."
"Love you too."
Isla had just about hung up and was ready to go back to sleep when there was a knock on her door, rapid but gentle. The universal sign of a concerned father.
Sure enough, her father's voice floated through the door. "Poppy? Are you awake?"
Isla didn't reply, curling up in the bed and shutting her eyes. She kept her eyes shut even when she heard the door open and heard her father creep inside, his bare feet barely making a sound on the wooden floor. She kept her eyes shut as his fingers delicately brushed her hair out of her face and as he kissed her gently on the top of her head.
"Sleep well," he murmured before he left again, shutting the door behind him. Isla still kept her eyes shut, now well on the way to sleep, but the smallest of smiles crept onto her face. It stayed there right up until she awoke six hours later to the sounds of Bach. Her smile widened as she sat up and tiptoed out of the bedroom. She followed the sound to the living room where she found her father, stood at the window and dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown whilst spread out on the floor there were a series of case files. Unlike when she had arrived, he noticed her immediately and grinned, drawing his bow away and putting his violin to one side.
"Morning," he said brightly as he sat cross-legged on the floor and glanced at the case files (which were, if the way he went through them was anything to go by, in some sort of order). Isla gently moved towards him and he motioned for her to sit in his lap. She did so.
"What are you doing then?"
"Studying."
"Oh." She had to stop herself from asking what the term meant (no doubt Poppy would know already). For the time being, she decided that it meant he was probably looking over old cases to see if they brought up anything new for his current case.
"What's the case?"
"Burglary," her father said matter-of-factly, picking up one case file from the year 2007 and flicking through it before he dropped it back on the floor. "Thought it was an open-and-shut, but—"
His mutterings were cut off by the sound of footsteps. Both father and daughter looked up to see a grey-haired man of about 50-odd standing in the doorway. Sherlock took one look at the man and his brows furrowed.
"No."
"Five minutes."
"Lestrade – it's a no."
"Is this a homicide?" Isla asked quietly, to which Lestrade blinked and her father nodded.
"And that is precisely why I am saying no."
"What, because of me?"
Her father nodded again. Isla fought the temptation to pout or argue—Poppy probably wouldn't question her father's refusal, so she wouldn't either. Lestrade sighed.
"We really, really need your help. Can't Mrs Hudson look after Poppy for a bit?"
"Lestrade, considering you have children of your own, I'd assume you'd be a bit more sympathetic about my refusal?"
"I know, but this is a 10, Sherlock."
Her father straightened up, interested but wary. "A genuine 10 or a lying-to-try-and-get-me-interested 10?"
Lestrade's answer came without hesitation. "Genuine."
Her father huffed, but she could tell that he was itching to go. Without saying a word, she stood up and was quickly followed by her father.
"I'll look after Poppy," Lestrade offered. "Dimmock's down there, so you should be able to have a look without punching anyone."
"Is Anderson there?"
"Yes, but with a whole team of other pathologists, so you won't be forced to work with him. Stop making excuses Sherlock. I can look after Poppy for five minutes – only five minutes mind you—"
"I'll only need five," her father said, sniffing slightly with contempt and squaring his shoulders. Isla stifled a giggle as he disappeared from the room to get dressed, his phone already in his hand and tapping out a text (to John she presumed), leaving her and Lestrade alone. Lestrade smiled, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"So… do you mind if I have a cuppa?"
She shook her head, and followed on as Lestrade quickly entered into the kitchen. She sat herself at the table and watched him. It was like watching someone go around a kitchen showroom—familiar with the equipment but oh-so-careful not to break anything. When he did turn around, he jumped slightly at the sight of her but smiled all the same to take a sip of tea.
There were a few moments of silence between them which was only broken by the sound of her father saying goodbye, promising to be back in 5 minutes and closing the door behind him.
"He really likes his work, doesn't he?" She said it more to herself, but Lestrade still felt the need to answer her.
"Yeah," he said, putting his cup of tea on the kitchen table and sitting down opposite her. "Though sometimes… no."
"What is it?"
"Sometimes, with him – sometimes you get the feeling he's not entirely happy you know?"
She leaned forward. "Like he's missing something, you mean?"
"Uh – I guess so. I mean, he's a nightmare often enough, but it's not difficult to wonder if there's a reason for it. Everyone's got a reason, right?"
She didn't dare tell him that he was looking at the reason he spoke of.
Footsteps—heavier than her father's—sounded on the steps. John stepped through the front door. Both Isla and Lestrade frowned.
"I'm relieving you," John said cheerfully as he went into the kitchen. "Sherlock needs you on the scene."
Lestrade grumbled under his breath and swiftly departed from the flat. (Isla decided to ignore any swearing she might've heard as he passed her.) John entered the living room, carrying a cup of tea. On seeing the scattered case files, he rolled his eyes but decided to leave them, sinking into the second armchair in the living room.
"So, Poppy. How was camp?"
Isla shrugged and curled up on the sofa. "It was good – I had a really great time. Made a few friends, actually."
John broke into a sunny grin. "Great. Your dad will be pleased to know that. Lestrade alright with you today?"
"Yeah, he was fine," Isla said with a shrug. She paused before she spoke again, focusing on John. "Uncle John, do you think – do you think my dad's happy?"
To her surprise, John sighed, almost as if he'd talked about this before. (She silently thanked Poppy's endless curiosity for that.) "Honestly? Don't know. I gave up trying to work out what your dad thinks long ago."
"Yeah, but… if you had to give an answer, what would you say?"
"I'd say… I'd say it's none of your business."
Isla stuck out her tongue and wrinkled her nose, to which John laughed.
"Okay, you got me," he said, putting his tea to one side. "So, your dad. He is happy, believe me. Especially when he's on a case. But there's something... something missing, you know?"
John didn't elaborate further than that. He didn't get the chance, as the sound of footsteps on the stairs distracted him.
"Turned out to be a 9, rather than a 10," her father said lightly. Isla grinned and turned her head to see him standing at the front door, peeling off his gloves and his scarf as he stepped inside. She jumped off the sofa and ran towards him to hug him tightly in greeting.
"Hello," he said softly, gently stroking at her hair. "Sorry for taking so long. Anderson was being annoying."
"It's fine," Isla said, stepping away from him and sitting back on the sofa. "Uncle John and I were just talking."
Her father tilted his head slightly as he looked at her and settled into his own armchair. "Oh? About what?"
"Nothing much," John said, taking another sip of his tea. "Camp, mostly. Apparently Poppy made friends there."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He didn't need to; his expression said everything. It was remarkable really, how Uncle John and Sherlock could communicate a whole conversation just through their facial expressions. It actually reminded Isla a little of Mary.
"Oh? Well then – all that nagging you gave me about how you had to go worked out well," her father said with a smile. Removing his coat, he picked up his violin out of its case and began to play.
John straightened his shoulders. "Well. I should be going. I've got an interview later." He looked to Sherlock. "Text me if there are any developments, yeah?"
Her father gave a sharp nod in reply. Satisfied, John departed, giving Isla a cheerful nod. Isla smiled and looked back to her father as she tucked her knees under her chin.
"Dad…"
"What is it? Busy," he grunted. Poppy had mentioned this. His mind palace. Now she was seeing it in action, it didn't seem like such a ridiculous premise. She wasn't however, going to give up just because of a mind palace. She tried again.
"I want to talk about Mum."
Her father's eyes snapped open. The look he gave her was cautious.
"Why?"
"Because I'm almost 12 years old, and I don't even know her name." Poppy eyed him. "She can't have just vanished, Dad."
When her father remained stoic in his silence, she sighed and got to her feet, moving over to him to poke at his sides. He grunted again. From what Poppy had told her, and from what she had seen in the last few days, their father was always one to be dramatic.
"You're not going to give up, are you?"
She shook her head. His response was to roll his eyes, sitting up and patting his lap. Isla grinned and happily sat on his lap, where he cuddled her close.
"So," he said finally. "Should I start at the beginning? Or is that too conventional?"
"Actually, could you… I was just wondering – why did you and Mum break up? Was it because – was it because of me?"
Her father went silent again, his lips thinning. She sighed, nudging him a little.
"Come on Dad. Please?" she asked, eyes wide as they could go. He gave her a look, but when she pouted, that was when he relented.
"It wasn't because of you. Your mother and I – I suppose it's because we were just too young. Did things too fast."
She curled closer to him, tightening her hands into fists and releasing them again as she summoned up the courage to speak.
"Do you think – do you think that, if you ever met her again, you'd be the right age?"
The first response to her question was an echoing moment of silence. The second response was a somewhat terse mumble of the subject being closed. Isla nodded, biting back a smile. She knew what it meant when adults avoided questions. It meant they didn't want to give the answer.
Unfortunately for her father, but fortunately for her, his expression gave away that unspoken answer: yes.
