There was a soft tap on the door. I opened my eyes slowly, hoping that it was a nurse, ready to give me some more painkillers. Dad made it look so easy, recovering from being shot—he did it on a monthly basis at times.

But this, this hurt like hell. It felt like my soul was being purified by fire. Of course, that assumed that I had a soul—I was pretty sure that once I died, my eyes would open to either darkness or flames. And even then, I couldn't imagine something more painful than this.

Maybe Dad just got high whenever he was shot—perhaps that would be a possible solution.

"Jade?" a rich, alto voice called out, accompanied by the sound of the door creaking open. Heels clacked against the floor precisely four times, before the door shut softly.

Suddenly, the hospital bedroom seemed far more regal. The floors almost looked like they shimmered, and I glanced up at the succubus that glided into the room. Her hair was braided back, elegant and playful. Her makeup was pristine and divine—various shades of scarlet.

"Why, if it isn't the harlot!" I grinned, giggling slightly to myself.

"You and your names," Mum rolled her eyes, walking forward gracefully and sitting down on my hospital bed. "You act like I'm some common whore begging on the street."

"You aren't?" I gasped, chuckling more at Mum's face. It was covered with disapproval, and her ears flared out slightly. It was comical—and it felt natural.

Mum pursed her lips slightly. "I suppose you don't want to hear what the garish whore has to say about Hallow, now do you?"

Groaning slightly, I flopped back against the bed. I bit my cheek, trying not to whimper from the pain caused by simply moving. They told me that in reality, I'd gotten off lucky—the bullet avoided all major organs. It simply passed through muscle tissue.

I'd be fully recovered, shortly, they said. Shortly meant three weeks. It was another circle of hell.

"Unless you've changed your mind?" Mum asked, clicking her tongue slightly.

"It would be nice," I said, pretending to be slightly disinterested. But truly, it was fascinating—all I knew about this serial killer is that their name was Hallow. I had no idea about what motivated them to kill, and even then, I wouldn't understand it. All I knew was there was a force filled with gloomy ecstasy, with ideas and thoughts that an ordinary person would never fathom.

It was beautiful.

"Hallow was a client of mine at a point," Mum began, her gaze boring into the wall reflectively. "Her name was Annette Hallows—with an s. She hated being called anything other than Hallow, though."

The picture in my mind of Hallow blossomed—a dark haired beauty, with mesmerizing eyes. She was cast in shadow, with all other features obscured in the darkness. A tiny smile—the shade of oxygenated blood—cut through the darkness.

"How often did you see her?" I asked curiously, tapping my fingers restlessly against the hospital bed.

"Often," Mum smirked a bit, seeming slightly coy. She drifted off into a reverie for a moment. "But Hallow was never satisfied—she wanted to be a god."

The smile I imagined grew wider and wider, and a throne made of shadows appeared. Hallow lounged on in gracefully, identical to the photographs I'd seen of Moriarty in the Tower of London. I shivered slightly, not afraid, but excited.

"She had an obsession with power and knowledge," Mum continued. "She asked me about your father, convinced that I would know something about him—I never told her anything, of course."

I frowned a bit. "You didn't tell her anything?"

"Of course," Mum laughed, rolling her eyes unnaturally. "All information comes with a price!"

"What was the price?" my frown deepened. Mum wouldn't let power over someone go—not even to protect my father. It wasn't in her nature to be protective and caring.

Mum paused a bit. "Annette Hallows is the orphaned daughter of two American film stars—you can find her on Wikipedia."

"Mum, what did you tell her?" I seethed, sitting up slightly. I tried to look convincingly frightening, with my sticky hair and oily skin. Squeezing my left eye half shut, I imagined that I had either become incredibly fearsome.

Mum laughed a bit.

"You need to proceed with caution when dealing with her," Mum said, ignoring my questions. "As dominating as she is, she loves being challenged."

Mum winked a bit at me, and for a moment, I could see her the way Uncle could. I could see the slight nervousness and the way her face looked flush. And in a blink of an eye, it all vanished, descending back into meaningless obscurity.

"You're lying, Mum," I said sourly. "Please just tell me what you told Hallow, or I'll do something despicable to you."

"From your hospital bed?" Mom laughed, though she paled slightly. "I told her about you, Jade. She became very inquisitive—quite curious."

I hit my hand against my face, groaning. Partially, the response was from the pain, and also from the stupidity. The parallel was too obvious to me—feeding information about me to a psychopath?

"They say if we don't learn from history, we're doomed to repeat it," I sniffled, looking Mum dead in the eye. "You told her my entire life story, just for what, a few quid?"

She avoided my gaze, blinking slightly. For once, I was the one in power—a change that she was unaccustomed to. Mum spent her entire life on top, carefully plotting and planning.

Was this potentially part of her plan? Did she love Hallow?

"You act like I was supposed to be the hero, the savior," Mum replied quietly, standing up from her position on the hospital bed. "I am not a good person, Jade."

"I know," I responded, without missing a beat. "I thought you wouldn't sell Dad and I out like that."

Mum frowned slightly, small lines appearing in her face. "Annette will not hesitate to kill you, Jade. Be careful."

And then Mum turned her back on me, walking swiftly out of the room. The door shut softly behind her and I was completely alone, as if no one had interrupted my sleep. For a moment, I forgot the potent pain in my stomach.

"Love you too, Mum," I muttered, turning over with a sigh. I stared at the wall, memorizing each little detail.

At least it was always there for me.


The next few weeks were spent in utter boredom. Three times a day, a nurse would come in and tend to the wound, as well as determining how many painkillers I would need. Food would be brought to me, a bland sandwich with horrid tasting milk. Sometimes, Dad would come with something better to eat—such as a cookie or some candy.

But most of all, I was bedridden. I wasn't allowed to leave and do things, while Dad spent most of his time working on the case. He left homework assignments with me to do, but even those too grew dull after a while.

So once the nurse finally cleared me to go back home, I was ecstatic.

"The injury is mostly healed," the nurse nodded, placing a fresh bandage on the wound. "You'll need to come back for a follow up appointment in about a month or so."

Dad smiled a bit, ruffling my hair as I hopped down from the bed. It felt great, not lying around and doing nothing—a statement I never thought I would agree with.

"May I take her home?" Dad asked politely, showing respect and courtesy for another individual for once.

The nurse nodded, smiling a bit. I didn't wait any longer, rushing out of the door and heading down the hallway. Dad caught up to me, and we made our way outside, to where Lestrade was waiting in his car.

He honked at us as we approached, and reached his head out, beaming.

"Jade! You look all better!" he said enthusiastically.

"I know, I'm not holy anymore!" I joked. "They said I can go back to doing things—like helping Dad out with the case…"

Lestrade's smile vanished for a moment, before reappearing. He swallowed a bit.

"What?" I frowned. "I'm perfectly able to work on the case…I'm not made out of glass."

His gaze darted towards Dad for a moment, before returning to me. "You know, we aren't really supposed to have children on crime scenes—"

"I'm Jade fucking Holmes," I frowned. "You're just saying this because I was shot. The odds that I'll get shot again are rather low. It doesn't get higher and higher with each injury."

Dad rolled his eyes slightly, silently disagreeing with my evidence. However, he nodded at Lestrade, opening the backdoor of the car for me.

"I need an assistant, Lestrade," he explained, getting inside of the vehicle after me. "Jade is the best one around—John's been busy of late."

Lestrade sighed a bit, yet preceded to drive the two of us. From the direction we were heading, he was taking us home—there must not have been much left to investigate at this point.

Now it was all a matter of waiting for another body to drop.

"I heard Anna is being a bit of a handful," Lestrade commented idly. "He and Mary are having a bit of trouble with her—she's almost a teenager."

"Anastasia never struck me as the rebellious type," Dad frowned.

The conversation died, plunging the rest of the rest of the car ride into forced silence. The gloomy specter that I had dreamed up earlier came to mind once more. The enigma of Annette Hallows wasn't one that I could solve alone.

And yet, something kept me from bringing Annette Hallows up to Dad—a small part of me that wanted to prove myself to him. Maybe then, he would be proud of me.


"Hold on, what's all those people doing out there?" I exclaimed, peering out the window of the car.

A mob of people stood in outside of the entrance to the flat. They were armed with pens and paper, working themselves into an increasingly hysterical state. A good number of them carried cameras with them, desperately flashing away as Lestrade stopped the car for us.

"You've got a gauntlet to run," Lestrade chuckled. "Best of luck to you. You're going to be in the public view, Jade."

I froze a bit, biting my lip. "I've never been in the public view before—Uncle helped to make sure that very little people would know about me."

"Didn't think the press was healthy for you," Dad admitted. He frowned sharply, gazing at the gaggle of photographers as an obstacle to be overcome.

"We might as well get this over with," he sighed, rolling his eyes once more. "It seems you will be getting a public image—a curse I would not wish on my worst enemy."

He opened up the door to the car, the sound of snapping growing marginally louder. He pushed past the reporters with ease, and I struggled to catch up with them. The flashing lights were blinding and I found them calling my name.

"Jade! Is it true you've dropped out of high school?"

"What's it like being the daughter of Sherlock Holmes?"

"You were shot on a case! Care to comment?"

"Taking after the old man?"

"Are you some sort of genius too?"

"What's it like to live with Sherlock Holmes, never being able to live up to him?"

I made eye contact with a needy blonde, her eyes bulging out of her skull. She shoved a microphone in my face, a camera swinging over her shoulder.

"Jade! Care to comment on your injury? Is it true that you've turned to drugs?"

"I…I….No!" I stammered, trying to walk forward, but they were everywhere. In all of the confusion, I couldn't see Dad—I could hardly see the door of the flat. It was like being in the center of a swarm, unable to move, unable to see, unable to hear.

"Got a special something, eh lovely?"

"Yeah! Smile for the camera!"

"You'd be prettier if you smiled, Jade!"

My breathing started to accelerate, as the space of the questions and the photos become more and more rapid. I didn't even have time to think, stuck on the sidewalk in front of the flat.

"Who's your mother, Jade?"

"Do your parents love each other?"

"Did Sherlock have to pay?"

"Does Sherlock force you to go on cases?"

"Is it true your father is a sociopath?"

Numbly, I shook my head, my heart beating faster than ever before. I tried to take a step forward, and I stumbled, falling to the ground. Over my shoulder, I could see the cameras and jeering faces following me. I started to hyperventilate, whimpering as I crawled backwards, towards the door.

"Leave me alone!" I screamed. A few tears fell from my eyes, yet they didn't stop.

Think, Jade…What will make them leave you alone…

"I'M A RAGING HOMOSEXUAL!" I shouted, the silence ringing out for a moment. I turned and fled into the flat, slamming the door behind me, right as the flurry of snapping began once again.

Letting out a deep breath, I slid to the floor and sobbed.


"This…this makes no sense," Dad frowned, staring with confusion. "It's impossible."

"I know!" I agreed, grinning from ear to ear. "Bet you didn't see that coming, did you?"

Dad nodded again, clasping his hands in front of him. "He died. He can't be back. And look at him, not a scratch on him!"

"Well, he is a bit thirsty…" I joked, delighting in my father's confusion.

He got up, pacing back and forth. Eventually he stopped, turning to stare at me. "Faked his death? No? What other solution is there? You can't just come back from the dead!"

Picking up the remote, I turned the television set off. "Well, on Supernatural, you can. Don't worry—they explain how Dean is alive later."

Dad snorted and rolled his eyes, sitting back down onto the couch. He was positively sulking, his legs stretched out either like a cat or a child. "This is why I never watch telly. It's highly unrealistic."

"And you mean to tell me it was completely realistic when their mother burned up on the ceiling?" I laughed, prodding Dad's stomach with my toe.

He rolled over in response, muttering some long rant about a perfectly logical explanation for the death of the mother. Eventually, he went onto a theory about how Dean invented the entire universe, as a way to comfort himself after his parents perished.

"Perhaps I invented you," I teased. "In another world, I bet this is a show on telly—a mad detective and a depressed teenager try to catch a serial killer."

Dad frowned a bit. "Your voice tone changed."

Damn. I'd forgotten, almost, how hard it was to hide things from him.

"Just the paparazzi," I lied. "I wasn't ready for that…It was awful."

Dad glanced at me, a thin eyebrow arched. I smiled back awkwardly, wondering how long until he realized that I knew—that I knew everything about the serial killer. Mum was right—she was indeed on Wikipedia. During my stay in the hospital, I had memorized her Wikipedia page.

An orphan. A scholar. A millionaire.

And unbeknownst to most, a murderer.

The photograph, however, was what I could still see when I closed my eyes. Her face was filled with bored sadness, framed with delicate brown hair. Her black eyes stared forward, as if nothing in the world could cause them to light up. Petite and small, it was hard to imagine that she would be a killer.

"They can be annoying," Dad commented, glancing away. "The last thing we need is a public image."

"We?"

"Of course," Dad chuckled. "Consulting detectives—the only ones in the world."

I blushed a bit, looking down at the floor. Pride swelled up inside of me, filling me with happiness—a feeling far too foreign for my age. I stole a glance over at Dad, only to realize that he had already left the room. I was alone.

I then turned my glance towards the door, determination filling me. I stood up quietly and headed on down the stairs, throwing on my jacket and gloves.

It was time to make Dad proud to call me his daughter—to not regret the product of human error.