When Sherlock checked his phone for the first time in the morning, he immediately opened an email from Stella's good friend. He had, in an attempt to keep subtle tabs on Stella, asked Ida to help him help Stella after he knew Stella met a friend.
He was mindful that he would turn into an inter-meddling moron like Mycroft, yet he reasoned – at least he wasn't kidnapping random people to safe houses for interrogation.
Mr, Holmes,
Stella is living as usual (nothing in particular happened), but she's sleeping quite late - past midnight, in fact. She's working very hard for the upcoming exams, but I will try my best to help her.
Ida
Whether the email was a blessing or curse he did not know – he was glad that Stella was physically fine, at least, but her mental soundness was worrying. Nobody would close herself off so severely, not even Mycroft or him ages ago when they believed that the body was merely transport and not compatible with sentiments. He had grown to realise that locking up emotions was unhealthy, so did Mycroft; seeing his daughter completely block out any trace of sentiments voluntarily was a cause of concern.
He did not know what to do – emotions had never been his forte, yet he would try his utmost when it came to the ladies of his family. One was missing; another one had her own soul missing – things were not looking well for Sherlock Holmes.
Then he remembered. He remembered the day when he made a vow to protect those that he loved with all his might. It was when he realized that after all, he was still human; he was worthy of love and capable of love.
It was a day with cool weather, beams of sunshine and soothing breeze. His wife lay in the hospital bed, tightly clenching his hand – in happiness or pain, he could not tell – as tears brimmed in her eyes. The birth was a painful one, with the precipitous labour barely handled, and they were just grateful that mother and child were well.
The Holmes couple had already known the baby's gender, and things were already bought for the little girl that entered their lives that day. Names decided, nursery decorated, all they needed was little Mildred to join them.
To say that they had already decided on the name was rather mistaken. They had only taken to name the little girl Mildred, for it was Sherlock's mother's middle name and they decided to name their daughter after her as a namesake. Molly picked the name Stella, for it denoted a star - she wished for her daughter to shine fearlessly in the dark and give light to the darkest obsidian canvas anyone would see. Constance, naturally, was Sherlock's choice. It was a classy name - nothing too regal or Victorian, but proper enough to please the older Holmes.
"Hello Mildred, welcome to this world," he spoke as he looked down at the bundle nestled in her mother's bosom, an unfamiliar sensation of longing and protective instincts washing over him. He would vow to protect the little one - she was a living testimony of the love he had for her mother, and a proof that he had a heart.
Molly looked up at her husband, and softly laughed. "I hope you aren't going to call her Mildred for the entirety of her life, Sherlock. It's going to be a mouthful." She paused to look down at the little girl. "Hello, Millie."
"Millie," Sherlock repeated after Molly, the name rolling smoothly off his tongue. "Not a mouthful, but retaining the characteristics. I like it."
"Then we shall call her Millie."
The name on her birth certificate remained as Mildred Stella Constance Holmes, but immediate family would call her Millie, for the sake of convenience and intimacy. Her full name was always redacted from media reports and even announcement of her birth – they only said that "Mildred Holmes, daughter of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Molly Holmes, nee Hooper, was born in March 1998". No extra information was offered, people could go away back to where they came from if they dared snoop deeper into the Holmes' family affairs. If she was associated with Sherlock Holmes after she insisted being known as Stella, they would not pry into the reason, but one would say that the association was one easily drawn.
That fateful day, he had vowed – he had vowed to let his daughter grow into her own person, without interference from any single parties, not even Mycroft. Years of abstaining from sentiments had taught him a hard lesson and taken a toll on both him and Mycroft - and even the forgotten sibling that lingered in the deepest recesses of the elder Holmes brothers' minds. Blocking emotions had, for a while, protected both Sherlock and Mycroft, but they now grew to realise that it would negatively impact a young soul's growth.
He would not less his daughter become emotionless. He would not let his daughter become a block of ice.
Yet now looking at how Stella had grown to be, he felt like his heart was taken out, crushed, put back into his rib cage and further hammered in. Stella – a girl that they wished to shine like a star in the dark – was gradually growing into an emotionless, blank shell. Wouldn't it be Sherlock's fault of letting it happen? After all, Molly was still missing, parenting naturally fell upon Sherlock's shoulders. But would he really take Stella away from Harrington, in order to try helping her?
Unsure he was, about where this would lead. Anyhow, it would be the wisest to leave it after the GCSEs, for if Stella was by any rate Molly's daughter, she would loathe any sort of distraction from her studies save for a few encouraging messages here and there.
And that's what he did.
I'm sorry, Molly, I failed you. I failed Stella.
The desk vibrated, alerting Ida of an incoming message from her phone or Stella's. One glance at the black screen of hers was enough to tell that it was the brunette's phone with an incoming message.
Gently she nudged the girl who was busy burying her head into the history textbook. Knowing that her friend wouldn't mind, she glanced at the screen, and whispered, "S, it's your dad."
Raising an eyebrow, clearly not expecting such a message, she mouthed thanks to Ida, then unlocked the phone to check the message.
Chamomile tea relieves stress, and hot towels are good for sore eyes. —SH
It was a hidden way of Sherlock telling his daughter to take care. If Stella knew her father and her conjecture was correct, there would be a package of chamomile tea bags waiting for her when she went back to her room later that day. She would also be inclined to think that it would contain some other herbal formulae Mrs. Hudson would conjure up to tide her through her exams. The gestures were unnecessary, for Stella could perfectly manage the exam period (she had been through worse in life) but she appreciated it nonetheless.
Time to substitute my black tea collection with chamomile, jasmine and green tea —Stella
Not a bad idea —SH
Deciding that it was time to stop texting and that she had had enough human contact for a day, she turned off the vibration on her phone, and walked back to her desk. Stella slid her phone into her bag, and returned to studying.
Her father's message was unconventionally encouraging, and she fought to resist the smile spreading on her face.
Didn't you vow to not let emotions cloud you again, Stella Holmes? The encouragement would do no good to your academics, your studies - you can only rely on yourself. Remember?
The thought was toxic, if a bystander peered into her mind those the utterance repeated in an uncontrollable mantra, relentlessly urging Stella to forget the small remarks.
Are you really going to let one small infinitesimal remark ruin your life and a future career in the law?
Stella paused her reading, though her head remained buried between the pages. Were they all true? Would allowing some encouragement make itself known I her mind really ruin her?
She dared not hope, nor speculate. Brown tresses once again shrouded her vision. She would rather live forever in darkness, rather than risking the chance of being blinded once again by light after she regained her vision.
Some said she was a coward for being reluctant to go to the light - she, in turn, was selfishly depriving Light to see the beauty of the Dark. Yet she begged to differ. If she went into the Light, and then left because of expected or unexpected circumstances, the picture of Light would still be ripped apart, forming little silhouettes here and there. It would no longer be a perfect picture.
It would be completely ruined, the grandeur of Light.
And thus she would rather hide in the shadows. Unseen, concealed from the privy eyes of the public that thrived on seeing her fall, seeing her tumble, seeing her crush.
The black-haired girl beside her as her sink deeper and deeper into the Dark, but she could do little to help - what could you do, when y our secretly comprehended why she did so, and would prefer to do so? She was, however, the only person to truly see Stella for who she really was, the innocent, timid girl who was broken yet with a strong spirit that could instantly thaw ice.
The spirit was caged by ice now, and this was what Stella wanted people to believe.
But ice would melt, and with fire it would thaw.
When it does thaw, it would be a beautiful disaster.
Ida wished for the first victim to be Colleen Wallace, the blonde who broke Stella. She had remembered when Stella would laugh, would cry, would smile, and Colleen Wallace changed it. She caused her to seemingly care less, by cutting unnecessary people out of her lives and pretend as if she didn't. It wasn't selfishness, it was instinctive self-preservation. And it was understandable; wouldn't anyone else do so if they were betrayed by people whom they trusted wholeheartedly, albeit mistakenly?
Had Ida retaliated against Stella's wishes, she would have ensured that the devil was banned from Harrington, and that a restraining order issued. But the girl with jet-black hair cared too much to openly rebel against her friend. She had an inkling, too, that Stella knew Ida tried to protect her from further interference by Colleen Wallace, but neither girls broached this subject.
A DI I walked into the flat of 221B Baker Street, Mrs Hudson having let the door open for him after knowing he would call his steps were heavy, with dread evident in his gait. Unused to Lestrade acting in such a unfamiliar manner, Sherlock looked up.
"Lestrade?"
"Hey, Sherlock," he nervously greeted, rubbing his face with his free hand, unsure how to phrase his message, send uncertain how Sherlock would react.
How could he to the good man that the Yard was going to close the case of Molly missing?
"Listen, um," Lestrade began, trepidation in his voice. Subsequently he paused, unable to articulate the message that he was loathe to deliver.
Sherlock, unlike his usual self, held his tongue and stopped a snarky remark from flying out of his mouth. "What is it?" He opted to quietly prompt the Detective Inspector to find a way to deliver the message.
"Well, uh, they're stopping the investigation on Molly's case."
Time stood still for a few seconds, and Sherlock fixated his stare on Lestrade's face, unfaltering. "Whose order was it?"
His voice was quiet, deadly and laced with poison. It was not directed at Lestrade; rather, it was directed at the scenario. Time had taught Sherlock that it would do no good to lash out on the poor, good man that was the only competent detective at Scotland Yard, but it didn't mean Lestrade couldn't feel the dark aura emanating from him.
Lestrade swallowed. "It's the Commissioner."
Silence ensued.
"I... I can keep the cold case file, and let you look around on your own, mate," he offered, after a few minutes of stillness in the room that almost suffocated him. "Though that's the most I could do."
It took a further three minutes before Sherlock found his voice again. "Hmm," he acknowledged. "It would be great, Lestrade."
After a moment of hesitation, he added, "thanks."
"Not a problem, mate. I'm sorry. Uh, and Donovan wanted to give you this."
Mentioning the name of the fellow female DI caused the Consulting Detective to look again at Lestrade, yet exposing the vulnerability in his dejected eyes. Curiosity, however, got the better of him, and he opened the package to find a tri-folded map, with different crosses marked on it.
"She heard about the paper, so she pulled some strings and found the manufacturers. Knows people who work there," Lestrade explained, gesturing towards the map. "It's a lot, and we're not sure whether it would work, but I thought you might want to have this."
"Thank you," Sherlock simply uttered, engaging himself into scrutinizing the map. Lestrade took this as a cue to leave Baker Street, to leave Sherlock to his own thoughts.
Once, he might have been worried that Sherlock would fall back into his unsavory habits after discovering that Molly's case would be closed; he saw the change in the good man, and it changed. He might have lost a wife, but he still had a daughter - a daughter that he vowed to protect. If he started using drugs again, it wouldn't only be a disservice to Molly's memory, but also to Stella.
He only hoped that he had a say in the Commissioner's decision in closing Molly's case.
A few hours later found Dr Watson in the Commissioner's office, with a Mr Holmes standing next to him.
"What do you mean, 'continuing to investigate this case would be absolutely useless'?" The former army doctor glowered at the police chief. After hearing from Sherlock and Lestrade that the missing person's case about Molly would be closed soon, he was more dejected than angry. Now, after storming up to the Commissioner's office, demanding explanations, boy, he was absolutely furious.
"Dr Watson, this case hasn't had any new leads in almost ten years; do you expect my men to continue investigation? Besides, she's been missing for more than seven years; she is already presumed dead."
Sherlock Holmes, who went along in the hopes of getting to the bottom of the truth (because he could remember vividly that Molly had once told him – when things were a matter of perception rather than facts, it might be a wiser option to talk through them, rather than deducing them) slowly stood up from the chair. "Presumption of death in absentia is but a presumption, it is rebuttable."
"Do you think I don't know it? I'm the Commissioner, not a Consulting Detective."
"Only 1% of all missing persons population are declared death in absentia, Commissioner," he sneered, contempt tainting the last word he spoke. "Do your research."
"Have you heard from her in the past ten years? No. The letters, you say? Do you have proof that they were written in the recent years, rather than when she was alive?"
A vein popped in the soldier's neck. "Are you," he seethed, "insinuating that Molly Holmes is a fraud?"
"Heaven forbid, I will not have my wife presumed dead when you morons couldn't figure out a single clue about why she was abducted," Sherlock shot daggers at him. It would be one thing to declare him a fraud, but he had the nerve to insinuate that his wife would fake his death. He found it astonishing and sickening that the Commissioner would think Molly would fake her death or stage her own disappearance, when she knew very well of the consequences that would entail – after all, all those years ago, Sherlock Holmes had indeed faked his death due to the lack of practical and safe alternatives.
The Commissioner remained silent, and the doctor spoke. "The Holmes clan is not of a fraudulent lineage. I thought you were the first few that acknowledged Sherlock's 'survival' after he reappeared twenty years ago."
"That was more than twenty years ago, John," Sherlock muttered, but omitted to voice it out loud. "But you will listen to me," he threatened, leaning forward such that he was level-eyed with the Commissioner. "Consider closing her case again, and you will say sweet goodbye to your necktie."
A look of horror spread across the Commissioner's face, and Sherlock knew he got the message across. There might not be any active assistance from the Yard regarding the case anymore, but he could work on it from the side-lines at least.
"Good try, but the case's still closed."
The Consulting Detective and the doctor both stared him down for three full minutes, tension and fury thick in the air before they both turned, closing the door with a bang! that almost shook the room apart.
"How — how are they, I — ?"
"Remember, dear, I am now Isabel." They both had adopted a new identity just two days ago. Seven years on exile had taken a toll on the both of them: being unable to utter your own name made you yearn for it.
"How are they, Isabel?"
A brunette chuckled, tugging the grey scarf tighter around her neck. "They're doing well, Judy. Physically, at least."
"Be honest with me," the blonde-haired woman demanded. "How are they?" Her emerald eyes blazed with fire, aggravation clear in her eyes. She was desperate to know how her beloved ones were doing, and Isabel's answers weren't helping.
"He's throwing himself into work again, and she's—well, she's a bit difficult, but it is to be expected, dear."
"Is she—is she behaving like how her father used to?"
"I'm afraid she took after her father more than you'd like to hear in these circumstances, Judy. I truly am sorry."
The blonde, Judy, sobbed, her frail frame shivering and shaking as she wept uncontrollably. "Oh, oh, my poor Clara. Why did this have to happen to her? My husband must be terribly worried, isn't he?"
"Yes, and her uncle also feels helpless. This is worrying, Judy; I'm sorry you all had to go through all this."
"Then why did you make me stay here? Isabel, why?" Judy yanked the brunette by the collar, her fingers caught in the faux fur. She glared at Isabel, frustration, anger, desperation clearly written across her face. Tears pooled in her eyes, lifting the shade of emerald forced upon her irises to show a hint of chocolate brown.
"They'll all die if you didn't leave, Judy."
At this, she collapsed onto the ground, tears seeping through her brown jumper, staining her lavender blouse. The thought of her daughter, being cold and distant; and her husband, retreating into his former shell and becoming a workaholic again, dug deep into her heart, crushing her chest. It was hard to inhale, hard to exhale, and harder to accept. She wanted to pull Clara into her arms, comb her fingers though her wavy brown locks—if she didn't flinch away, that is—and see her baby girl smile. She wanted to see the earth-shattering grin on her husband's face again, even if it was for one fleeting second—just to know that he was okay, that he was still living, that he was still here, and that their daughter would be fine.
"But," Isabel breathed, with a barely discernible smile adorning her lips. "In two weeks' time, Judy, you can go home—at last."
