I am back. There is nothing much I can say. I hope you like what you read :D If so, you know what to do ;)


Routine. It was all they had, nothing ever changed. No chance that something in here would change. After five days nothing was new. It was now day thirty-four. Really, Sherlock had thought the day would come when he thought of a way out, a solution beyond the obvious, but this place was unbearable, although by now everything was unbearable.

At least the crying had stopped, though he hadn't expected it. It probably would have been the only thing he was sure enough to handle; a challenge, in some sense. Now there were days when neither of them would talk and while for Sherlock this was completely acceptable, for a three year old child, it was not. It wasn't as if he didn't try to coax her into speaking, (they never were simultaneously silent), he did, but it just wouldn't work.

Today was a better day.

Anne was sitting on the worktop in the kitchen, watching while Sherlock prepared a meal. Food was now a necessity, so it belonged in this new found and highly mundaine routine. Waking up, always before Anne did. Hoping for a challenge, an escape; though there never was, not anymore. Preparing a breakfast, waiting for Anne to wake up, then eating. Sometimes he entertained Anne during the morning, sometimes not. He attempted to teach her things, although he was never certain if she understood. However most of the time he drifted to his mind-palace and Anne went to her bedroom. Before the small lunch was Anne's time for asking questions, questions that Sherlock had no answers to. The afternoon was no different from the morning and then came dinner, where her inquries would sometimes continue through.

Then there were those times when she told him things instead of asking questions, some of them Sherlock had no patience for, but then there were stories of Molly and about the life they were living before all this happened. Today she told him about her Mum.

Anne told him about the time they went shopping for clothes and why they purchased the dress for Molly that was so really pretty. Also of the time they made a cake for Molly's birthday, which they celebrated in the garden behind the house. Molly wore the dress that day for the first time. She had worn it again the day Anne had last seen Molly.

"Mummy is the prettiest woman, isn't she?" it was such an innocent question and there was only one acceptable answer for Sherlock to give, but it was hard and he couldn't figure out why. Probably because it was the truth and Sherlock was unable to admit such a sentimently related question, not to himself, not yet and he wasn't sure if he ever would. After all he needed to learn the hard way why feelings were such a dangerous disadvantage, and not only once but twice.

"Daddy?"

So all Sherlock did was nod and pass her a piece of fruit. Then he added:

"Don't ask questions you already know the answer to. It is not productive and it makes little sense. It is stupid!" For a moment Anne felt hurt then she remembered what her Mummy had told her, what she ought to always remember.

"There are no stupid questions! Only stupid answers!" Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned his back to Anne reaching for the fridge.

"What does not productive even mean?" Sherlock turned back around and looked at the girl who watched him with interest. At times it took him a moment to understand a child's questions are genuine and that it was their way to learn, so Sherlock needed to think of an answer.

"It means that the question you asked serves no purpose and thus it wastes time, hence not productive"

After this attempt of an explanation the little girl was more irritated than before. She thought about it, contemplating whether it was a good idea to answer back or not. Then she thought of something else, which within a moment was much more important than anything else.

"Sometimes I hear Mummy crying at night, when she thinks I am asleep, when I am on my way to the bathroom or when I cannot fall asleep and want to sleep in Mummy's bed. "

What was that about now? Sherlock stood and starred at Anne, who starred back.

For a while Sherlock stood there thinking. Anne was still set on the working top of the kitchen, a piece of apple still in her hand. She looked down at it then she looked up, waiting for a reaction, which did not come. That was because it got Sherlock thinking, it pushed him to the edges of his mind-palace, but he was unable to go there yet. First this dinner needed to be cooked and he needed to make sure that Anne cleaned her teeth and went to bed. Until then he needed to remain aware of the things which happened around him.

She cried at night. She cried when all was well. When her life was still... intact, or as intact as her life had been able to be in her situation.

What was she doing now?

They wouldn't break her. Sherlock was sure of that. She was a strong woman, she wouldn't break, simple as that.

That night Sherlock did not sleep.