The book report is finished! As is most of my major work! I've still got a few things due next Friday, but I don't need to worry about anything until Monday. So, chapter time! I apologize because Sherlock gets very OOC near the end. It was hard to write this because fatherly things.

Also, this is the necklace Etheldrea gets at the end of the chapter is the Vintage Estate Necklace by Lia Sophia. If you Google exactly that, it'll be the first image, and it is insanely gorgeous if you like vintage jewelry.

Etheldrea was groggy and confused when she woke up in the morning. She was in her bed, still in her clothes from yesterday, and-

Yesterday.

Everything she knew changed yesterday and she had confronted Sherlock about it. The events of that time were blurry, and she wasn't sure when she made it back to Baker Street, that is, if she did it consciously. Who knows what would happen now, and she really didn't want to go into it anymore. Staying curled up under her blankets seemed easier than going out there.

That couldn't happen though, they would have to talk. So, against her better judgment, she got out of bed and walked out of the room. Slowly, she headed towards the living room, one hand trailing along the wall. He stopped just outside the door, took a deep breath, and then turned and walked back to her room. She couldn't do it, not yet, not now, and maybe not ever.

She headed for her bed, but stopped and looked towards her closet. She walked over, grabbed the white box from the top shelf, and then walked to her window. She opened it up and with as much force as she could, threw it out the window. It sailed through the air before slamming into the back fence. The box splintered and its contents felt out and disappeared in the grass. She shut the window with some unnecessary force, and then got into her bed. She wrapped herself in her comforter and listened to the muffled noises surrounding her.

Mrs. Hudson was coming up the stairs, and then talking to Sherlock and John. She could hear John talking, and Sherlock replied. Then she heard footsteps going downstairs and also heading for her door. She could practically see the hesitation as he went to knock. Then, the footsteps retreated and she heard the murmur of John's voice once again. Minutes later, the footsteps were back accompanied by a knock. She scrunched her bed spread tighter around her head and ignored it. A moment later the door opened and she felt someone sit by her feet. Slowly, the blanket was pulled away, and she tried to tunnel into her pillow.

"I'm not going to ask you to forgive me, but I ask that you listen."

She didn't say anything, nor move.

"I met Amy Smith at Uni. She wasn't well like by our peers because of her attitude. She had a temper that threatened to break anytime, and wasn't afraid to tell someone off for anything. She didn't talk to many people, preferring to sit in the corner and read, and she was a pariah. People avoided her whenever they could, even if they had to work on projects. Work was her way or no way. We never talked until we assigned as partners for a sciences report. Both of us were stubborn, and refused to agree on how to do the project. By midnight the project wasn't started, and we were in a pub. I'll skip the details, but a few months later, she came to me and said she was pregnant. You know most of the rest. From what I've gathered, she left when you were barely three months.

That's when the hospital got in contact. When I arrived, you were severely dehydrated, and malnourished. You were hooked up to a life support system, and you were barely alive. It was a few days before you were well enough to leave the hospital. In that time I found out your mothers parent hadn't been caring for you since shed left for good. They'd leave you alone in a cot, never hold you or feed you. It was three days of that before a neighbor heard you crying, alone while they had gone out. I was amazed you had survived at all.

When your grandmother met you, she was determined to keep you with us. I was determined to give you a better family. After two weeks of screenings, I still wasn't happy with the candidates. At the time I didn't know why I cared so much but now I do. You had been up half the night crying. Mummy tried everything. Then Mycroft. Eventually he had enough and quite literally dragged me to your room."

"What the hell can I do?" He asked Mycroft.

"You're her father, you can do something."

"I'm not a father."

"Believe me, you're the last resort." Then he walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went over to the crib. She was very small, and was a bright red with her face scrunched up as she cried. Supposedly she was pale like him and had the same eyes, but it was difficult to tell. She did have his hair though, dark almost black brown color. He picked up the baby delicately and held her as far as his arms could. Her crying seemed to only increase.

Curtly he asked, "What do you want? It's not a bottle or diaper, probably a nap but you won't shut up long enough for one."

She continued to cry, not even stopping to breath. Sherlock grimaced and tried setting her down, but impossibly her wailing was louder. He lifted her back up and closer to him as his arms were tired. Her crying decreased to a soft whimper. Bright silvery blue eyes stared up at him as if expecting something.

"What do you want?" He asked much more softly, rocking her a bit.

To his surprise, she squealed happily. Then, she smiled at him, small and toothless. No child had ever smiled at him, at least not because they were happy to see him. Her thin arms reached towards his shirt. All the while she made cooing baby noises. Sherlock adjusted her so that she rested against him. He continued rocking back and forth, and she stayed very calm. He lifted a finger to her little hand and she clutched it tightly, unwilling to let go.

"This is what you wanted." He muttered mainly to himself, "A little comfort, and some attention. You haven't had a lot. Don't worry, that's going to change very soon."

If she was with another family, she'd grow up normally. She'd have a normal life with normal parents, normal friends, and a normal future. What kind of future would she have here with him? An undergraduate chemist with no ambition for a regular job or regular life. But, what would she be like when she grew up. Look at him and Mycroft. They had perfectly normal parents and yet the both of them were exceptional.

Within a few minutes, she was sound asleep, one hand lightly gripping the material of his shirt and the other still holding his. Sherlock sat down at the rocking chair near the crib. For who knows how long, he just stared at her, the little creature he had created. She was still very thin and very light, and it would be a while before she'd be completely healthy again. But, she was here, making herself known, and already causing trouble to her Uncle.

There was a knock at the door, and his parents walked in.

"Another family is here." His mother said.

He looked up, and then back down to the little baby in his arms.

"Tell them to go away."

His father looked surprised, "So you found a family."

"Yes.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. We'll be far more suitable than anyone else."

Mrs. Holmes smiled and walked over, "Welcome home Anna."

"Etheldrea."

"Sorry?"

"Her name's Etheldrea."

"Oh that's lovely Sherlock. Absolutely lovely."

Mycroft walked in now, observing the scene before him. He smiled, almost smugly when he saw his brother.

"I do hope you know what you're getting into." He said, "It won't be easy."

"I know." Sherlock muttered, "I don't care."

Mrs. Holmes shook her head, "We're all going to help, and don't you worry."

"That's my side. I swear, it's all true, and you can ask your grandparents, even your Uncle. I know it doesn't make things alright. But, you need to know that the past doesn't matter. Not anymore. I'm here now, and I'm not leaving. I want to make this right."

Etheldrea turned towards him and lowered the blanket. She sat up and wrapped her arms around her legs.

"You can't." She sighed as she tried to think of something to say, "I . . . need time to think, and some space."

Etheldrea and Abigail were at the park, sitting on a bench and watching people go by. Etheldrea had waited until school was out before calling Abigail, and immediately her friend had come to meet her. Etheldrea picked and pinched her hands as she explained everything that was going on. Abigail listened intently.

"I just, I don't know what to do."

"Can I ask you some questions?"

"I don't see why not."

"When you confronted your dad, how were you feeling?"

Etheldrea thought back, thinking carefully and trying to processing everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours. Things were still a bit blurry around the edges, but the things she felt were easy to pull up. She was still feeling them.

"Angry, confused, exhausted." She replied.

"And this morning, how did you feel?"

"Confused still, tired, and a bit . . . scared."

"How do you feel now?"

"Confused. What is the point in this?"

"I'm trying out psychology. There are some questions that you're supposed to ask. Don't know if I'm doing them right, but let's see how it goes. Now, you said you were scared. Why?"

"I didn't know what was going to happen. I remembered everything I had said the night before, and I wasn't sure how he'd react."

"And when he did react, how did you feel?"

"Scared. Guilty."

"Why?"

"Because, I was wrong. But I still feel like-"

"Hold on. You think you're wrong. About what?"

"I said that I was just a guilt trip."

"And do you still think that?"

"No. For a little bit, yeah, but everything's declined since."

"How do you feel now?"

"Sad. Amused. I don't think therapists ask 'how do you feel about that?' after every answer."

"Shut up! It's helping, isn't it?"

Etheldrea laughed and nodded, "Surprisingly, yes."

"See. Now, what are you going to do?"

"About?"

"About your dad."

"What can I do?"

"What do you want to do?"

"Make everything go back to normal."

"Can you do that?"

Etheldrea looked at her hands, "Think I'd be able to?"

If she had the chance to go back to last night, she would. Anyone would of course, but she would get out of there before it got dark. She would have continued on with her day and maybe spent the rest of it with Abigail. But she couldn't change it, and maybe she wouldn't have. Moriarty seemed to have gone to a lot of trouble just for her to learn the truth.

Abigail said, "Don't be Gatsby. The past can't change, but the future can. That's what matters."

"You actually read The Great Gatsby?"

"I watched the movie. So, what are you going to do?"

"Try talking with my dad."

"That's a start. I think I need to say something else, but I don't know what."

"Where are you learning you're psychology from?"

". . . Movies. TV."

"Don't you have a psychology class?"

"Yeah, but we're not learning how to be psychologists. Just brain stuff."

"Brain stuff?"

"Look, I know I want to help people. I'm not a house builder, and I'm not looking to travel anywhere. But maybe I can help people with how they feel and help the, come to terms with stuff. I think I'd like that."

Etheldrea nodded, "Alright. I think you'd be great at that."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, you've helped me feel better. I don't think I can forgive my dad yet, but I feel better about everything than I did this morning. Thanks."

Abigail smiled and wrapped her arms around her friend, "Of course. Anytime you need me, I'll be there. That's what friends do."

Etheldrea climbed up the stairs and then went to her room. She had debated staying in her bed for the rest of the day, but after talking with Abigail she didn't feel like doing that. Instead she went to her closet and looked around for her backpack. It wasn't there, nor anywhere else in the room.

She waked out to the living room and asked, "Have you seen my backpack?"

Sherlock, who was sitting in his chair, reached behind it and pulled it out. She mumbled thanks and grabbed it, and started back to her room as she looked through. However, what she was looking for was not there. The Last Man was missing from the bag, and she groaned in frustration.

"What's wrong?" John asked.

"A book I found is gone. It took me years to find it, and now? I'll have to wait another one."

"Was it that be?" Sherlock asked.

She nodded, "Perfect condition too."

She shook her head and went to put her backpack away. Looking up as there was knocking, she watched Sherlock step into the room. In one hand he held a small box, and gently tossed it to her. She caught it and opened it. On a long chain, she pulled out a vintage pendent. It had two ovals clasped together, one with a black backing and the rest in silver. A double eight shape with diamonds decorated the top.

"I was going to give it to you on your eighteenth, but I thought maybe . . . well anyway, this belonged to your grandmother. It's been in her family for generations, passed down to each girl. She never had any girls, but I have you and she gave it to me a few years ago. It symbolizes good character, strength, focus, and power."

Etheldrea put the necklace back in the box, set it down, and crossed her arms.

"You're lying."

"What?"

"Don't what me. I was with grandma the day she bought this. At an antique store. For a rather ridiculous price I might add."

Sherlock nodded, "Right. Should have asked her. Sorry. We thought it, well; I thought it would be . . . It means the same to me anyway."

Etheldrea turned, picked the pendent up, and studied it in her hand.

"We?" she asked.

"John. Your grandmother did give that to me to give to you, but only a couple weeks ago. John said I should do something to," he quoted the air, "Remind you of something happy in your life. I thought that reminding you that you're here and part of the Holmes family would do something, but that was rather stupid, wasn't it?"

"A bit, yeah." She said with a small laugh.

"Maybe you can start a new tradition. You could pass down the necklace you your children."

"Yeah, me with children. That's a good one."

There was a slight pause before either of them said anything.

"Etheldrea, I am sorry. I thought it would be easier but I . . . was wrong."

She turned to him, "Say that again."

"I'm sorry."

"Nooo, the other thing."

"I . . . I was wrong."

Etheldrea smirked and put the necklace around her neck, "Thank you."

"For saying I was wrong, or the necklace?"

"Both. . . . So, I talked with Abigail. She tried to help me, and she sort of did. I want to say I'm sorry too. I reacted really badly to everything. I've heard both sides, and honestly I don't think I can forgive you yet. But I want to try and have everything go back to normal."

"Me too."

"I'm not sure if I can do that, though. So, like I said this morning, I still need time and space."

"I understand. And if you ever need to talk, I'm here, John's here, and it sounds like Abigail is too.

Sherlock strode into the Diogenes Club, walking towards the offices. He entered his brother's, not evening knocking. Mycroft looked up, now suddenly annoyed.

"To what do I owe the pleasure? Come to let out some more anger?"

"I need your help."