Sherlock adjusted his cuffs and examined himself in the mirror. Almost two months home and he still reveled in the feeling of wearing a suit again. It made him feel contained. The flat was silent other than the usual creaks and complaints of an older building. Molly had left for her therapy session a half hour before, flustered and late. He had kissed her at the top of the stairs, naturally and without forethought, then watched her rush out the door and into the waiting black car. He looked at his phone, which had been oddly quiet all morning. He planned to work from his flat, at least until Molly returned, so that he could spend some time thinking and processing. He would have preferred having at least one person to talk at, but there were too many distractions at headquarters.

He set his phone down on the coffee table and stared at his wall of information. A few seconds later his text alert rang. All of the air seemed to rush out of the room when he opened the message.

It was a photo of Violet. Very recent. Taken from above, it showed her lying on a blanket. She smiled, a big, gummy grin that mimicked his own.

She wore a tiny t shirt that said "Daddy's Little Girl." Her eyes were blue.

The phone rang. Molly's name on the caller ID. He ignored it. She had obviously been sent the same photo, but he couldn't talk to her. Couldn't comfort her. He needed to think. It rang again. He almost threw it across the room. The third time it rang he answered it.

"Molly, I take it you got it, too. I can't talk right now. Go to your session. You're almost there, right?"

"Sherlock, I can't do that now!" She was sobbing so hard he could barely understand her.

"Molly, it's the most important thing you can do right now. I need to call Mycroft. "

"Sherlock—"

"Do it, I have to go." He hung up. The phone remained silent.

He hurtled down the stairs and hailed a taxi. Once in the car he forwarded the photo to Mycroft. His phone rang within thirty seconds.

"I received it as well," his brother said. "We've started analysis already."

Sherlock ended the call and stared out the window. This was the beginning of something bigger and it made him exceptionally uneasy. He looked at the photo again. All of that hair. There was really no mistaking she was his. Other than the shape of her eyes and nose, she resembled him completely.

Her smile should have been for Molly or for him. Was she laughing now, too? They both had been reading books about child development. It helped to keep her real, to remember that when they got her back she wouldn't be the wrinkly infant they had last held. But the idea that all of those milestones were being witnessed by a lunatic and his henchman was unbearable.

He inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to gain an objective distance. It's just another case. He had to keep telling himself that. He'd achieved the goal somewhat by the time the cab pulled up in front of a nondescript office block in Croydon. He paid the fare and went inside, riding the lift to the third floor.

Since they were keeping Violet's existence a secret, they couldn't work from NSY, so they had set up headquarters here. They'd leased an entire floor for privacy but only used a few of the rooms. Lestrade was burning the candle at both ends, working this case with Sherlock when he was able to get away from his official duties. Mycroft had been able to spare three of his most trusted associates, though they were scattered across the globe handling much of the legwork.

John was staring at the flat screen in the conference room, Anthea at his side. No sign of Lestrade. he photo of Violet was blown up and Anthea had zoomed in on her right eye. The silhouette of the photographer was clear, but it was impossible to tell who it was. What caught Sherlock's attention and made him momentarily stop breathing was the tiny brown spot directly above her pupil, identical to his. He felt another shackle close around his heart, formed by a genetic anomaly the size of a pinhead.

Anthea's text alert rang and the usually unflappable assistant paled as she stared at her phone.

"Shit," she said.

"What?" John and Sherlock said at the same time.

"They've sent that photo to every media outlet in the UK with the message 'First one to guess who my daddy is gets an exclusive.'"

"Fuck!" This time Sherlock's phone did fly across the room. Fortunately, it landed on one of the well-padded conference table chairs and remained intact.

"Sherlock," John said. "Remember, this doesn't help anything. You said you needed to remain objective."

"I'm trying, John. It's so incredibly difficult."

"I know."

"No you don't," he said. "You have no idea." His friend nodded and patted him on the shoulder. He went to confer with Anthea quietly.

Only one person knew how he felt, but she was too close to it. If he sought her out he would be useless, wanting nothing more than to hide in her hair and her body and try to forget.

He sat down and panned to Violet's left eye in the photo. The reflection was a little clearer due the angle, but the photographer was still backlit due to taking the photo from above. No discerning features in the background, only sky. From the silhouette it looked to be Moran, though that told him nothing, really. Either the two men had her together or Moran was playing babysitter while Moriarty went about his usual business.

Sherlock flipped to the scan of the photo that had been in Aisling's pocket. The resolution was poor, since it was a scan of a 4x6 print, and he had looked at it over and over, but it wouldn't hurt to look at the photos side by side. He violently shut down every stray thought pertaining to how she'd grown and studied the photos. The only similarity was the yellow blanket. He laughed.

"What?" said John.

"Well, they have her somewhere in the temperate zone of the Northern Hemisphere, or along the Equator. She's wearing a short sleeved shirt and her skin doesn't have any mottling associated with the cold. The fact that she's smiling instead of fussing from discomfort supports the idea that the weather is mild. So how many square miles of coastline and deserted islands does that leave us with, assuming she's still in the location where this photo was taken or that it wasn't just a really nice late fall day in New Zealand?" He was talking to himself, mostly, because it was useless, what he was deducing. And pretty soon they were going to get inundated with phone calls from reporters and overzealous tips from well-meaning citizens.

"Oh, shit," he said. He got up and put his coat back on as he walked toward the lift. John followed.

"No," Sherlock said. "I have to do this alone."

"Where are you going?"

"I need to have a quick chat with my mother. She might be a bit upset with me if she not only finds out she has a granddaughter via the evening news, but also finds out she's been kidnapped by the man who tried to ruin her son's life. Get Molly on the phone and take her to talk to her mother.

"Sherlock, how the hell do your mothers not know about the baby?"

"It wasn't important," he said. He watched John's face splutter with indignation as the lift doors closed.

A black car was pulling up as he exited. He opened the door and slid in next to his brother.

"Don't tell me you're here for moral support."

"No, just to intercept you. She's not in the country today, she's in town. We're to meet her at the Tea Room at Harrods. There'll be no chance that she'll make a scene."

"Really, Mycroft, our mother's idea of making a scene is a really strong pout. You're just craving a treacle tart. Or six."

Mycroft faced forward and told the driver where to go. He sat silently for a few blocks.

"That was one time," he said finally.