SH: "Hello there. Sherlock Holmes here, on behalf of RMBlythe, who has, at the moment, hidden herself away in the closet. Never you fear, dear reader. She has been firmly reprimanded for her shameful and inexcusable neglect of our story. If you are still interested in the adventures of the good doctor and myself..."

JW: "They'd not be here if they were no longer interested, Holmes."

SH: "Quite right, Mother Hen. By all means, dear reader, read on. And may I welcome you back to 221B Baker Street. We have missed you."

Chapter 12

"I see a little more of me everyday,

I catch a little more mustache turning gray,

Your mother's still the only other woman for me,

Little Miss Magic, whatcha gonna be? Little Miss Magic, just can't wait to see."

~Jimmy Buffett

It was a relatively quiet night at 221B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson had tucked herself away downstairs, and Irene had left for Leicester on business. She refrained from elaborating on just what such business entailed, which gave her husband pause, but she had simply kissed his cheek and swore to regale him with her adventures upon her return. The woman had left rather quickly after that, so for the time being, Holmes must be satisfied with that.
So, once again, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson were left to their own devices. After putting sweet little Mary to bed, they engaged in a rather pleasant conversation about their recently solved case of the serial arsonist. However, just as they were discussing how the criminal had managed to burn off his own fingerprints, Watson noticed that Holmes had fallen alarmingly silent, staring intently off into space. "Holmes," he sighed in exasperation, "did you hear a word of what I just said?"

There was no outward sign that Holmes had heard Watson at all, until he breathed in a hushed tone, "Listen."

Knowing better than to argue with the detective when he was in such a state, Watson listened carefully for a few moments. The only sounds that reached his ears were those typical of a quiet night on Baker Street. "I don't hear anything."

"Precisely. It is 10:38. Mary has been in bed for two and a half hours. We both know she has developed a habit of getting out of bed to beg for another story or song in an attempt to prolong the day. She does so once at approximately 8:47 and then again at 9:52."

Watson' heart beat picked up speed as he realized where his friend was headed. "She's only gotten up once," he said, his voice rough. A feeling of dread had settled in his chest. Something was wrong.

Holmes nodded.

For less than four seconds, the two friends stared at each other before jumping up and running to Watson's room where they had put two year old Mary to bed hours before. Her bed was completely empty.

Watson began to frantically check all of her usual hiding places about the room, struggling agains the mounting fear in his heart that was making it difficult to breathe. He knew she wasn't hiding. His daughter could never stop giggling whenever they played hide and go seek, but he did not want to admit what Holmes was just discovering. "Watson," Holmes said, his voice heavy with sadness and worry as he pointed out the large bootprints leading from Mary's bed to the window which had been left slightly ajar.

"Oh God, no!" Watson moaned, his face growing frighteningly pale as he came face to face with his very worst nightmare. His baby girl had been taken from him.

"Come," Holmes urged, pulling his friend back to the grim situation they found themselves in, "we haven't time to waste."

The two men thundered down the stairs, Holmes snatching Watson's sword cane, saying, "You may have need of it." Watson tried not to think of a situation concerning his daughter where he would need his secret weapon, but Holmes did have a point. He caught it in one hand, and with the other he ripped open the front door. They dashed out into the chilly London night. Splitting up, Holmes took off down Baker Street and Watson ran up it, each searching frantically for a little girl they held very close to their hearts.

Holmes ran down yet another alleyway, only to find it empty as well. He sighed in frustration. Hours had passed, and he had yet to find Mary. Give him any criminal, and Holmes could locate and catch him easily and efficiently. But take his niece, well, that was entirely different. His emotions were getting in the way, he knew. He wasn't thinking clearly. He took a deep breath and sighed, trying to familiarize himself with his surroundings. He shut his eyes and just listened. A carriage made it's way down Miller Street. A rat scurried past the door along the wall to his left. A woman spoke in hushed tones to her husband three floors up in the building on the other side of the street. His own heartbeat thrummed in his ears. And...

A child crying.

The sobs of a little girl floated through the air and struck him like a bolt of lightening. His eyes snapped open and he took off running again, following the sound until he reached yet another alleyway a few blocks down, where Mary was curled up against the wall. He sighed in relief. "Mary," he called, his voice much weaker than he had expected it to be.

She looked up and gasped when she saw her dear uncle. "Homs!" she cried, stretching her arms out to him. He scooped her up and dried her tears with his handkerchief. She hugged his neck tightly.

"Are you alright?"

"Mean boys took me," she pouted.

"I know, dearest," he said, kissing her cheek. "Did they hurt you?"

Mary shook her head no. His mind was set relatively at ease for the moment, especially knowing Watson would still give her a full examination once they got back to Baker Street. "Come. Let's go find your father, eh?"

The little girl nodded, laying her head down on his shoulder.

It was near dawn, and Watson had still seen no sign of his daughter or her captors on London's practically empty streets. He leaned against a building, pulling at his hair in desperation, and blinking back the tears that were blurring his vision. "Oh Lord," he begged, praying harder than he ever had in his entire life, "please, please don't take her from me. I cannot lose her too. I can't..."

"Papa!" a little voice squealed, nearly ripping Watson's heart out of his chest. With a heavy sob, Watson's eyes flew open, only to see his daughter come running as fast as her little legs would carry her towards him.

"Mary!" he gasped, ignoring the ache in his leg and running to her, falling to his knees before his princess. "Oh darling," he sobbed, holding her tightly against his chest. "Are you alright, Sweetheart?"

Mary nodded and buried her face in his shirt. Watson kissed her head and sighed. "Thank you, Lord!"

Holmes came around the corner to see Mary in her father's arms. He smiled. Thank God they had found Watson. He knew his friend never would have given up searching for his daughter.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Holmes saw that he was not the only witness to the touching scene. Another man lurked in the shadows, darting off when he saw Holmes staring at him. Holmes took off running after the man he believed to be involved somehow with Mary's disappearance. "Holmes?" Watson called after him as he ran by, but the detective did not slow his pace. "Holmes!"

Darting this way and that, dodging the people of London who were just beginning to rise, all the while following the man, Holmes ran as fast as his legs would carry him. His breaths were quick, his heart beat even quicker, and the muscles in his legs burned with each long stride. But he kept going until he ducked behind a building. The man was gone. Completely gone. All that was left was a note pinned to the wall. Opening it, Holmes read,

"Dear Mr. Holmes,
It seems you were not the only one to survive the great fall. I am glad to see though that you have done something useful with your life. Whoever would have guessed that Sherlock Holmes would be helping to raise a child? And such a lovely child too. If I were you, I would keep a better eye on her, Mr. Holmes. I should hate for anything to happen to sweet little Mary.
Yours,
Prof. J. Moriarty
P. S.
She bears a striking resemblance to her late mother, don't you think?"

With trembling hands, Holmes folded up the note and shoved it deep into his coat pocket. Although his mind was reeling, he forced himself not to think about the horrid contents and the oh-so-very-kindly worded threat it contained. For now, Mary was safe. For now, that was all that mattered. He returned to where he had left Watson and Mary, but instead met them halfway and joined them in their return to Baker Street.

"What in God's name was that all about?" the doctor asked in hushed but serious tones, for his daughter was sound asleep in his arms.

Holmes put on his best front and said casually, "What was what all about?"

"That!" Watson whispered, quite irritated that they would have to go through this yet again. Would Holmes ever just give him a straight answer?

Noticing how tightly Watson held Mary in his arms, and recalling the nearly mind numbing fear they both endured upon discovering the child's abduction, Holmes vowed then and there he would kill James Moriarty once and for all. He gave Watson a tight smile, no more than a twitch of his lips. "Nothing to worry yourself about, Mother Hen."