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"Raymond Manor, this 'eres Rose."
His long fingers tapping patterns into the desk, Sherlock said, "This is Sherlock Holmes."
An excitable, high voice with a pronounced cockney accent replied, "Mr. 'Olmes! Thank goodness you called. I suppose you want ta' know more about the child before you make a decision?"
"Stop saying 'child', " he said irritably. "Is it a boy or girl?"
"It's a girl, sir. A fifteen year old girl."
"I assume she has a name?" Sherlock asked sarcastically, trying not to look at the snapshot on his desk, trying not to wonder if the girl looked like Elsie.
"Yes, Mr. 'olmes-" The way she pronounced Mr, it sounded like Meestah.
She continued, "- the girl's name is Felicity Grace."
Felicity Grace. Blood roared in his head. Now he had a name; a faceless, named creature who needed him.
"Spittin' image of 'er mum, Mr. 'olmes. All we need is a bit of paperwork and she's yours. You do want her?"
"Uh. Well, actually I have a bit of a reputation. I wouldn't want her in any dangerous situations..."
What would he, Sherlock, do with a child? He continued to make excuses, but the chattering woman would not shut up.
"Listen 'ere, Mr. 'Olmes," the woman's voice lowered conspiratorially, "The week after the birth,w hen Ms. Elsie was dyin', she was a-cryin' and beggin' her father and mother to take the baby to you.
'He'll love her, oh please, bring her to him or bring him here. You'll blame her for my dying; Sherlock won't. Oh, Sherlock!'
"They wouldn't, of course. They'd just lost their only daughter and they weren't about to surrender their only granddaughter. But now's your chance to make good on her last wish. In a strange way, old Raymond and his wife did blame little Lissie for her mother's death. Poor girl, I don't think that they ever told her they loved her."
Elsie- crying out for him as she died. He swallowed hard. "Does the girl know about me? I mean, that I might take her in?"
"Yes, sir. The Raymond' s did their best to pollute your name while they were alive, but I'm pretty sure the letters did their work."
"Letters?" Sherlock was curious.
"Yes, Mr. 'olmes. A week's a long time when you're dying, and Ms. Elsie used every second her parents weren't around to write secret letters to be given to Lissie on her birthday. In each letter she mentioned all the things she'd loved about you and how Lissie was to find you as soon as she could.
She wrote sixteen letters, poor thing, and I've been opening them and reading them to Lissie on her birthday ever since. Oh, how Ms. Elsie loved that child. She died holding it, you know."
He could feel a hot, burning sensation in his throat and struggled to control his emotions.
Fifteen is old enough to take care of herself. She'd be at school while you were on cases, perfectly safe. She wouldn't cause any trouble...
His mind palace was betraying him, filling with images of Elsie.
"Mr. 'Olmes? Are you still there? I said, perhaps we could meet at a coffeehouse? I'm heading into London this afternoon."
He made a few arrangements and hung up.
He worked his fingers into a steeple, thinking hard. Abruptly, he rose. "Ms. Hudson? I'm going out."
"Do be careful, Sherlock. I'm going to a bridge meeting, so the house will be locked when you return."
Sherlock and Ms. Hudson had been gone less than an hour when a window at 221B cracked open.
"Sherrrrlock?"
Jim Moriarty looked about disappointedly.
"No one to play with. I need a new pawn," he mused aloud. "Sherlock can't refuse a game then."
Might as well snoop about, he decided. His eyes fell on the letter, and he picked it up curiously. Sherlock had torn the part with the number off, so the general message was unreadable, but Moriarty caught and deciphered a few words.
Your daughter
When you were courting
"Well, well. Looks as if this pawn has fallen into my lap." He rose, and left the flat, excited. "I'd better get busy."
Sherlock hadn't known where he was walking, just that he was going to think along the way.
Now he stopped in front of a bookstore and gazed in. He loved books. Would the girl like books? What was her nickname? Oh, Lissie.
In a rash move, he stepped inside the store and headed for the teen fiction section.
"All rot," he muttered, surveying the paranormal romances.
His eyes found a bookshelf filled with boxed sets of the Anne of Green Gables series.
He purchased a set, without really knowing why.
Now it was time to meet Rose.
A horrid violinist was playing in one corner of the coffeehouse, and he stopped to wince before hastening to Rose.
She'd brought him an old Polaroid. "It's you and Ms. Elsie," she supplied helpfully. "Found it in Elsie' s drawer."
He pocketed the photo and studied Rose for a few moments.
Divorced or something- there's an imprint where a ring was on her hand. At least fifty. Excitable. Drinks a bit on the weekends. Seems like she really cares about the girl.
Rose seemed truly concerned about Lissie. "I don't want ta' think of that child in a group home, Mr. 'Olmes. They wouldna' understand her."
"How so?"
"She's either very quiet or she talks paragraphs. Either she's making friends wherever she goes or she's sitting about reading. She's not overly emotional, but she likes ta' imagine things about her mother.
'Did she really die holding me?', she'll ask, then change the subject all abrupt-like to something perfectly cheerfull. No way for a child to be raised. I think Mr. Raymond really made her feel responsible for the death."
"And she's not," he said hotly. Sudden, righteous anger at the old Raymonds spurted in him. He'd hated them once, for taking his Elsie away. Now he hated them again, for what they'd done to Lissie. His daughter. How foreign the words felt.
"Don't look at me that way, Mr. 'Olmes, I know she isn't! Anyhow, she's always finding people to help. Oughta be a doctor."
He felt someone watching him and looked up suddenly. There was no one there. He remembered Moriarty's texts and hoped he wasn't being followed.