Rose was dreadfully persuasive. Sherlock found himself in a car headed to Raymond Manor within the hour.
He wanted to see Felicity and at the same time, he did not.
For the first time ever, he wished he wasn't always alone. He needed someone to talk to, to ask advice. What was he to do with this child? Bring her back to his flat? Leave her here?
What if she hated him? Or, what if he hated her? What if she was a spoiled little brat?
He pressed his lips in a thin line and stared ahead.
The girl paused as she neatly wrote her name.
Felicity Grace _
For fifteen years - her entire life - she'd caved to the pressure and scrawled 'Raymond' as a last name.
Never again. She was tired of feeling like some sort of illegitimate love child. The name Holmes was nothing to be ashamed of, after all. He was a brilliant mastermind, from the blogs she'd read and articles she'd clipped. But when she wrote Felicity Grace Holmes, it didn't look right, either.
She sank to her knees , brushing a lock of brown hair away.
"Who am I?", she whispered.
She was in her special place, the attic of Raymond Manor. No one dared venture up there, and she'd built a false wall of boxes , furniture and old bricks a stone mason had left years ago. Open the door on the bottom right cabinet and crawl through the 'wall', and you had made it into her spot.
Sunlight filtered through an uncovered window, and she had an excellent view of the grounds below. She liked knowing all the goings on. It made her feel safe.
Sometimes she brought books from her room up here, or her journal. Other times she came here to think, or pray.
She stored all her newspaper clippings here too, stories of Mr. Holmes.
Currently, though, she was beginning a new journal, and she had no idea what name to write inside the cover. She pressed her trembling hands together in an effort to still them.
She had never been this shaky and nervous before. Her entire body was trembling with anticipation and pent-up worry. And a need to know who she belonged to.
Why?
All because she had a feeling her father would come today. She couldn't explain it, just that she felt it, deep inside.
A commotion outside made her look up. Rose's green sedan, pulling slowly into the long driveway.
Someone was with Rose. Their shape was indistinguishable, but instinct told her it was her father.
As if in a trance, she crawled out of her spot and walked to her room, giving herself a once over in the mirror.
Did she look loveable? Faded navy sundress, orange cardigan with sleeves rolled up. Ponytail with wavy ends. She pinned back a few wayward curls.
Oh, how she wanted him to like her, to love her, to approve, somehow.
She had heard the reports- he was cold and sarcastic- but she did not care. She only wanted to know what he thought of her.
Would he look like her? The newspaper and blog posts rarely showed his face, and her grandparents had clipped his picture out of every photo with her mother.
She put her hand in her dress pocket and found her mother's most recent birthday letter. She'd forgotten she'd left it there.
Opening it, she reexamined it for words of support. Her eyes fell on the last lines.
I hope you have met your father by now. If not, keep trying.
He will love you - and if he knows about you, he loves you now. He may not be aware of it, but he loves you.
From her bedroom window, she saw the top of a man's head exit the car.
Tingles surged through her body, and suddenly she felt she might be sick. What if he couldn't stand her?
Help me, God.
She walked downstairs.
Sherlock looked up and for a moment, he thought his mind palace was playing tricks and he was seeing Elsie.
Sunlight reflected off the girl's brown hair, and illuminated her slender figure.
She stood in the doorway, waiting. Her blue eyes were enormous in her pale face, which was unusually white against her tanned skin.