Sherlock's long legs ascended the steps easily. He was beside Lissie in a moment, studying her.
"Mr. Holmes," she began nervously, unsure of what to call him. Rose had vanished; they were alone in the ornate, stuffy old parlor.
"Sherlock' s fine," he said coolly, still scrutinizing her.
"Sherlock," she tried again, brightly with renewed courage. "I'm so happy to finally meet you."
"Yes, yes," he murmured.
Most girls would have thought him rude and brisk, but somehow she understood that this was just his way. It did not mean he hated her - at least, not yet.
She wondered why he kept staring at her. Perhaps he was deducting things? She'd read somewhere that he could study a person for a few minutes and learn much about them.
"I've read a blog about you," she ventured.
"Oh," he groaned. "You aren't a fangirl, I hope. We've had a few odd ones around ever since John started that blog."
She smiled a little. "No, I'm not a fangirl."
"Good." He turned away and looked around.
"Have you been here before?"
His eyes narrowed somewhat. "Yes."
She could tell volumes from his expression. "I guess your experience wasn't pleasant. I'm sorry."
He looked sideways at her. "Don't be."
How very strange everything was! Her father was standing right here, and they were having a casual conversation as if he were a passing visitor. She wanted to run to him, to beg him to love her. But she willed herself to be still and stand there, leaning against the mantle. She heard the clock ticking faithfully away. It sounded very loud in the silence.
"Fifteen years is a lot to catch up on," she said slowly. "Should I fill you in?"
He gave a little nod. "If you wish."
She could feel hot tears burning. Did he even care? She knew that his way took time, but he could at least show some sign of interest.
Lissie wished she had something to interest him, or to shock him. Suddenly she remembered the letter in her pocket and withdrew it.
She found the lines where her mother talked about her father's love.
"I'm going to read something to you," she said, and read it, searching his face for a show of any emotion.
He stared impassively at her. Finally he spoke. "You look like your mother."
She blinked. "Thank you..."
"It's a compliment."
Why was he such a puzzle, an enigma? It was as if he spoke in riddles. She bit her lip.
"Do you think you can love me?" she asked.
He looked startled. "What?"
All her bundled up emotions spilled.
"You - you don't blame me for Mum dying, do you? It was my fault." Her tears suddenly spilled over and down her cheeks. She dashed them away, hating herself for this display of weakness.
At last he showed some expression. His brown darkened, and he looked angry. Still, he did not speak.
"You're mad at me?" she guessed.
"No, I am furious at whoever made you believe that it was your fault."
She froze, listening to the words she'd longed to hear.
Sherlock slowly said, "Lissie - it is not, was not, your fault. I do not blame you for a single thing. You can know that."
She sank to a chair. It did not matter now if he learned to love her or not - it was enough to know that he didn't blame her. She could rest on that. Lissie was not sure what he had deduced about her; she knew she knew practically nothing about him, and she didn't need to. Again, it was enough to simply know he didn't blame her.
His phone beeped and she could see the text.
Feel up to a case? Old friend in trouble.
John
He looked eagerly at the phone, began typing, then remembered her and put it away. She knew it had been a struggle.
"You'd better pack," he said.
It was her turn to query "What?"
"Trial run. I called my landlady on the way over here and she said I should bring you out to London for a few days if I found you agreeable."
So I'm not going to live with him. Just visit. Her heart sank a little, but it was hard to be too despondent when the thought that he didn't blame her was still fluttering in her.
"I'm agreeable?" she questioned.
He laughed. He had a nice laugh when it wasn't sarcastic. "Somewhat. Pack now, it's a bit of a trip back to London."
She fairly danced up to her room. He watched her go, already worried. What would he do with the child in London? What would John and Mary think?
Mrs. Hudson had been shocked, then adamant. "Bring her here," she'd said. She had wanted the girl to move in, but he wasn't so sure. A week sounded like enough time to get to know Lissie.
"You don't blame me for Mum dying," Lissie's tremulous voice echoed in his brain. Poor girl.
There had been a time he would've blamed her, but it was long past. Mr. Raymond was at fault, not Lissie. He'd taken Elsie away from Sherlock, breaking her heart, and kept her here with no contacts. What difference did it make if they gave her all the material things she wanted? They ignored her dying wishes.
Sherlock looked up and saw a portrait of Elsie smiling serenely. Did she know he'd met Lissie?
Lissie reappeared with a small suitcase. "I'm ready, Mr. H- er, Sherlock."
This was really happening.
They got in the car and headed home to London.