Hey! Sherlock,
Where are you?
Dear Sherlock,
I am a horrible person
Lissie crumpled the sheets of notepaper. Any attempt to contact Sherlock, whether assertive or apologetic, would be futile.
Besides, he would probably be furious with her for running away. If only he understood - she didn't want to live with anyone else if not with him.
She shouldered her backpack and skulked down the Rue Jacob.
Sherlock
He had no regrets, Sherlock reflected as he stared out the window, seeing but not really looking. He would anything for John and Mary, even though she had tried to shoot him.
And yet...Lissie.
As he'd stood there, that fateful day at Appledore, hands raised in an almost symbolic final surrender, he had ordered his mind to forget Lissie, or at least believe Lissie would be better off without him. Things would be much easier that way. She's better off with a real family. She doesn't need me. This is for John and Mary - they need me more. Lissie needs a mother and a father; a stable home. Not me. Young enough to be her brother, she'd said. He repeated these mantras until he nearly believed them. There was still one wild part of him that yearned for her, but he recklessly quelled it and almost forgot.
Now, leaving in this sleek silver plane, he wondered what she would say when she heard of his death.
Mycroft would be kind enough to play it up as if he'd died for Britain. Sherlock could already see the formal man shuffling note cards he didn't need and beginning to address a group of reporters. "My brother made a great sacrifice..."
Ha.
He allowed himself a little smile as he adjusted his coat sleeves, then he turned his mind to Russia and his mission. Who knew, he might just come back alive after all. Resurrection was fast becoming a hobby of his, wasn't it?
The phone rang, and he blinked at the caller id. Mycroft.
"Well, I certainly hope you've learned your lesson."
And that was how Sherlock came to be standing beside his brother looking up at a billboard.
"Really went all out, this chap," observed the skinny young bobby who'd first seen the sign. At Mycroft's withering glance the bobby retreated.
"Well,Sherlock? Do you think he's back from the dead or is this a scheduled, posthumous message?"
"I don't know," he replied.
"What? Say that a little louder. You don't know! Sherlock Holmes doesn't know!"
"Oh, come off it, Mycroft," Sherlock muttered, irritable.
He studied the billboard in silence for a while. Mycroft spoke up. "I must ask. Why didn't you contact Lissie all these months?"
"I thought caring wasn't an advantage?"
"She's your daughter, Sherlock? And I heard things were going rather well?"
"After Mary shot me, I knew I had too many loose ends to tie up-"
"You mean you chickened out." Mycroft smirked.
"No-t exactly... I was planning to see her Christmas, after the reunion at Mummy's-"
"But you and John stole my computer and ran off on your little adventure?"
"I get the impression you know something I don't."
"Lissie was put into foster care."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I know that. Goodness, I thought you weren't supposed to care. You've gone remarkably soft. It doesn't suit a man who destroys terrorist cells."
"Sherlock, she's not better off without you!"
"What's that supposed to mean," he queried, surprised at how easily Mycroft had deduced his thoughts.
"Sherlock, she's run away."
"Ha! All children do that. Some are just more successful than others. Did it myself once, remember? Gone for two weeks."
"Oh...yes, after Sherrinford-"
"No. Don't go there."
"Alright, have it your way. Sherlock, she could be out there with-"
His face suddenly dawned with realization and then paled. "Moriarty! If he's alive."
"Or any number of your various enemies."
" Mycroft..."
"You'd like to postpone this investigation and find her?"
"Yes!"
"Good! I knew you'd come around."
Mary put one hand on her expanding stomach and turned to John. "I just feel...responsible. John, we've got to see if Sherlock will let us help."
"You're not responsible, Mary. Though...You did shoot him, so perhaps- "I'm joking," he added hastily at her stricken look.
"John, don't. I probably ought not run down alleys in my condition, but I can surely explain things when they find her."
"If you're up to it, I'm game."
"You can't hide forever."
"Can't I? Let me go!"
Sherlock had just discovered Lissie working in a souvenir booth. It had taken him two hours to find her- his usual runaway recoveries took an hour. He followed her to a park bench, Mycroft puffing behind.
"You look remarkably well for runaway, if not at all like yourself,"' Sherlock observed.
"Bought a post office box, used the address, got myself a job and am doing just fine, thank you."
"I hardly call selling overpriced Les Miserables items for less than three days a job."
"Sherlock. What happened?"
"What do you mean?"
"One minute you're going to adopt me and everything's rosy, the next I'm in police questioning, told you're a druggie, shuffled to foster care, told you killed a man, sold government secrets,and then you didn't contact me for two and a half months. Oh, wait. You did text, once in eighty days. Here it is. 'Making good grades?' I truly thought you were concerned and cared for me but I was wrong. You might've called once. I was worried about you, fool that I am.
All you care about are your friends- when you have so few I guess you ought keep them close. They're here now with Mycroft, by the way, trying to look like they aren't listening from that cafe."
John jumped guiltily and Mary jabbed him with her elbow.
Lissie rose majestically from her chair and swept unconcerned down the street.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.
She set off almost jauntily, hands in pockets. "To the devil."
Ten points if you know what book Lissie just quoted, twenty points if you know the character. Review!
Here's the hints. How many will you need?
1. The mother is called Marmee.
2. Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents.
3. The character quoted eventually marries the youngest sister.