Kaelyn's POV
13 years later…

"Kaelyn!" I heard Mrs. Hudson call from the kitchen. "Kaelyn, there's another policeman here asking for your father!"

I rolled my eyes and muttered under my breath all sorts of insults towards the entirely inept police force. I normally hated it when Father went away on long trips, but I found this one to be particularly irksome. Perhaps it was the length of time he had been away, or perhaps it was the fact that he had not warned me of it, but something about this absence had me very worried. I had continually told myself that I had nothing to worry about; Father had taken Uncle John with him and was no doubt perfectly fine. Still, it was quite a pain to have to deal with the police asking for information when I barely had more information than they did. The officer that greeted me at the door was the same as the others: bumbling their way through a case and curious to know what had taken the great Sherlock Holmes away from London for so long without taking me along. I told him the same thing I told the others; "Mr. Holmes is away, presumably on a case, and I have no idea where he is or when he will return. Now, I would appreciate it if you would tell your colleagues to end their pestering for I have promised repeatedly to phone the moment Mr. Holmes returns to London. I wish you the best of luck on your case, sir." Perhaps the most irksome visitor I received was Derek, Inspector Lestrade's son. Derek was an actor with the potential for much more but no drive to match. Father and I had often spoke of how bright and quick the boy was, and what a waste it was for him to remain an actor when he could be heading Scotland Yard. No doubt because of my father's current absence, Derek spent almost all of his free time trying to court me, but, having been trained well by my father, I rebuffed all his attempts.

My life had fallen into a pattern of restlessness over the past month. I spent many long hours on various science experiments or reading different classics in a vain attempt to distract my attention. I now understood what it was like for my father when there was no case to stimulate his ever busy mind. Having no companions aside from my uncle John and Father, I was left to my own company with the occasional meal with Mrs. Hudson or the off hour with Derek, and it was driving me slowly into insanity. More than anything I felt the old child in me returning when, late at night, I would wake from horrid nightmares of terrible fates befalling those I loved. For some time now, I had been aware that my father was on the trail of someone very evil. He had refused to give me details, saying that it was too dangerous, but I had managed to gather some information despite this. Somewhere in the great city of London, lurked a man by the name of Professor Moriarty: a brilliant mathematician with a mind to rival that of my father's. Apparently, his so called "gang" had sunk into the very heart of the city, and it was my father's growing obsession to eradicate them from existence. Therefore, the longer my father was gone on this venture, the more the child in me began to panic that he wasn't going to come back.

One day, I was sitting beside the window staring down into the street as I had so many times as a young girl, waiting for my daddy to come walking back up the street. Suddenly, I sat up straighter than I had in a long time and rubbed my eyes furiously: Uncle John! I ran down the stairs to the front door of our Baker Street home and cried to Mrs. Hudson that Uncle John was finally home. I vaguely heard her bustle around the kitchen making tea as I threw open the front door and leapt into my uncle's arms. He pulled me tight and returned the hug with just as much joy as I had in bestowing it, however, when I pulled away, I saw something strange in his kind eyes. Deciding to ignore it for the time being, I gently pulled him up the stairs and into the sitting room. Once he was seated, I regret to say that I began talking a mile a minute. "Oh it is good to see you, Uncle John! I had begun to wonder if you and Father were ever coming home. Where have you been? Why did no one think to tell me you were leaving? The police have been here almost every other day asking for Father, and I really had nothing to tell them; it has been most vexing. Although, I am sure Father will have a good excuse for his absence; he always does. Speaking of Father, where is he?"

Uncle John looked up at me with the saddest eyes I had ever seen, and my heart froze in my chest. He sighed and took my hands gently. "Kaelyn, darling…I think you had better sit down for this story." I sat down beside him and waited for him to begin. "About a month ago, your father came to my rooms in the dead of night and told me that he was leaving London for a time so that the police could nab Moriarty's gang. He knew his life was in danger, and he decided it would be safer to leave than try and stay and risk you in the process. I naturally offered to go with him, and he readily accepted my company. And so, we traveled all over the continent and quickly learned that the police had failed to capture Moriarty himself. We reached Switzerland, and it was here that Moriarty caught up with us. One day, we went for a walk to the Reichenbach Falls, but upon reaching the falls, I was called back to the hotel by a boy saying there was a sick English woman there who desired my presence." I felt my breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps as Uncle John's story continued, already having an idea what was going to happen but terrified to be right. "It took me so long to reach the hotel, but when I did get there, I found that the letter had been a trick. I rushed back to the falls, but it was at least two more hours before I got back…by then, it was too late."

"Uncle John…where is my father?" I asked desperately.

He hung his head and squeezed my hands. "When I got back to where he had been standing, I saw two sets of footprints leading to the edge of the cliff…there were none returning. I looked around and saw his stick leaning against the rock wall and above it was a few papers under his silver cigarette case. I took the papers down and saw that they were letters: one for myself and one for you," he handed me a folded piece of paper that I recognized to be from the notebook I had given my father for Christmas the year before.

With trembling hands, I took the letter and unfolded it.

My darling Kaelyn,

For thirteen years now, I have treasured a great gift: you. Ever since the first moment I saw you I have known that there was something special about you. You know, perhaps better than anyone, my opinion of emotions particularly love. I must confess that you are the exception to my philosophy; I want you to know that I love you more than anything in this world. I will not lie to you, I was virtually certain that I would not return the night I left you at Baker Street almost a month ago. Perhaps it was wrong of me to not tell you more, but I also knew your devotion to me would not allow you to merely watch me leave knowing what I was walking into. This case has been very trying for me, and I hope that someday you will be able to understand me when I say that this was the only way for it to end. Some cases are not meant to ever be solved, and some cases are too strong for either detective or criminal to survive; this is one of those cases. I fear that the outcome of this case will cause you, my daughter, more pain than anyone else will understand. I pray you will not be angry with me for breaking my promise and not coming home. I know that no amount of my words will assuage the pain that you will feel upon reading this, and I only hope that you will not allow it to break you. You have such a wonderful future before you, and it is my only regret that I will no longer be a part of that future. I must tell you that it is to you that I owe any happiness in my life. Without you, I never would have known half of the joys this world has to offer: thank you. Remember forever that I love you and would not have traded these years with you for anything in this world. Farewell, my precious angel.

All my love,

Your Father

As I reached the end of my father's letter, I felt tears stinging my eyes and burning a path down my cheeks. My father, the greatest detective the world has ever known, the man who had saved me from pointless existence, and the man who had come to mean more to me than anyone or anything else, was dead: gone from my life forever. I continued to stare at the letter even after my eyes became too clouded for me to see anything, and my hands shook beyond all condolence. The stories I read spoke of people having their hearts broken, and I had often wondered what that would feel like; now I understood. I had not realized that I wasn't breathing until I heard the terrible noise that issued from my throat upon my body demanding oxygen. Not knowing what else to do, I rested my aching head upon the palm not holding the letter and allowed my sobs to echo through the house. Within seconds, I felt Uncle John's arms around me, and I heard Mrs. Hudson running up the stairs. When she reached the room, I knew that Uncle John gave her a brief summary of the tale he had told me so that she would understand my current state. It was odd; for weeks now all I had done was crave company, and now that I had it…all I wanted was to be alone. I pushed myself away from the couch and bolted into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me and locking it tightly. I turned and faced the bed with every intention of throwing myself upon it until I remembered, as if I was watching it happen before my eyes, a night long gone by when I had first called Holmes "Daddy", and he had promised to never leave me like my other fathers had done. Yes, although Holmes had never confirmed or denied it, I knew that the man who had lived with me before my mother died was not my real father. After years of cases, I knew the telltale signs of a family where the child was to a different parent, and my life had been a textbook example of that. I didn't know who my real father was, and frankly, I didn't care; as far as I was concerned, my real father was Holmes…and now he was gone as well. Everyone I had ever cared for had left me; my mother died protecting me, Uncle John left and got married, and now my father was gone too…I was totally alone. Once this terrible realization set in, I sank down on the floor by the door and cried until I fell asleep where I sat.

Over the next few years, many people came to see me and offer their sympathies for my father's passing. I saw many of the boys that had once been called the Baker Street Irregulars, various officers (both retired and active) from Scotland Yard, old clients, people he had cleared of charges that had been falsely pressed, my Uncle Mycroft, and most surprisingly, Irene Adler. I had, of course, heard of the remarkable woman that had bested my father and was absolutely delighted to finally meet her. Unbeknownst to my father, I had idolized her for a while, but because of her brains, not her style of life. We became fast friends, and she made multiple visits to Baker Street that greatly lifted my sunken spirits. Derek Lestrade also continued to make frequent visits, although his tone had definitely softened and calmed in comparison to what it had been before. He told me one day that he had decided to leave the stage and become a detective for the Yard mostly because of my urging. The news flattered me beyond belief, and I realized that I might actually have feelings for the man that had once driven me out of my mind. I began allowing him to escort me to events such as concerts, stage shows, and even dinner once or twice.

Despite all my efforts, nothing could fill the void left by my father, not even my new friendship with Irene Adler or my blossoming relationship with Derek. The locket Father had given me on my sixteenth birthday that I had previously only worn on very special occasions now never left my throat, and his last letter to me was always tucked into a hidden pocket on my dress. I had refused to move out of Baker Street and also refused to redecorate at all, preferring to leave everything exactly the same. Perhaps my greatest solace came in the form of my father's violin: his most treasured item aside from Uncle John and myself. Hardly a day went by that I did not pick up the instrument and play something in an attempt to calm my mind and assuage the grief that constantly ate at my heart. I missed him terribly, and for three long years I remained this way: confused, broken, and unsure what to do next. Then came the strange case of the murder of the honorable Ronald Adair, and my whole world was once again thrown upside-down.