Gah! For some reason it erased every time I wrote Mrs. Hudson's name? Why?! Anyways, here is to end that cliff hanger, and remind everyone that Armelia may be a child genius, and Sherlock's daughter, but she is not a carbon copy of Sherlock. She is an 11 year old little girl, too.

_
 Panic was not something Armelia was used to, but her current situation didn't leave her much else to go. To be frank, she was scrawny, and there was nothing she could do against her kidnapper. Any attempts she could have made to slow their movement would be like a gnat buzzing around a wolf. Useless and suicidal. All she could do was pray that her father and his friend were chasing after them, and that they weren't too far behind. She wasn't scared of death, but she was terrified of the other things people would kidnap little girls for, The thoughts made her blood run cold.

Instead, she focused on breathing. On not panicking. Don't thrash. Don't do anything that might provoke a violent reaction. But god, she was scared. She was terrified. Her mind fought it, tried to shut it down. But instinct and adrenaline overpowered her, and she felt. She felt it all. And she hated it. She was used to cold and unwavering. Her mother had spent her life helping Armelia learn to feel. Things like compassion, empathy, happiness, sadness. While she knew she wasn't very good at it, Armelia had come to understand those feelings enough to experience them in her own, small way. But fear was not something she even tried to comprehend. It was so rare for her, so why bother? So she didn't know what to do now. How to deal. How to react. And in a round-about way, it made her feel afraid of feeling fear.

She was thinking too much. Her head hurt. And she was shaking. 'Breathe', she told herself. 'Just breathe...'. With a cold chill running through her spine, Armelia squeezed her eyes shut and hoped.

…...

Sherlock had always prided himself on being above all those ridiculous base instincts of humanity. He was a creature of logic and calculation. A machine. But the second he heard that high pitched scream, a voice as familiar to him as if he'd heard it everyday for eleven years, all rational thought flew out the fucking window and those long buried instincts kicked in. Frozen blue eyes sliced after the fleeing hooded figure and he growled- actually growled- in fury. Without even glancing beside him, he took off as fast as he possibly could in pursuit, trusting John to follow.

He could feel every beat of his racing heart, hear the blood rushing through his ears. He didn't even try to figure it out. His genius mind was shoved back into a corner, subconsciously telling him which way to go. But mostly, he just followed as fast as he could. His only goal was to catch up. They made a dozen sharp turns, flew down alley ways, shoved their way through crowds.

They must have run for at least a mile and a half. Sherlock's blood boiled, having been unable to get any closer. It was like a game of cat and mouse. This person was purposefully keeping them at a set distance apart. But when they turned in to an abandoned factory and started dashing up flights of stairs, Sherlock almost lost him completely. He just barely caught the sight of his foot moving up a flight of stairs to the right. He followed with a burst of furious energy.

What he found when he made it upstairs after him was NOT what he'd been expecting. The little raven haired girl was laying on the dirty floor, her body curled up protectively and shaking, hands held close to her face and eyes squeezed shut. The man who had grabbed her was, somehow, nowhere to be seen. Who was with her, standing off to the side with both hands resting casually against his umbrella, was Mycroft, looking entirely unconcerned. Smug, even.

The elder Holmes brother gestured carelessly to the shivering, terrified child on the floor and said, "Hello, dear brother. As you can see, the child has come to no-"

But he wasn't able to finish his sentence before a pale fist slammed remorselessly into his face, earning a most gratifying crunch of cartilage and wet squelch of blood. Mycroft staggered back, a hand flying to his injured face. At this point, Sherlock was literally seeing red. And not just in his brother's broken nose. But he had a matter of more importance to take care of.

"Armelia..." he murmured, turning around to see how the little girl was. John had already helped move her into a sitting position and get her eyes open. But they had a wild glint of fear in them still, and she hadn't stopped shaking. Her tiny hands gripped John's jacket sleeve to tight that her knuckles turned even whiter than usual. But as soon as she looked up at Sherlock, tears flooded into her eyes and she practically threw herself at him, clinging to his waist as tight as she could. As she muffled her whimpers and quiet sobs in his shirt, he didn't know what to do besides pick her up and pat her back. Comfort was not his forte, but he could let instinct roll for just a while longer.

"Of all the reactions I'd imagined, this is not the one I spent too much time considering. I'm pleasantly surprised, Sherlock." Mycroft spoke up, hand still covering his bloody nose and head tilted back.

Sherlock glared at him, but it was John who spoke first. "Was this your idea of a joke, Mycroft? Because it isn't funny! You just terrified an innocent little girl for your own amusement!" he howled, as furious as Sherlock was.

"Not my amusement, John. I merely wanted to see if Sherlock had any kind of paternal instincts in that cold little head of his towards the newest member of the Holmes family." Mycroft said smoothly, as if it made perfect sense to kidnap a child to sate curiosity. Then, raising an eyebrow, added, "Speaking of, the adoption is official. Armelia Daae, now Armelia Holmes, staying under the guardianship of a Miss Molly Hooper."

Sherlock advanced on him dangerously, still patting the whimpering child in his arms's hair, and glared down at his older brother. "Oh Mycroft, you're about to find just how many paternal instincts I have. Now I suggest getting very, very far away from me, because most of those testy little instincts are really encouraging me to maim you right now."

Turning out from her father's shoulder, green eyes bright from a few lingering tears, Armelia looked over Mycroft and said quietly, "I'd say it was nice to meet you, uncle, but I'd be lying." Then she went back to how she'd been before and mumbled into Sherlock's scarf, "Father...can we go now? Please?"

To his minimal surprise, though surprise nonetheless, Sherlock had no wish to disagree with the girl-child. Casting one final glare his brother's way, he turned around and began walking. John didn't need to be told to follow.

By the time they got back to 221B, Armelia was half asleep from exhaustion and, in an uncharacteristic show of compassion that seemed to be becoming a habit for the consulting detective where the little girl was concerned, Sherlock let her curl up and fall asleep on his lap while he sat in his big, soft chair. Even John had to stand and gape for awhile, and Mrs. Hudson was struck speechless (for once). All this time, Sherlock hadn't stopped his subconscious comforting of petting his daughter's black hair, so very like his own. Eventually, in yet another astonishingly rare occurance, the methodic motion lulled him into sleep as well.

When Lestrade came racing up the flat's stairs to ask Sherlock what was taking so long with any updates on where he'd gotten with the case, John could only hold him back and tell him it wasn't the time.

"What do you mean Sherlock can't handle the case right now? Sherlock can always handle a case! It's like...his drug." the detective inspector protested.

"Not now, Lestrade. It's really not the time." John insisted again, letting Lestrade catch a glimpse of the sleeping pair behind him. It was all the doctor could do to not burst out laughing at the expression of utter disbelief and shocked awe that came over his friend's face when he saw them. After that, Lestrade left without complaint, almost tripping over himself as he tried to walk away while looking behind him at them.

Molly's reaction was similar when she came to check on her little ward, confused as to why she hadn't come home. Except that her reaction included far more smiling, giggling, and "aww"ing than the detective's had. John reassured her that Armelia could stay the night with Sherlock and himself, and he'd bring her back in the morning when she woke up. She agreed happily, waving and smiling as she left, casting one last adoring gaze on the sight of the father and his daughter.

Surely, if either of the pale, raven haired people had been awake to see such expressions cast their way, their lips would both curl in a remarkably similar display of distaste.

Does this count as father-daughter fluff? I couldn't help it! It just seemed to cute, and even mostly logical, in my head. And ooooh my~ Lestrade AND Molly caught a glimpse of the cute Papa-Sherlock moment. Wonder how that rumor is going to go? ;) We'll see.

PLEASE REVIEW! 3 Thank you everyone who reads this humble story.

-Changeling