The sun shone pale through the fog outside when John peeked through one of the windows to peer down at the street below. He passed by the gun sitting on the table without a second glance; he never went anywhere without it these days.
He barely even noticed the bandages still on his forehead any more, just as Sherlock seemed to never notice his.
John's wounds consisted of a multitude of bruises, scraps, a split forehead (from hitting the pool's edge), two fractured fingers, and several burns the left side of his body. Sherlock's injuries were much the same, excluding the split forehead and fractured fingers, instead having had a massive concussion and even had gone into a coma for a day.
/That was two months ago/ John thought has he paced into the kitchen.
Moriarty had made no moves, had made no contact with them for two months. Both John and Sherlock carried a weapon with them whenever they left the flat, wary and always looking over their shoulders. Neither man could truly believe that their enemy had just dropped off the face of the planet like that. No, they knew he was just lying low, planning his next move.
Making tea had become something of a challenge for John, what with a fractured right index and ring finger. John had managed, though, and his fingers were almost all the way healed.
Just as he put the water on to boil, he heard a knock on the door and instantly tensed, glancing at Sherlock, who sat in his chair with his laptop balanced precariously on his knees. The man didn't move, didn't move his eyes from the screen that backlit his face a blueish color. John sighed loudly, moving towards the door. He heard voices coming from the other side; one he recognized as Mrs. Hudson, their landlady, and the other was a mystery. Slightly reassured, John pulled open the door to reveal Mrs. Hudson chattering away at a young girl, who John would bet was no more than nineteen. The girl was nodding politely at everything the older woman said, and John could tell the landlady was pleased to have someone listen to her. He felt a bit guilty, but pushed it away.
"Oh, John! I was hoping you were in. This young lady pulled up in a taxi a few minutes ago and told me she needed to see you."
"Thank you very much," the girl interrupted, her Irish accent making John blink at her.
"Oh, yes, well, tell Sherlock to be nice," Mrs. Hudson said, aiming the last part at John, with a glance behind him at the silent man.
With one last smile at the girl, Mrs. Hudson cheerily made her way back down the stairs, leaving John blinking and the girl looking terrified.
John looked at the girl.
"Well, come in if you like." John turned back from the doorway and walked back into the kitchen, the girl following him in.
When John passed, Sherlock looked up briefly to eye the girl standing to the side of the room.
As John busied himself in the kitchen, the girl shifted constantly: a twisting finger, a hand passed over hair, clenching and unclenching her fist.
A few minutes later John came back into the room bearing mugs, breaking the oppressing silence.
After passing one to each Sherlock and the girl, John stood quiet for a moment, unsure of how to begin.
While the silence hung in the room like a visible tension, John studied the girl. She couldn't have been taller than five foot two; her blond hair was sandy-colored and cut in varying lengths around her ears. She kept fiddling with something in the pocket of her trench coat, her feet constantly shifting the position of her brown hiker boots. Her face was slightly tanned, though still pale enough to show the freckles on her face. John saw that her eyes were dark blue, meeting his as the silence deepened.
"You are Dr. Watson, right?" The girl's question was sudden, eyes fixed on John, her accent adding an oddly musical lilt to her voice as he recognised the odd mix of American and Irish.
"Yeah, I am. Who are you, exactly?" The question wasn't said rudely but warily, with a guarded expression.
"What? Oh, yes. My name is Kaitlyn O'Carroll. Um, I, uh, came here to…to tell that –"
Sherlock interrupted with victory in his eyes.
"She's your daughter, John."