"Dad!"
Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson had reached John just in time to watch the girl run into Sherlock's arm's, proclaiming him to be her father. John was at a loss for words. There, right in front of him, was Sherlock Holmes, known virgin, and his daughter. Sherlock Holmes, the man John had just promised himself to love, kept this secret from him for six years. He was stunned, and more importantly, he had questions. But all that could possibly come out of his mouth right now was; "What?"
Sherlock, still in his embrace, let go of Lisbeth, and turned to face John. Standing, he made his way over to him, hand never leaving his daughter's. He stopped just before John, his mad man grin slowly dropping as he saw John's face. The first thing John thought to ask was:
"Why is she ginger?"
It was true; Sherlock Holmes' daughter was straight ginger. Long orange ringlets hung around to frame her elegant face, the length reaching her lower back. Sherlock's eyes widened, and his face began to look slightly pink. Lisbeth, however, smiled brightly at John and said to him, and the others listening, something that they would never let Sherlock live down.
"Didn't you know that my dad's naturally ginger?"
Anderson was the first to laugh, the other yarders quickly following suit. Even John chuckled. Sherlock, well Sherlock just looked embarrassed.
"Freak dyes his hair! Don't tell me he curls it too?" Anderson remarked, laughing all the while.
"I'm sorry, I don't think I caught your name, Mr.…?" Lisbeth asked sweetly, as if enjoying the joke.
"James Anderson."
"Well Mr. Anderson, would you like to see a photo? I have one in my wallet."
Anderson smirked, "Yeah sure." And approached Lisbeth, who was reaching around to her back pocket. "I think I like this kid, not like you at all, Freak." He commented to Sherlock, who was standing silently during this whole exchange.
Anderson turned back to face the girl, when suddenly all he got was a fist in his face. Falling to his knees in pain, and clutching his nose, he looked back up the Lisbeth. She wore a scowl on her face, one matching the only consulting detective's.
"Don't say shit about my dad, you incompetent piece of filth." She spat at him angrily. John and Lestrade exchanged a look before they both burst out laughing. Donovan grumbled and helped Anderson up, before they retreated to the crime scene upstairs.
Sherlock smiled at his daughter and gave her a squeeze, before turning his attention back to John.
"Surely that isn't your only question John." Sherlock countered. "But I'm afraid your questions will have to wait."
Turning his attention back to Lisbeth, "Lisbeth, sweetie, starting packing, it seems you'll need to say with John and I for the time being. Stay with Lestrade, and I'll come pick you up later. I have some things I need to attend to." He kissed the top of her head tenderly before turning and retreating quickly. They watched him exit through the door before looking at one another.
Lisbeth looked over at Lestrade before breaking out into a smile. "Uncle Greg!"
Lestrade eloped her into a hug, "Beth, darling."
John looked ticked. "You knew?" He asked through grinding teeth.
Lestrade looked ashamed, and a bit embarrassed. He was ashamed he didn't tell John about Sherlock's wife and kid, but more importantly, he was embarrassed to tell him how he knew. And of course Lisbeth had to answer for him.
"Do you think he's my uncle Greg because he's one of Sherlock's friends? He's my uncle because he's practically Sherlock's brother-in-law."
Really, what she said told him nothing, but to John, it told him everything.
"You and-?" John asked Lestrade seriously. Lestrade looked sheepish, but nodded. Lisbeth smiled.
"John, I do believe that this would be a wonderful time to say, 'I can't believe you got in a Holmes' brother's pants before I did!'" She laughed wickedly at the surprised look on both their faces.
John stuttered helplessly, words coming out like, "How", "You", "Just met", "Can't believe", and finally after a long sigh, "Please don't tell him."
She let go of Greg, waltzed over to John, and decided to go and hug him too. John was surprised, he had only hugged a Holmes once, and that was when Sherlock had just come back from the dead, and it was following a rather nasty punch in the face. He returned the hug by giving her a light squeeze. She parted from him, and made a gesture of sealing her lips shut. John smiled at this, and Lisbeth smiled in return, mirroring the great detective.
"So," John started, "about that picture…"
Lisbeth laughed. Reaching behind her she pulled out her wallet (for real this time) and slid out a small folded photo, and handed it to John. Lestrade ran over, almost knocking John over, so he could see too. It was an old photo, and in it was just Sherlock, most likely in his twenties. His arms were folded in front of him, as if he was resting on a table. His eyes were clear, grey/blue, piercing at the person taking the photo. And finally, finally, his hair, short and slightly spiked, was brilliantly cooper red, and suited him perfectly.
John smiled at the photograph. It was amazing to look at. The detective so young, innocent, and ginger. He looked over at Lestrade, who had out his camera phone, taking a picture.
"Keep it."
John was startled at her words. "Keep it? I couldn't…"
"Trust me, I've got loads more. This is what he looks like in all my baby photos." She smiled at him. "Keep it."
John smiled, sliding the photo into his wallet, before saying, "Thank you."
"Now come on, we got a crime scene to deduce, and you've got some questions that need to be answered."
Lestrade stopped her before she could go anywhere. "Now look, missy, this is your mother we're talking about, you are not going in there."
"You need a Holmes. Sherlock's busy, so you need me." Lisbeth argued.
Lestrade looked defeated. She was right. He was never going to do this without her. So, he stepped aside and let her enter the elevator. John was not to excited about this plan. He gave Greg a look before heading in as well. The elevator climbed the building as they stood in silence. A ding notified them of their arrival. Lisbeth put her game face on before exiting. John noted it was much like Sherlock's, detached and emotionless. Maybe that's what makes them rule over a crime scene with an iron fist.
Lisbeth approached the body swiftly, and knelt before in momentarily, before giving out her deductions.
"Boring." She scoffed at her mother's body. "It was the maid. Angela, I believe her name is. You'll notice she and most of Mother's jewelry are missing."
She turned away from the body and made her way over to Lestrade. "You'll find her in her room, decomposing. The act of actually murdering another person has sickened her to suicide. Third floor, second room on your left. I believe we are done here."
Lisbeth gave him one last look before walking off. On her way out the door, she tugged on John's sleeve for him to follow her. Curving down and around the hallways they came across a large master suite. Lisbeth took out a key and unlocked the door. Inside the room was simple, organized even, with very few possessions. Taking out a small suitcase from one of the closets, she began to pack. John noted that nothing she through in the suitcase was clothing. Laptop, Ipod, toiletries, an adorable stuffed bear, a few books. When she was done, taking less than five minutes mind you, she zipped up the case and through on a large coat. It reminded John of Sherlock's, though it was feminine and slightly blue. Grabbing a red scarf and her suitcase, she my her way towards the door, motioning for John to follow. The two made their way downstairs in silence. Walking out the door, John hailed a cab, and they both climbed in. Lisbeth was the first to speak.
"Questions, John. I have answers. This may be your only chance, seeing as my father will never speak of this with you. I advice you to start asking."
John was taking back by her sudden words, but it did not detour him from the questions racing through his head.
"How-How old are you?" John asked, breath shaking. Lisbeth smirked.
"16. He had me at 19 years old."
"19? Wasn't he in school?"
"Like Mycroft, and myself, my father completed secondary school at a very young age. I believe he was 15 at the time, and immediately graduated university at 17. Mycroft on the other hand, did not finish secondary until he was 16, and graduated with the credentials to be in the position he is in now, at 21. Myself however left secondary at 13 and just recently completed university at Cambridge. So, as you see, by the time Sherlock was 19 he was out of school, living on his own, and had everything necessary to start a family."
John couldn't help but be shocked. "Why was he not living with you now?"
"Now that is tricky. You see, after my mother gave birth to me, my father lived happily with us for a long time. It wasn't until he was about 25 that he met Lestrade. He had always had a thing with crime scenes, and met Lestrade whilst trying to sneak into one. Soon they entered into their current agreement. Sherlock had not had the chance to tell Lestrade about his family, until it was too late. You see he made a lot of violent enemies as a Consulting Detective and he knew that there was a chance that they could use his family against him. At this point my mother and father's marriage was a sham. She did not agree to his antics if you will. He detached himself from us and went on with his way of live. Tragic, yes, but it was really the best for everyone. He visited. All the time actually. In disguise, and at a young age I loved it. Not long after however, he slipped into using. Cocaine was his favorite. He'd come over buzzed from a high and mother would call Lestrade to pick him up. The only reason he stopped was to keep his agreement with Greg.
"But nevertheless, this life was not good for him. He once told me he contemplated suicide before he met you. You, John Watson, I consider to be the saving grace of my father. Without you, I don't know what would have happened."
She looked distraught, lost in her memories. Maybe her own mind palace. John thought it was a lot to take in. But one part stuck to him the most. Contemplated suicide before he met you. The mere thought made John's stomach churn. Lisbeth seemed to come out of it, and continued her story. John's ears perked, and he listened intently.
"Now there is you John. I hope, by the events of the 'fall', as you call it, that you would understand how my father thinks. He comes across you, he befriended you, you live with him, and you are now a target. By falling off Bart's that day, he saved your life, by coming back, however, you are now in, if not the same, a worse position than before. Did you observe him as he left earlier? He was convinced that my mother was murdered by one of Moriarty's missed henchman. He missed the sighs, and panicked. He panicked for me, but he panicked for you as well. You are important to my father."
"Then why did he run out?"
Lisbeth smiled. "That you will see right now." She passed a few bills to the cabbie, and opened the car door. John hadn't realized that they stopped. He climbed out of the car, and joined Lisbeth outside 221B.
Ack, it's 2020 words. Also, I will be making the image for this story the image I used to describe Sherlock's photo. I hope you enjoyed, and please REVIEW! I feel like no one is reading this and it makes me sad. I love you reader. Next chapter soon.