Author's Note:

Short but vitally important chapter.

Important Note—those of you who've been reading other fanfics of mine know that, when characters swear, I blank out the words. I'm finding this story to be a little… different. I might still blank out some swearing, but other words will make it past my censorship. Just to let you know. (Oh, and I don't consider "damn" to be a swear when used in the proper setting, i.e. "condemn.")

To my reviewers:

Historian1912: Oh WOW. I know several people in my church who were/are Marines, and even one mother who was an NBC (nuclear-biological-chemical, for the layperson) specialist, and my grandpa was once in the army without ever seeing action, but… *whistles* I didn't know military families still existed! That is really cool. Hey, I just might take you up on that offer sometime! (I am hopelessly incapable, lol.)

Unfortunately, you won't be getting any more info on the War in this chapter, but there should be more material in the future. And, y'know, I actually thought of you specifically as I was writing that bit in the last chapter. Really, I did!

Ha-ha, glad you like computer junkie!Holmes! Personally, I think it's very much him and very cute besides. ^^ As for the eventual outcome of the story… well, of course, my lips are sealed. ;-)

Sir Arthur's authorship will be discussed in greater detail later. I'm splicing Canon and Real Life History together with kid gloves on—in other words, I'm handling this veeery carefully. But don't worry, it's going to be interesting.

Pearlmaidenredskyla: Thanks, sweetie! Glad you loved Kathleen's POV, 'cause you're about to get a lot more of it! ^^

==Chapter IV==

Ghosts of the Past

I am the Voice of the Past That Will Always Be

Filled with my sorrow, and blood in my fields

I am the Voice of the Future

Bring me your peace

Bring me your peace, and my wounds, they will heal

—"The Voice"

My name is Kathleen Duran, middle name Aubrey, maiden name Stewart. I will be forty-five years old this coming May. I was born here in New York State, and I will, in all likelihood, die here, as well.

From a young age, I knew I was smart and talented. I was blessed with a godly family that nurtured me and helped me grow up right, and I know I was fortunate to have that.

For as long as I can remember, I've loved the Sherlock Holmes stories. My dad was a big fan, and, as a result, my siblings and I grew up watching the Granada television adaptation on PBS. I first started reading the books when I was ten—despite my having viewed the TV series, my mom was rather leery of allowing me to read them that young, and there were only certain stories I was allowed to read. By my fifteenth birthday, however, I'd read the series in its entirety, and my obsession with those stories was rivaled only by my love of The Lord of the Rings and Star Wars.

Sherlock Holmes was my hero.

When I was twelve, I actually managed to solve a few mysteries of my own—real crimes solved by a real girl. But when the last one resulted in my being kidnapped, well… when I was able to sit down again, I firmly resolved not to tangle myself up in any more crimes until I was much older. That… lasted all of four years.

My only older sibling is my half-brother Tim, eight years my senior and my very own Mycroft—though Tim is now a General in the air force, not a human databank in the government. Tim was already in the military when I turned sixteen, and an old friend of his—a police detective by the name of Mike Warren—asked my brother if it would be all right to see if I could solve a case he was working on. Detective Warren had apparently heard a lot about my Holmesian deductive powers from my brother, who possessed rather the same abilities himself—I think he would have taken the case himself, had he not already been in the military. Well, I was allowed to go, under the condition that I would be with Detective Warren at all times. It was a tricky case, but I solved it, and was told that I should seriously consider criminal investigation as a career.

It was a recommendation I took to heart. I studied up on detection, took martial arts classes, and, in general, tried to learn everything that could possibly be of use to me. I could already fire a shotgun, but now I trained with handguns, and I couldn't wait until the day I was old enough to buy my own.

I had just turned eighteen when I graduated from high school with excellent grades. I spent that summer doing various jobs to make money, moving in with an old family friend, Mrs. Donna Clarke, that fall in Brooklyn. It was there that I set myself up as an independent investigative consultant—I didn't want to sound like I was copping off the great Sherlock Holmes by saying that I was a private consulting detective, and neither did I want to identify with the class of Private Eyes. I knew I could be my own entity just as well as my childhood hero had done, and I acted accordingly.

Business was, naturally, slow at first—slow all that first year. Mrs. Clarke was kind enough to pay for food and board, but I paid all other expenses, and I became quite poor. I took to writing short stories in my copious spare time, but they were all rejected, again and again. I started to despair of the vocation I had chosen, praying that I would be given a break.

I believe that all prayers are answered, whether positively or negatively, and even in my moments of darkest despair, I could not deny the feeling that I was meant to be where I was, doing what I was doing. Nothing worthwhile ever comes easily.

By Christmas 1999 (I was nineteen by then), I'd gotten my lucky break in the form of breaking up a big smuggling ring. The police said they'd keep in touch with me. I was elated. From there, going uphill was still a slow and often agonizing process, but now I had hope. The next twenty-one months were good months.

Then 9/11 happened, turning my little world upside-down. I was right there when it happened, in the middle of investigating a crime. I was one of the people who went in there to rescue people, but I won't recount that experience. Enough has been said about it in other places, and those are memories I don't want to dredge back up.

When the war began in earnest in Afghanistan, I moved out to the frontline as a wartime correspondent. It was during that time that I met two men who changed my life forever: Matt Russell, a fellow reporter, and Dr. David Duran, the man who later became my husband.

I'd met Matt before, back in NYC, and now when we met up again, he was with a young French wife and a small baby boy. On the outskirts of yet another skirmish, he declared that he was going out there to get closer, and told me to stay with his family. Angry, I shouted after him that he was despicable. He'd effectively abandoned his little family to an acquaintance that had no obligation to him whatsoever. Only two days later, the young Mrs. Russell was killed in a bombing, and as the father had not yet returned, the care of baby Dominic fell to me. Moving with the troops as a babysitting reporter wasn't the greatest idea, and I settled for reporting from a newsroom to take care of Dominic properly.

A few months later, Matt showed back up, hunted by someone he wouldn't name (I later figured out the mystery man's identity) for important information he had. Even though I had the baby to think about, I wasn't about to leave Matt alone, no matter how atrocious his actions had been. We took to following the troops again, and in one battle, I was in the right place at the right time to save an army doctor's life. His name was David Duran.

Shortly afterwards, Matt was shot to death at night, and Dominic was kidnapped. I frantically searched for the baby, but after a couple of months, I had to face reality, no matter how much I hated it: Dominic was gone.

I returned to Brooklyn, exhausted and haunted by all that I'd experienced out East. It was a good month before I was willing to take any cases. When I finally did, though, it wasn't long before I met back up with Dr. Duran, who was going to rent a flat from Mrs. Clarke. David and I quickly became friends, and he began to follow me on my cases, needing something to do with his life other than mope around on medical discharge.

Yes, even then, I recognized certain eerie parallels between my own life and that of Sherlock Holmes.

Early in the summer of 2002, I crossed paths with another man who would change my life forever, this time for the worst. Richard Stirling.

Comparing Rick Stirling to Professor Moriarty would be a fair analogy, only I sincerely doubt that the Professor himself ever did as much as Stirling has. If you've ever watched the BBC series Sherlock, then you're familiar with the term "consulting criminal." That was exactly what Stirling was—an independent criminal consultant, if you will. Stirling was a mass-murderer of the first water, and nobody ever came close to catching him.

Until one tense standoff between him and myself, with David's life hanging in the balance. From that moment on, as corny as I know it sounds, Stirling and I were archenemies.

A few months later, however, saw a happier stage of my life begin: David and I got married at Christmastime. Before the next spring, the CIA had located Dominic Russell and returned him to the States—David and I decided to adopt him. Exactly a year after the adoption saw our own children born: twins, Christy and Neil. But disaster struck our happy little family that summer, in the form of a fire. Dominic and Christy were safe, but Neil died of smoke inhalation, almost before we could even get him to safety. His death was hard on us all.

But, five years later, I was pregnant with my fourth child. David and I had realized that there were certain ways to identify when a crime had been committed by Stirling's organization, and we also realized that, during my pregnancies, Stirling quieted his activity. We figured that, insane as it sounded, Stirling actually enjoyed locking horns with me, and kind of gave up the game when I was out of commission. That conclusion led us to do something that, in retrospect, was probably a little silly: we had three children in as many years. As long as I was pregnant, Stirling didn't do much damage—until he figured out what we were doing. In the middle of my third pregnancy, his more fantastic crimes flared to life once more, and I gave up on the idea.

Then, the USA was plunged into her Second Civil War. Sherlock has already provided a brief description of my service at that point in time, so I won't elaborate further here. Suffice to say that I was very grateful when it was over.

Three years after the war, I was kidnapped by Stirling's men. I wrote about that experience once already, and I won't do it again, save in the briefest summary. It was a nightmare. Let me remind the reader that I am a woman, and though I am extremely capable of putting up an excellent fight, I am a bit vulnerable in certain ways. All that I will say further on the subject is that what Stirling did to me in those few weeks before my rescue turned my regard of him from professional respect to a very personal, very deep-seated hatred. I was psychologically unable to let even my own husband touch me for a long time. I didn't truly heal from that experience until I finally allowed us to try for another baby. Nine months after that, little Edward was born.

Two years later, David and I were in the midst of a very dangerous case, with Stirling behind it. In one skirmish with Stirling's thugs, David was shot in the chest. He died in my arms.

Stirling seemed to go into hiding after that, which was fortunate for him. I was going to kill him, and I was going to show absolutely no mercy. But I couldn't let myself be devoured by hate, much as I wanted to—I had seven children back home who needed me, and another on the way who would grow up without ever knowing her father. I wouldn't endanger myself needlessly to destroy that little life, or to let her grow up without both her parents.

Stirling has been mostly quiet in the past nearly six years since David's death, and I've spent more time at home in those years than I ever had before in my adult life. It hurts, still: my soul mate being gone. There's an emptiness in my heart that will never be filled again. What's kept me going is not my work or my duty to my nation, but my children. God gave me a wonderful family, and I will be damned if I ignore or abandon that. They're my reason for living.

(Watson)

Kathleen lapsed into silence. Holmes watched her pensively, steepled fingers pressed to his lips, expression inscrutable. I found it quite difficult not to stare at the remarkable woman before us. Did she realize how amazing she truly was? Did her children?

After a few minutes, she caught my gaze and smiled tiredly. "It's late, Doctor. Would you like to turn in for the night?"

"Erm, yes," I mumbled, embarrassed to be caught staring. We rose together, and I said aloud, "My sincerest condolences, Kathleen, for your loss. And my… my deepest admiration for your own personal strength in surviving all that life has thrown your way." I felt Holmes's gaze upon me as I finished.

Kathleen shook her head. "If it was my own strength, Doctor, I would have shattered a long time ago. If you're going to credit someone, credit my Maker."

I inclined my head.

Kathleen looked over my shoulder to where Holmes was taking out a cigarette and lighting it—suddenly reminding me that neither of us had smoked all day. A shadow fell briefly over her face, then she shrugged. "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."

"Goodnight, Mrs. Duran," he nodded, shaking out the match.

"Goodnight, Doctor," she told me quietly.

"Sleep well, Kathleen," said I. You need it, I added mentally—those seventy-odd hours had indeed taken their toll upon her, with dark rings under her eyes and pale, drawn skin.

She nodded slowly. "Thanks." She left the living room, and I paused before following her, glancing back over my shoulder.

"Holmes?"

"Mm?"

"Are you going to bed?"

He looked up at me. "No, I don't think so—not for a while, at any rate." He pulled out his pipe and began to finger it. "I have a good deal to think on."

I nodded. "Goodnight, old chap."

"Goodnight, my dear Watson." That last was spoken in a low tone that held a little more emotion than I was accustomed to hearing from that voice. I frowned, wondering what was going on in my friend's formidable mind. I took one last glance at him and departed, ready for a good night's sleep after a long, incredible day.

Author's Note:

Okay, I should probably now explain where this story came from in the first place. It started with the idea of a modern, female version of Sherlock Holmes, who was originally rather different from Kathleen Duran and went by a different name. The problem was that I could write the story as a long-shot, but where could I post it? It wasn't fan-fiction by any stretch—it was all original characters, albeit based on preexisting fictional characters. So, that's where Kathleen's fantastic back-story originated, and as the story went from adaptation to fan-fiction, her history grew. Somewhere along the way, I had the idea of Sherlock Holmes meeting Kathleen Duran (presumably in the 21st century), and the story spring-boarded from there. Ever since, I've had plotbunnies by the dozens knocking at my brain-attic. ;-)

Btw, if the name coupling "Christy and Neil" rings a bell in anyone's mind, it's the name of the heroine and one of the heroes of Catherine Marshall's famous Christian novel Christy. As Holmes and Watson will no doubt learn someday, Kathleen actually did name her twins after fictional characters.

Other bits and pieces of the back-story that are based on other stories: The Matt-and-Dominic Russell plot arc is taken from the third Anne of Green Gables movie (which has only the tiniest bit of basis in the real books). The initial standoff between Kathleen and Stirling briefly alluded to is derived from the climax of Sherlock episode 3: "The Great Game." Baby Neil's death is inspired by the Christmas film The Timepiece, a prequel to The Christmas Box. The Second Civil War, as previously explained, is inspired in part by When the Almond Tree Blossoms. Finally, one could almost say that David's death is the worst-case AU scenario for Sherlock Holmes in losing his Boswell. Not a case of inspiration in this instance, but a parallel.

Oh, and both Kathleen's maiden and married names hold significance for me: Duran, I'll decline on explaining, but Stewart came from the wonderful actor Jimmy (a.k.a. James) Stewart, perhaps best known for the Christmas classic It's a Wonderful Life.

Please review! (I can't know that you like the story unless you do so! I have the next chapter finished, but reviews have a way of getting it posted faster!)