Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 "She's not telling us the truth."
  "We know."
  "She knows where he is, and where those bodies are."
   "Oh? I don't think she knows where he is."
  "How could she not?"
  "Because she believes him to be dead."
   "Really? Well, what about the bodies? She claims there are over a thousand."
   "Only a hundred."
   "So now what? She only knows where a hundred bodies are, and if he is alive."
   "She knows Sherlock Holmes is alive, and hopefully he will be able to break her. If any man can, it will be him."

   Daddy had asked his tech men to make a gun that would shoot towards the person holding the trigger. He planned to surprise Sherlock Holmes when he killed him, to kill a man who suspected Daddy was going to kill himself once he put a gun into his mouth. Daddy wanted the gun to shoot backwards, so if he were to put it the gun in his mouth, and pull the trigger, it would shoot Sherlock Holmes, and not himself.

  I didn’t want to save Sherlock Holmes, oh not at all, I could care less about the man or his brother, or his surprisingly entertaining blogger who used words I didn’t always understand. No, I just wanted Daddy dead, blood seeping from his body, his evil eyes staring at the world without seeing it. I wanted Daddy dead.

  Like all my memories, this one is picture perfect, not a single detail is biased. I wanted Daddy dead. Gone forever, just so I could be at peace for once in my life.I was only four back then, then being two years ago, before the big shootout that would change my life forever .

    When Daddy started his fairytale game, he used me like a pawn. A pawn, that in his strategy, was replaceable. A pawn he thought would be loyal till he tried to replace her. Little did he know that I had heard him and Sebastian talking; that I had a plan to set just months before I died to Sherlock Holmes’ hand. I had to make myself worth something . I knew that Ivan, my trainer,  wouldn’t understand, no...I knew he’d stop me.

 Ivan is a good man, a man who would stop me at any cost. He was born in Russia and came to London after he and his son had gotten caught up in a bad network- Daddy’s to be exact- and separated from there- Ivan off to keep his son alive by working with Daddy and his son off to a drug ring towards the south.He tried not to let me hurt anyone, and I thank him for that now. He always had drilled into me his rule of life: “Don’t kill in less threatened, whether that be by your Pa or by another assassin. If you do have to kill, kill with mercy, kukla.”

   I guess looking back on this now, that regular people might find that odd, but for me, that was normal.

   I grew up in the CAN from when I was two years old. There was an accident in which I lost the only memories I had from when I was a child. According to Ivan, I forgot what my mother had looked like, who I was, where I was and who I could trust. But he said that I knew that in our world, in the crime ring or in the field, it was kill or be killed. According to Ivan, the only one I ever trusted was my unit, and even then, I never moved my arm away for shielding my food.As for what I had to do to make myself worth living in the eyes of Daddy...well...I had to kill my friend, the boy who was to replace me, the boy who was utterly loyal to Daddy. But, I didn’t kill him. I missed, I missed the shot, putting him in such utter agony. I had to help him, I couldn’t just leave him. I took my blade and cut the nerve in the back of his neck, paralysing him from the neck down. I didn’t look at his eyes, I would have stopped. I remember hearing Ivan come into the room.

  “Puppet? Did you do this to Hamster?”

  I remember nodding, tears pooling and blurring my vision, “Yes, sir.”

 I remember Ivan turning slowly around Hamster, who had tears running down his face, eyes wide with fear. I remember Ivan taking his own gun and shooting Hamster in the head.

  “I know you can’t kill anyone,” Ivan said softly, breaking my line of sight away from Hamster, blocking my view of him with his sharp edged shoulders. “You’re special, Puppet. Don’t forget that.” Ivan had looked behind himself, back at the slowly bleeding five year old behind him, “My son will help you. He isn’t in my line of work, love. He’ll help you leave.” He had put his hands on my shoulders, “Diego will help you escape, as long as you are sure he is dead.”

  I had been shocked at first that Ivan had known, known that I was to betray his boss and flee with my life . I had been afraid, but the look on his face, that was what made me smile, “You’re more of a Dad to me then he would have ever been. Thank you, sir.”

 I remember that afternoon, oh it makes me smile . I remember switching Daddy’s gun out when Ivan and I were setting him up, making sure his phone was charged and that the snipers knew their locations. I remember setting up my own gun, the one that if anything went wrong, I was to shoot Sherlock Holmes. I had giggled when setting up, thinking of the surprise Daddy would have in Hell when he realizes his own daughter had caused his death. When Daddy had shoved me over, stepped down hard on my rib cage, and growled out cruel threats, asking what I thought was so funny, I had said, “Sherlock Holmes face when he realizes he lost, sir.”

 He had smiled in a murderous way and, laughed tyrannically, gave me a kick in the side before he allowed Ivan to finish getting him ready. I remember vowing to shoot him an extra time once Sherlock Holmes jumped off the edge, just to get some satisfaction.

   Shooting- for an assassin I was never very good at it. For an assassin I was never good at killing. While practicing with the members of my unit, I made sure I never hit them too hard, never cut them with a blade or let a bullet pierce their skin. I actually only ever killed one person, and even then, I never shot that satisfactory shot.

  When Sherlock Holmes stood on that ledge I realized we were alike- we both would die for our friends. Well, fake our deaths anyway. Through, I like to believe the great detective would have died for the DI, the blogger, the old women or his brother.

 After he had jumped, and gotten prepared mentally to make a run for it towards the son of Ivan’s delivery truck, when I had tossed my rifle over the building's edge, and pulled my make shift bag over my shoulder that I saw it happen- that I saw Sherlock Holmes get off the ground, and run, watched those fakes, those actors go to their positions.

  I like to think that was the day I realized that Sherlock Holmes wasn’t just a good guy, but a fun one too.

  And then I was running, jumping the buildings roofs, jumping down into a dumpster ; I was making my way into a delivery truck, slamming the door shut and snapping on the seat belt.

 “So, you’re the legendary Puppet, yes?”

  I was shocked to hear an American accent, and looked over. The man that would trust my life with for now on was tan skinned and had dark brown, friendly eyes. He sounded like English wasn’t his first language, but with the American accent and the way he was dressed in some dark t-shirt and ripped jeans,  I couldn’t decide if English wasn't his first language, or he just wasn’t educated.

 “Yes, sir,” I had supplied, watching him as he turned the ignition and started to drive.

  Diego snorted, “I am no sir, sestra . I am a friend.”

  I hadn’t understood at first, the word sestra confusing me, “What does the word sersta mean?”

  Diego cursed in another language, slamming on the brakes before starting to drive again, “It means sister.”

  “Oh,” I had said, watching the road as we drove, “I don’t have any siblings.”

  “No,” Diego had said fondly, “But you were my Pa’s pride and joy sestra, and to me, that makes you family.”

I hadn't known what to say at first, I'd never had family before. The word was foreign, and I couldn't help but repeat it, family , weighing the word as it formed.

   "Yes," Diego said, looking at me with an expression I couldn't recognize; it was odd he had the corners of his mouth turned up but his eyes weren't cruel but they had another emotion that made me smile.

  "What language is sersta in?" I asked a few hours later.

   "Russian," Diego said.

  "Can you teach me?" I had asked, "While you drive?"

  He looked over at me before setting  his gaze back onto the road, "Sure. We can start with basic words."
  

   " Sestra ?"

  I had blinked a bit, realizing I had fallen asleep at one point during the drive. Dawn light poured into the van, and I yawned, looking towards Diego,"Yes?"

  "We have to switch vehicles," Diego said quietly, reaching down and grabbing my bag, "And get you new clothes."

 I looked down at my black stealth suit. He was right, there was no way I would fit in with the children if I wore the suit. Diego opened the van door, keeping his gaze on the ground, "Keep your head down."

 I nodded, and followed his feet through the parking lot and into another vehicle- one that was a dark black and had yellow print on the side. A taxi actually. I kept my head down as Diego opened the back door for me and I got in. He got in on the left side and put his keys in the ignition. And we were off again.

  As we drove, I realized I hadn't given Daddy that satisfactory shot. It made me sad at first, but then I realized had I made that shot, I would have been just as much a monster as he had been.

Chapter Text

"What about him?"

  "What about him exactly?"

  "She trusts him. She doesn't trust us but she trusts him."

  "He's dead. Anyone would trust a dead man with their secrets."

  About three days later we stopped at a town I had recognized as Framlingham. I looked over as Diego opened his car door, "I will be back. I have to get you new clothes first."

  I nodded, watching him till I couldn't see him anymore. After he was gone from my view, I ducked down and yanked my pocket knife out of my bag. I had to be prepared, always.

  The door opened again around ten minutes later, and Diego handed me a plastic bag, "Get changed then come on out."

  I nodded and he shut the door. He leaned back against his door, with his arms crossed across his chest. I opened the bag and quickly changed.  I pulled on the red rubber boots last and was about to tuck the bag back under the seat when I realized the bag had something still inside- a white bear that was around an American foot in length and the fluffiest thing I had ever seen in my life.

  I stared at in, rather shocked to see that Diego had gotten me a toy meant for a child. I opened my door and stepped out, the bear in hand.

  Diego smiled, "You like the bear, sestra ?"

  I nodded, and held the bear to my chest, "Thank you."

  Diego raised a brow, "Did you give him a name?"

 I stared at the bear, and decided to name him William. After all, it was Sherlock Holmes' fault I even was alive and had the bear.

  "William," I said a little proudly, "After Sherlock Holmes."  

  Diego revealed his teeth when he smiled, “I’ve always liked that man. When Pa told me Moriarty’s plan, I was tempted to tell him to just kill Moriarty himself.”

  I nodded, “He asked me if he should. I told him I wasn’t authorized to answer that question.”

  Diego laughed. I didn’t understand what he was laughing about. This is actually the last happy memory I can remember for a while. We had went into secrecy, leaving London and heading into the outskirts of Russia.

  Russia is a beautiful country, and sometimes I wish I never had to leave there, never had to leave Diego, or his aunt, or the Siberian snow. But, it all went downhill from there, so far down that hill, that no matter how high I climbed, I could never get back where I came from, back from that peak.

  It was around two years later, we were back in London on business. Diego still had to keep up with his missions, making sure we still had money flooding in from sources I wasn’t allowed to know. We were passing a television store when I saw it, when I saw the nutcracker like way his jaw moved, the print on the screen- It’s Me . Diego had turned around, “Puppet?”

  I merely pointed to the screen. Diego stared at it, “You said he was dead.”

  “He is dead,” I had said, staring at the screen. How could Daddy be alive? He shot himself, I watched it! I watched him die, he’s dead !

  “He won’t be coming after you,” Diego said quietly. “He will want Sherlock Holmes. We have a mission, remember?”

  I nodded, taking his hand, but I knew in my heart that he was only saying that to keep me from panicking or doing something rash. I kept my eyes on the screen till we were out of sight. We went into the sewer system, and I made sure William was wrapped in his plastic bag tightly and was tucked away in my Hello Kitty backpack - after all, I couldn’t use him to help ward off nightmares if I didn’t have him to sleep with...at least that was what Diego had told me was what he was used for. He had said that he too had a bear when he was a child, and that was what his mother had told him.

 “Stay calm,” Diego had whispered, “If anything goes wrong, run. If you recognize anyone, tap my leg. If you spot a blade, ignore it. If you spot a gun, two taps. If I tell you to run, get the hell out of there.”

  I nodded, holding his hand tighter, fear trembling over and leaving the bumpy effect on my skin that only the cold of Russia had done before. We went past many shabby vendor stalls run by shady looking men with a few women bruised and sobbing curled up on the floor. It makes me shiver and lean more against Diego. He glances at me with a an expression of almost purely pity.We kept walking by the gruesome sights that  went into the very far back. A man with dark skin, covered in scars, upholding a merciless look in the depths of his eyes with a few gold teeth looked up at Diego when we neared the stall that had a bat covered in nails resting on the front table along with an assortment of weapons just like it.  

  “Whatcha need?”

 “I’m here to pick up a delivery for Irene Adler,” Diego said coolly.

  The man nodded, but his frowning face had slowly turned into a menacing grin, “Come with me into the storage room, and I’ll get you what you need.”

  Diego had squeezed my hand and we headed back into the storage room, which was just a concrete alcove with a shower curtain tapped to separate the two areas. The man pulled a knife the second we entered, and lunged towards Diego.

  It was scary, I hadn’t had to fight or do any unit training in two years,and Diego had stayed away from areas with too much violence when he had me by his side; I was bloody terrified. I reached and pulled my blade from my boot. Diego was fighting the man off, using his Kris- a curvy snake like blade- to hold his offender off. I turned and lunged, jumped onto a crate and toward the man, not as fast as I was before through, and the man had turned. My blade severed its way into his eye and the man yelled out in fury, and while he had not taken his bleeding peeper into consideration, took his own blade and slammed it into my shoulder.

 “Puppet!”

  I screamed, let go of my blade and collapsed to the floor, with a death-like grasp on my shoulder. The pain was burning hot, and the blade was still deep inside, almost going right through my right shoulder. The man twisted it, and then the pain was gone, but my shoulder was bleeding through my fingers, and my fingers hurt from the slight cut from the metal. Then the man ripped the blade out of my shoulder. I’d never seen Diego look scary before, he had always seemed like a bunny to me until then. I closed my eyes, but I still heard the thump of the man’s head hitting the floor.

 “ Sestra ?”

  I opened my eyes and met Diego’s frantic ones. He had spoke in a frantic voice, his words  were all coming out all fuzzy. And that was the end of the memory, until now.

  “Puppet, w-we’ve been caught,” Diego says frantically, “Please wake up, I need your help , please Sersta , come on, get up!”

  I look up at him sluggishly, noticing his bloodshot eyes; my ears start to ring from the gunfire in the background. Something cold and metal is pressing into my hands and I notice Diego shoot a few shots of his own. He speaks quickly, switching around from Russian to English as if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it, “I need you to shoot, sestra . If you see anyone coming behind me, shoot them dead.”

    I try to tell him I’m a terrible shot, but it comes out as a faint whimper. He kisses my forehead and runs into the action. I attempt to get a hold of the gun, but it slips from my grasp. The men in bulletproof vests, with military gear on shoot at Diego and some other men I don’t recognize. I grab the gun again and slowly raise it, my hand shakes with the effort and I feel useless. My vision is blurring in and out, my ears ring and I feel too hot and too cold at the same time.

 Until I see a young women dressed in black shoot Diego in the arm. His gun falls from his hand. I raise my gun, and shoot the women in the leg. The impact from the gun hits me in the face and the warm liquid that spills from my nose and the throbbing of a soon to be bruise on my face makes me let go of the gun completely. Diego looks back, and before he can even shout to me, to beg me not to give up, to tell me to run and not look back, to tell me he loves me, whatever he wanted to say to me today, dies with him.

  The four men with Diego lay all the same, bullets in their heads, eyes towards the sky. I remember wanting Daddy to look like that. Not my brat lying dead on the cold concrete. Someone notices me, and I recognize them. He wears a bulletproof vest, a balding head and cold eyes, as well as a dress shirt and pants, the shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and yet he picks me up. I don’t even care anymore, too busy staring at the puddle of blood lying around my brother, my brat’s head. The man calls calmly back to them, and takes a handkerchief from his shirt sleeve, pressing it against my nose. I try and move away, I try to get to Diego, my brother, m-my... The man let’s me go, but I feel his eyes on my back as I take Diego’s Kris from his brace and hold it to my chest. I sluggishly pull the backpack off my back and tuck the weapon inside it. The man comes and takes my bag, and I struggle, legs kicking out my nails digging into his arms. This can’t be happening, just two months ago I had my first Hanukkah with Diego and his Aunt; I can’t be caught now, Daddy is supposed to be going after Sherlock Holmes after all....

  “Don’t..William...please….” I whisper, reaching for my bag. The man walks away, but some of the army men come and grab me, handcuff my hands behind my back and walk me to the back of a police vehicle. I let myself sleep after that, hoping that maybe I would die, just maybe.

Chapter Text

"They messed her up."

 "How so?"

"She's still a child, Moran."

  "And? She knows about Jim, and Mr. Holmes. Surely you understand the danger?"

 "She's still my baby you bastard."

 "You gave her up to daddy-dear a year after she was born, dear."

 "It had to be a year, even her memory can't go that further back than that. She wasn’t allowed to remember much of me."

 "She knows your voice. Children can recognize their mothers voices from when they were babies. She'll take comfort from just the sound of your lovely voice."

 "Screw off."

   I don’t even look at the interrogation crew, I don’t make a sound, even if it hurts bad enough that I want to cry. No, I stay silent. I stay out of motion. I stay an object. I allow the metallic scent of blood to overwhelm and block out the smells of the outside world that the men bring in when they return for the next round. The man who took my bag, I haven't seen him in a month at least, nor have I smelled the lilac scent of his clothes when I was blindfolded and talked to or beaten. The last time I saw him was the day he took my bag, the day that his men killed Diego. The day I stopped caring.

  The therapists who tried to get information from me, who tried to get me to talk for the first week only succeeded in getting an intense stare from me, maybe even a glob of my saliva in their faces if I felt up to it.  

 The doctors who tried to fix my arm, to give me feeling back in my right arm after the blade that twisted in my shoulder had somehow managed to turn off all feeling in my right arm without paralysing it, were failures. In fact, the only thing they succeeded in was making it an ugly purple cover and giving me several more scars and pain that I would remember for ever because they never knocked me out. Something about a concussion, whatever that is.

  I am some kind of medical miracle apparently. Through, I wish one of them would realize that I don't know anything about what happened with Daddy's body or what Diego did for a living, except for the fact that I helped Diego with some of his jobs. I’d be hung, or shot in the head by this point if they just listened to me, and they would be at home relaxing and sipping a piping hot cuppa.

  And so, they are back at it, the hitting and yelling, the dripping sound in the corner of the tap they left on to drive my insanity straight towards the breaking point of my bridge of life.  They notice every flinch I make, every wince, recording it, going over it, even studying it. They were the ones that needed help, not me. They were the ones that needed to be studied.

  The current man who was trying to get information raises a metal pole and hits me directly in the ribs. The breath in my lungs is violently forced from me, and I jerk as if hit by an airbag from the impact. I sob, and jerk in a way that I hope appears threatening. I hear the door open and squint through the blinding white light in an attempt to see who it is. But his voice...his voice gives me all the information I need. "Lay one hand on her again and I will have you shipped to Madagascar in fifty separate pieces."

  I open my eyes as the lights dim from binding to a gentle morning glow, my focus spinning like a coin landing on the same face who came and took me from the warehouse that Diego was killed in, that I wish I had died in. The same man who seemingly changed his mind on how I was being treated.

  "Sir, we were ordered to-"

  "I do not care what your orders are," the man snapped, his umbrella coming to rest at his side, "She is no longer in our majesty's hold."

  "What-"

  "Go, you're dismissed."

  The interrogator gapes at the man for a moment, before jouncing his head and leaving the room with loud, booming steps. The man pauses for a moment, his eyes slowly landing on me like an over-dramatic camera shot; I look back down at the floor, closing my eyes and shuddering as I feel the sudden chill of air movement as he moves. I can hear the metal tip of his umbrella hit the floor with a light tap as he walks over, his shoes squeaking against the cold, white tile.

  "Are you alright?" He asks quietly, tinkling keys by the sound of it. I don't reply, but stare at the shiny black of his expensive shoes, holding back the urge to spit on them. The chains that are holding me up suddenly disappear with a click and I hit the ground, barely smothering a whimper as I catch myself with my hands palm down on the floor.

  "Do you know who I am?" He asks coolly. I push myself shakily to sit on my knees, eyes flickering over his blurry image.

  "M-Mycroft Holmes, Sir."

  "Do you know who you are?"

  "Yes sir."

  "What's your name child?"

 My vision goes black around the edges and I vaguely wonder what happened to the lights.

Someone’s hand grazes my side and I jerk back into consciousness. "Ah, she's awake!"

I don't say anything, silence is my greatest weapon against an enemy after all. He goes to touch me again, but I kick him as hard as I can in what I believe is the general direction of his chest. He falls over onto his back with a yelp, his sausage like fingers clutching his white lab coat. I glare at him and sit up right, my back pressed against the back of the couch. My shoulder is stiff, the recent stab wound seeming to whisper to me about my new weakness as I push myself off the white leather couch which was cool to the touch, and hit the floor with little to no sound.

The man sits up, his eyes flickering over to me as he scoots away, "Mr. Holmes, she's awake."

 I lick my lips, grimacing at the sandpaper like texture. The air smells of some kind of flowery air freshener- like the lilac I smell on  the man who took me from Diego’s final resting place. The whole room has rose wall paper and is so clean I can see my ragged reflection in the windows-dark smudges lay under my eyes, making the blue seem rather dull and gray. My normally glossy black hair is now shining with grease and sweat, and I promise you I didn't resemble a snow man with grape juice spattered on its face before this. This is pathetic compared to the last time I had been interrogated (which was during practice training for if we ever did get held hostage). I looked much better after that, and less like I got hit with a train and then beat with a bat. My shoulder looks as if someone took a cheese grater to it, and I gently trail my fingers over each bump of torn flesh.

 "She is? Joy," Mycroft says, coming to the room in a slow stride and a curved expression on his face.

I look to the old man guiltily, realizing he is a worker of the man who freed me from a mass amount of useless pain, "Sorry, sir."

  He looks surprised, "I thought you said she couldn't speak."

  "I said she wouldn't speak," Mycroft says cooly, "And it would seem I am wrong."  

  I look to my feet, feeling rather empty without Diego by my side. I sniff a bit, stopping myself from making a run for it...or bursting into tears and smashing my head into a wall repeatedly as if I were a bad elf.

  "Mycroft Holmes is a game on his own," Daddy's voice rings in my head , "He is just a hard game. But, a oh so fun one."

  I raise my head as the old man slowly moves back to a standing position, and with a peeved look at Mycroft, leaves the room.The room shakes from the force used against the door, and I feel tempted to point out that the doorframe is now sporting a deep looking crack. I nibble on my lower lip, watching with cautiousness as my footing, as Mycroft turns and walks to the far corner of the room to sit in another pearly white leather chair. The outline of a .42 caliber in his back pocket sends feelings of mistrust through me and I bite down onto my lip to stop any noise from escaping my traitorous mouth.

  "What is your name?" Mycroft asks, crossing his legs and leaning forwards in the chair. I don't have a name, I try and say, but I can't get the words out.

  He frowns after the few seconds of silence, "Do you have a code name?"

"I have a title," I say softly, fidgeting on the couch. It’s not really a title, but Daddy liked to say it was my title given to me by himself.

 "What is your title then?" He asks, leaning back as his expression became neutral.

 "Puppet," I say. The name reminds me of smoke and smells of fear.

  "Puppet," he repeats, "And the man you were with?"

  I ignore him and close my eyes. I don't plan on giving Diego away anytime soon, even if he is dead and will never know it.

 "Puppet," Mycroft says harshly, "The man you were with. What. Was. His. Name."

 "Your mum," I say. Diego loved to use" your mum" as an answer, so I think I will too. Mycroft's eye twitches. Probably not my best idea yet. He looks as if he is about to yell, and I turn away hand fidgeting in my lap. I rub my thumb against one of the more ragged bite scars in an attempt to soothe myself.

  But, he sighs, "Fine. Can you tell me your job and who you worked for?"

  I nibble on my lower lip again, "I'm trained for combat, and am to be a soldier for who ever is the employer for my missions. I will not tell you my employers.”

  Silence fills the room like humidity, "But you failed."

  "No," I say quickly, "I just chose my own target."

  Mycroft leans forwards, leaning over his legs and pressing his elbows into his thighs, "How so?"

  "I rigged Daddy's gun," I say, "I didn't want Sherlock Holmes to die."

  "Why not? And who is your father?" Mycroft says, but I can tell that something I said made him more aware of our conversation.

  "You can play the same mind games as Sherlock Holmes. Tell me," I say, hoping he didn't notice how terrified I was after making that statement. I do not want to see the fury and hatred and maliciousness people produce when their machines talk back. I don’t want to feel the pain of punishment.  I know better, what have I done? I can feel my chest tightening and I try to hold my breath to keep from making too much noise. The scent of lilac grows stronger as Mycroft comes closer.

  Mycroft’s hands are on my shoulders suddenly and I just don’t want to be punished again, it’s been too long I’ll break-oh my god no no no no ....

 “Puppet,” Mycroft is saying quietly, “Calm down and breathe child, you are going to pass out.”

 He’s not yelling. Why isn’t he yelling? I don’t like this game, I don’t like this game at all.  

 “Puppet, calm down. Count to ten, can you count to ten?” He says. I shake my head, I don’t want to play games, I don’t want the scent of his minty breath anywhere near me, I want Diego.

 “Puppet,” He tries again. I can hear the patience in his voice slipping away into frustration. I can feel the grip of his hands grip my shoulders tighter and I don’t want to be punished, I don’t want to feel the flames or the cold or the ripping of my skin in the mouth of a hungry hound.

 “Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry…” I repeat over and over, going stalk still in his grip, keeping my panic and fear tightly bound up in a convulsing box with in my mind.

"What did he do to you?" he says softly, leaning away from me with a pitying expression. His body relaxes but his eyes don’t- he looks ready to lunge, but not in a threatening way.

   I try and hold it in, to keep him from getting what he wants, the power he wants to have over me by knowing me. But, Diego's dead, Ivan probably is too, so what's the point, why hold things in anymore? Daddy's dead, Uncle Seb hasn’t been in the picture since Daddy died, Uncle James hasn't been heard from in years nor has he been around since the day Daddy died. Who cares anymore? Certainly not me. But, I know better. Nothing with Daddy is ever finished until he gets who he wants dead, dead. And Sherlock Holmes is very much alive. So, I stay quiet, shaking as I get my breathing under control and my heart locked behind my ribs gently rather than it smashing itself against it's prison of safety.

"Sorry," I say again after a few moments of silence, coughing slightly and blinking back tears to the front lines of battle.

  Mycroft nods once and reaches down for something behind his chair- my backpack. My bloody glittery, bright pink, Hello Kitty backpack. My eyes sting from the rush of air that hits them after being so incredibly wide open, "That's my backpack."

   "Yes," Mycroft says slowly, "Your weapons have been confiscated, and they are not here in my flat," he adds after I start looking around the room. I want to ask for it. It's my bag after all, Diego gave it to me.

  Mycroft sets the bag on his lap and opens it, keeping his eyes on me. He looks down momentarily and pulls William from the bag, "Who gave you this?"

 "Diego," I say, reaching for the bear. I realize my mistake quickly though and snatch my hand back as through had been burned. Mycroft leans over with William outstretched in his hand. I stare at the polar bear and try to resist my urge to lunge over and yank him from Mycroft's pale hands.

 "Take it," Mycroft says, and I do. The soft silk like fur feels gentle and some other emotion that I can't find words to describe. I hug him to my chest, breathing in the fresh bread scent that came from his fur after all our time in the French Cafes.

 "Does your bear have a name?" Mycroft asks. He reminds me of the American FBI agent I met a year prior. He just wants information from me. I just hug William closer to my chest, pretending as if I don't hear his question.

 "Does the bear have a name?" He repeats. This time I decide to just answer, he did give me William back after all, and to be honest, I still feel like the option of punishment is still resting on the metaphorical table.

 "Yes," I say softly, digging my fingers into William's soft fur.

 "What is he named?" Mycroft asks, putting the Hello Kitty bag to the side of his chair.

 "William, after Sherlock Holmes," I say, smiling at the bear. My smile melts off my face when I realize what I said. I should have been paying attention. I hold William closer to my chest when Mycroft's expression changes from questioning to emotionless.

"What do you know about Sherlock Holmes?" He asks in a monotone voice. It scares me just how quick he changes. Daddy was right,  Mycroft is a game.

 "I don't want to talk anymore," I say quietly, avoiding Mycroft's eye. He seemed to be rather calm before, maybe he's like Diego- Mycroft's hand hits his thigh with a loud smack.

"What do you know about Sherlock Holmes?" He repeats, a little bit of anger seeping into his voice. I feel terror seep into my veins and sink back into the couch. My heart beats faster and my breathing becomes unsteady.

 "I d-d-don't w-want to talk a-anymore," I susurrate, nibbling on my lower lip.

 "Tell me, or I will take the bear back," Mycroft says stiffly. I clutch William tighter to my chest. Daddy's dead, he can't tell me no. Mycroft just wants to know what I know about Sherlock which makes sense, I mean Mycroft is Sherlock's brother-

 "Puppet," Mycroft states, his legs moving uncrossed and he leans real close to my face that I can smell the sharpness of the mint in his breath.

 "I was supposed to kill him," I say softly, "If he got up, or somehow lived the fall, I was to kill him."

 "Did you?" Mycroft asks. I know he already knows the answer. The papers with the headlines about Sherlock holmes and a man named Charles Magnussen appeared less than three weeks ago.

 "No," I say, "I watched him fake his death."

 Mycroft stares at me for a moment before nodding, "I'll take you to the room you're to be staying in for the next couple days."

 "I'm staying here?" I ask, astonished.  

 "I'm sure you don't wish to be back in the cell?" Mycroft asks with a raise of his brow.I shake my head frantically.

"You don't feel safe with me here," I say, "I thought you'd handcuff me to something or other."

 His facial expression relaxes back to a blank one, "No. There are plenty of spare bedrooms, and no need to lock you in handcuffs. There are over twenty armed guards just in the foyer."

 I look towards the door. Twenty just in the foyer?

 "Now, come on," Mycroft says with a slight smirk, "You will need your sleep for tomorrow."

Chapter Text

 "Good to see her nightmares are still occurring. Maybe I'll have another reason to...punish her."

 "You bastard!"

 "Put the gun away dear, it really doesn't suit your 'sweet business women' disguise."

  “I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you if you hurt her again.”

  “Oh darling, why must you hurt me so?”

  “I’ll kill you Sebastian! I’ll kill you!”

 “Why must you repeat the exact words you just told me? You two, escort our lovely guest back to London, thank you.”

 “I’ll get help, S-Sebastian… I...my baby...Eliza…”

 “I’ll keep an eye on her, love. Have a good evening.”

 “Eliza….”

 He’s here. I can feel it. He’s grinning again, knowing in moments I’ll officially be four years old. That in a few moments, I’ll get my birthday present from him. He always loved my birthday. I can hear his ragged breathing and suddenly my memory turns to a nightmare and his hands are around my throat and I can’t breathe-

My throat feels raw as I break into a coughing fit, my eyes adjusting to the dim light pouring into the room from the window. I rub my eyes and feel around for Diego, but he’s not there. i have to learn to remember that he’s not here to protect me anymore. That he’ll never protect me again. I sniff a bit and search for William instead, finding the polar bear trapped within the confines of the covers.

There’s a light tap on the door that repeats three times and I look up as it opens, “I was told you screamed.”

 “Sorry,” I say softly as Mycroft steps into the room, clearly dressed for the day in a suit.

 “Nightmare?” Mycroft asks but I can't tell if he cares or merely is keeping conversatio n .

“Yes,” I say and look back to William, “Are you angry with me?”

“Why would I be angry with you?” Mycroft asks, leaning against the doorway with all the casualness of a hamster. Actually, more like a rat; his pointed nose and small eyes remind me more of a cunning rat than a chubby hamster .

“I was supposed to kill your brother,” I say quietly, “You didn’t seem to be too friendly after I told you William’s name.”

“You didn’t kill him,” Mycroft says and focuses his attention on the door, “That is why you are here. I found out from...a source, that you were to kill him, but you didn’t and that is why you have been removed from terrorist watch as well.”

 “What’s a terrorist?” I ask, tilting my head to the side a little.

 “A terrorist is exactly what it sounds like- someone who wants to strike terror within a mass of people,” Mycroft explains.

  I feel as if he just told me that I am a glow in the dark rabbit, “I don’t mean to scare people. Do I really scare people?”

 “You carried a thirty-two centimeter long blade with you, “Mycroft says with a small smile, “Scary is an understatement.”

 I nod a little bit, “I can see why that would be a little bit terrorizing.”

 “Now,” Mycroft says after a moment, “It’s time to make you a little more normal. Prison rags don’t look too good on you.”

=

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 After a good hour long explanation to Mycroft that I had normal clothes in my backpack, he finally gave the bag to me and told me to get dressed. I can’t explain the feeling of taking my red rubber boots and putting them back on my feet, but it felt like the sun started to sing. Which was quite ironic with it being mid-January and the ground is covered in snow and the sky is the color of a muggy steel. One of the few dresses Diego had gotten me (and that I hadn’t accidentally destroyed) felt more comfortable than the white t-shirt and white cotton pants. While the yellow and pink flower dress was the least destroyed of the three I had left, it still had a few tears and blood stains on it. Still, I had my rubber boots and William. The only thing I am missing was my blade, which Mycroft still had confiscated, so it seems I won’t be getting that back anytime soon.

 “Puppet,” Mycroft’s voice rings out from downstairs, “We’re going to be late.”

 “Sorry, sir,” I call back. I grab William and my backpack and go down stairs as quick as I can without running. Mycroft is standing patiently in the foyer, deep irish green umbrella at his side.

 "Sorry," I say again. I tuck William under my arm when the men in the hallway come over with the silver cuffs. I hate those cuffs, they cut up my wrists and leave a metallic smell on my hands that made me sick.

  "No need to cuff her, thank you," Mycroft says coolly. The men nod and go back to their positions. No need to cuff me? Maybe they don't know as much about me as I think they do, after all, who in their right mind would let someone like me walk free?

 "Come, Puppet," Mycroft says, holding out his free hand towards me. I stare at it. Did he want William? I hug William to my chest and look up at Mycroft, in hopes that my expression would allow him to understand that I'd rather jump into a pool of water than give him my bear .

  He frowns for a second, but his face turns blank again, "Hold my hand."

  I slowly reach my hand towards his and clasp my smaller hand around his larger one. He smiles slightly, "Now, off to work. I don't wish to leave you alone, so I'll be taking you with me."

 Work? What do normal people do at work? I'm sure my version of work is different than Mycroft's, seeing as he's a person and works with the government. The prospect of seeing what Mycroft does when he works sparks something I try to hide normally within me and I gladly walk with him into the black car with its tinted windows.

 Work isn't what I'd thought it would be. I thought there'd be a little more action, but really work is boring-Mycroft sits there, reading and writing on a stack of papers, once and awhile stapling a few together. He looks up once and awhile and looks at me, but then he is back to the writing and reading and stapling. But, there is also a piano in Mycroft's office. I want to play it, to feel the cool keys under my fingertips once again. Back when Diego was alive, he visited his Aunt Joanna in the winter when the jobs came in less, and that is where I learned how to play the large music box.

 "I am known for my sacracy of the winter," Diego had told me proudly. Aunt Johanna had laughed and agreed with him. She said something in Russian that I didn't understand and winked at Diego. He smirked and spoke to me in English, "She wants me to teach you to play the piano." I believe him; from what I’ve been told about Aunt Johanna, she was the spunkiest woman Diego had ever known. According to him, she can juggle, sing opera and Irish folk dance all at the same time. I’ve only known kindness from the woman myself. She allowed me to bake cookies with her, to practice hair-braiding on her dark soil-brown hair, and to practice my eye reading my looking into the depths of her sea blue eyes. She’s also the woman that I stayed with when Diego did have to go on those missions he felt were unsafe for me.

Diego led me over to the piano bench and motioned for me to sit down beside him. He had showed me how to play a simple melody, something he said he heard at a wedding a few years ago. We worked on the melody all evening.

 The fancy to play again beats at my fingertips like hand on a cheek. I need to play again, to hear the beloved tune that rang in my ears when I felt lonely. But, I know better. I like Mycroft, yes he has earned that much from me. But, the rules in the real world are always changing and I don't want to risk asking for anything and causing myself to get punished for it. Instead I sit down on the dark brown rug and hug William to my chest. Mycroft works on some paper work, making a light scratching sound with the ballpoint pen he holds in his hand. I play the melody using my knee as the piano, humming the tune gently to myself. Mycroft looks up once watching me through a blank expression. He opens a drawer and pulls out another pen and paper. I watch him as he gets up and crouches down beside me.

 "Something my brother liked to do as a child was draw," He says gently. He puts the paper down in front of me and hands me the blue ballpoint pen.

 "How do you draw?" I ask. I have never done this "draw" thing, and I feel like I should know to do it. By the sound it, Mycroft thinks the same.

 "You use the pen and...draw. You put pictures on paper."

 I nibble on my lower lip, "May I ask you a question, sir?"

 "Yes, you don't need to ask to ask questions," Mycroft says. He sits down onto his bottom and smiles slightly, “Ask away.”

 “What did your brother draw as a child?” I ask nervously. I’ve never been able to just ask questions when I wanted to, even with Diego. He most of the time knew what I wanted to ask. He said that I was easy to read.

  “Pirates,” Mycroft answers, “But, what would you like to draw?”

He’s playing a game with me. Obvious, does he think I’m really so gullible to give away information about myself that could get me in trouble? I won’t fall for anyone else's game like I fell for Daddy’s. I can play this game too.

 “I think I’ll draw William,” I say and begin to attempt and draw my stuffed polar bear. I can see him frown from the corner of my eye. Point one goes to me.

 “Well,” He says after a moment, “We’ll be leaving here in just a few moments. I have to drop some things off with my brother and then I guess we’ll be off to the orphanage.”

 I look up at orphanage, “Sir, why are we going to an orphanage?” Orphanages are where most of the Unit’s members come from. Over the years as I climbed ranks in the CAN, I watched children come into units fifteen and fourteen with no experience in field. I haven't thought about the CAN in a long time…or about the scars along every inch of my skin, or the dogs or my unit, my friends...oh, Kitty,Mouse,Ivan ….

 “Well, at first I thought you might be above average,” Mycroft says nonchalantly, “But it seems you are just a normal child so there is no point in keeping an eye on you anymore.”

 I feel a lump form in my throat. Sending me to an orphanage would result in my death or re admittance to the CAN. Both were just as bad as the other- Daddy a mean man and the CAN run by him, with the harsh training regime and the lack of supplies or the food rations that could barely feed a small dog…. No way am I going back there, I’m the killer of Jim Moriarty. I caused his death, I ruined the CAN’s strongest sponsorship. I killed Jim Moriarty, I caused his death, I killed him. I killed Jim Moriarty .

 “I killed Jim Moriarty,” I whisper, letting the pen fall out of my hand, “I killed Jim Moriarty.”

 Mycroft’s facial expression goes blank and his voice falls into a dull monotone, “You killed Jim Moriarty?”

 “I switched his gun out.” I breath. I hadn’t really thought back to Daddy’s death since the day Sherlock jumped off the roof. But, I had really killed a man. Ivan would as shocked as a man leaving the electric chair  to see how I changed from the Assassin who never killed to the assassin who killed her own father. And then told Mycroft Holmes that she did it.

Chapter Text

"Ah, you're awake."

"Where am I?"

 "You don't even know who I am, but alas you ask where you are?"

 "Where am I?"

"Paris, France."

"Can you do something for me?"

"What-"

 "Tell Moran this- Vatican Cameos."

"M-Madame...ack.."

 "Au reviour, homme stupide! J'arrive, Eliza."

 I hold William as close as I can to my chest, my fingertips digging into his cotton stuffed body but not quite tearing it as Mycroft’s men had already cut my nails short. Mycroft’s face remains blank, but I can see it in his eyes that he’s making a decision. I wish he isn’t this good at hiding what he is thinking, but I haven't been punished yet, and I’m rather scared to be, especially by Mycroft Holmes. Diego never punished me, but he was the only one that had never punished me before. Even Ivan punished me when he saw fit. But, Daddy and Ivan's  punishments were not alike at all. Ivan would make me do push-ups or run laps around the track. Daddy would do much worse. I don’t like to talk about what Daddy did, or the smell of wet dog and blood tinting the chamber of punishment…

 “You killed Moriarty?” Mycroft asks, but it’s clear he already knows the answer.

“Yes, sir,” I whisper, looking up at him carefully. He doesn’t seem mad, so I let my guard fall a little bit- I can’t see any anger in his eyes after all, but this could also be part of his emotionless act.

   He moves to his desk, “Do you know who put the image of Moriarty saying ‘Miss me?’ on the screens last week?” I shake my head, better to be honest when we’re on the topic of Daddy. Mycroft types something on his phone, “Do you think the person who did put that on the screens will go after anyone?”

 I think on that. Sherlock, yes of course they would that message was meant for him. But the doctor, DI or the old women? No, not them, well maybe the doctor, but not the other two. Me? It depends on if they know I killed Daddy.

“No,” I say, fidgeting, “Maybe Sherlock, but maybe not. Depends on who it is.”

 “Thank you,” Mycroft says and I nod, a little surprised by his thanks. He raises his phone to his ear, “Anthea, call Dr. Watson and notify him of Puppet. She’ll be needing a check-up and I would rather bring in a more trusted doctor.”

 The way he says ‘trusted’ makes me a tad bit nervous. Why would he need to bring in a doctor in the first place? I can’t help but look to my shoulder. It doesn’t hurt. I can’t feel my right arm from the shoulder down anymore, but the pain still comes once in awhile as if it’s a phantom just waiting until I’m not paying attention.

 “Yes, as soon as possible. Send someone to pick him up as well, thank you,” Mycroft says in a rather posh tone. His nails tap against the desk top, his phone rests in the palm of his hand, but his gaze is focused on the wall across from him.

 “Did you have a name before you were given your title?” Mycroft asks, looking over to me once again. I have to search back though my oldest memories for a moment.

 “Yes...I don’t really like it,” I say truthfully. When Daddy’s least favorite employee came to the CAN base, she would call me Eliza. It makes me uncomfortable when she calls me that, as if she were scratching her nails on a chalkboard or decapitating puppies.

 Mycroft’s lips move into a thin line, “I’d rather not call you Puppet.”

 “Sorry,” I say.

My top teeth begin to resume their nibbling of my bottom lip. Mycroft glances at his phone just as it buzzes on the table. He picks it up, “Greetings, Dr. Watson.”

 He frowns after a moment, “I’ll have Sherlock pick her up. No, it can’t wait, the infection will set in soon, she’s already looking rather pale.” Infection? What infection is he talking about? “Please do, she’s a worrisome child. Six, yes, that’s what her estimated age is, but without a birth certificate, I’m not sure.” Birth certificate? What’s a birth certificate? I swallow back all my questions as Mycroft continues to speak. “My office is just as suitable, Athea is bringing supplies as we speak.” He hangs up, and watches me for a moment.

 “You know who Dr. Watson is correct?” he asks.

 “Yes sir,” I say, shifting uneasily.

 “So you understand that if he were to get hurt while caring for you, we would have a problem, yes?”

 I nod slowly and hug William closer to my chest, nervousness rumbling in my chest and the faint scent of blood making my eyes water. My guard is placed once again, and I'm ready for anything thrown at me. Literally.

A couple of calls and drawings more, a short man with dirty blonde hair and a grimace on his face stomps in.

“Mycroft, what the bloody hell are you doing calling me down here for? Mary and I were in the middle of something! What’s so important that we had to postpone a baby shower? Do you know how hard it is to deal with Mary when she’s pregnant and pissed? And leaving her and Sherlock, Sherlock of all people, to watch over Melody? You know how hard it is for him to watch over her without stressing Mary out after the bloody OD on the plane! And it was hell just trying to convince Sherlock to let me go over here without him coming with! What am I thinking, of course you probably don’t even care! Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here you blubbering walrus!”

“If anything, you’re the hormonal one,” Mycroft rebutts , and even through I don’t know what hormonal means, I smile a little. Mycroft is actually pretty funny.

“And since you asked, the ‘more important than a baby shower’ thing is sitting right there” Mycroft says, gesturing in my direction. I feel a bit bad. Disturbing a baby shower, whatever it was, seemed like a big deal, seeing Dr. Watson’s reaction.

“Sorry,” I say, and he glares at Mycroft with the look of a bitter hedgehog. His shoes squeak against the clean tile floors as he walks over. His expression changes to one of gentleness. His voice sounds more calm and sweet like honey, much better than the furious voice of a soldier that he had used before.

    “No, no. I’m sorry. I’ve been pretty stressed with all this pregnancy business,” he says, smiling, and he moves his hand over to my shoulder. As a reflex, I cringe and hit his hand away. His smile falters and he looks over to Mycroft, worry written over his face. I realize my mistake, an accident really, but a mistake nonetheless.  Mycroft lifts an eyebrow at me, and jerks his head towards the gun now resting on his desk. The lack of red showing by the barrel makes me flinch and turn my eyes back to the man standing in front of me.

“Sorry, sir,” I whisper to Dr.Watson and look down at the floor. He finishes the gesture and places his hand on my left shoulder. I look back up at him and he’s smiling softly and I feel as if I’m with Diego again, safe and happy. I finally break and start sobbing and he pulls me in for a hug. The tears run down my face and I struggle to get away. Do not touch the subject , rings in my ears like the whistle of the kettle. This is against every code in the book, every rule that I ever learned. And yet I sink deeper into the hug, the warmth of the hug engulfing and comforting. Finally, the sobs end and John stops hugging me. He wipes away the tears with his thumb and places me onto the couch, his left hand lingering on my shoulder and a smile, a worried and gentle one,  on his face. I see a pretty petite dark haired women come in and place a box next to where Dr. Watson and I are seated, and afterwards leaves rather quickly, but not without a pleading look to Mycroft.

“Let’s get you looked at, yeah? I assume that’s what Mycroft wanted me here for,” he says, glancing at the mentioned Holmes brother, who nods curtly in response. Mycroft gets up and leaves the room, the gun he had last night in hand. He tucks it into his back pocket- a warning for me- and closes the door behind him. I hear the door click as the lock is turned.

“So what’s wrong, love?” he asks, looking for any signs of injury. Of course, he couldn’t see that my right shoulder’s wound since I was wearing my long sleeved dress, or the cut on my hand because I was holding William, though neither bother me much.  Could he see the bruise left on my face from the butt of handgun I had failed to use on my face, or had it faded in the last few days? The men that had struck me for information didn’t ever aim for my face or neck. Funny. Had they done that, I may have given in.

  Dr. Watson seems to grow more worried when I don’t respond and puts the back of his hand to my forehead. I flinch back, squirming to back away from him a bit. He may be acting kind now, but that could easily change.

 “Fever,” he says with a sigh, “Mycroft did say something about infections. Hopefully it’s just a cold.”

  I can’t help but wonder what Dr. Watson is talking about, and after a moment of considering, I decide to take a chance, “What’s a fever, sir?”

  Dr. Watson looks over with a rather bemused expression, “It means your body is becoming over heated in an attempt to kill the virus in your system.”

 What? What is that even supposed to mean? Viruses were found in computers, not machines. Machines get glitches. This man is a rubbish doctor. But, I say nothing, choosing silence over my words. Dr. Watson asks me to open my mouth and say ‘ah’. I do so easily, but when he decides ‘hey, let's stick a popsicle stick down her throat’ and tries to put the bloody stick in my mouth, I swat it away. The stick falls to the floor with a clack . Dr. Watson stares at the stick with a look of surprise on his face.

 “Keep away from my face,” I snarl before I can stop myself. The second the words fall from my mouth, I cover my mouth with my hands. Dr. Watson looks rather surprised by my reaction, but the look in his eyes reminds me of Ivan whenever I had to change into my stealth suit and he’d see all the bruises and cuts down my back from my punishments.

 “Right,” Dr. Watson says after a moment, “I’ll ask you some questions then instead, yeah?”

  I study his reaction for a moment, then slowly nod. He smiles gently, “Right. is your throat sore?”

 “No,” I answer carefully. Dr. Watson frowns.

 “Are your ears hurting?”

 “No.”

 “Stomach?”

 “No.”

 “What about-”

   Something finally clicked in my head. Mycroft meant my injuries, they are probably infected. But, Diego took care of me after I got stabbed, he made sure it was kept clean…

“I got stabbed,” I try, hesitantly looking up at Dr. Watson. Dr. Watson just stares at me blankly and I shift on the couch. Was I not supposed to tell him that? I can’t tell what I did wrong but I can absolutely see the shock and slowly forming anger in his blue eyes.

 “You got stabbed?” Dr. Watson repeats, his expression one that reminded me of Hamsters. I bite my lip to stop from making a fearful and slightly confused whimper.

 “Yes, sir.”

 “Where?” Is all Dr. Watson responds with. I point to my right shoulder with my left hand. Dr. Watson mumbles something under his breathe, “I’m going to have to get a look at it, alright?”

 I nod, and slip my right arm out of my dress sleeve, unbutton the first two buttons with my left hand and slip my arm out. I still find it queer that I can’t feel anything but pressure in my arm. Dr. Watson curses and rubs his hands quickly over his face. I’ve made him mad, I think.

 “Sorry?” I try, looking between my shoulder and Dr. Watson.

 “Why do you keep apologizing?” Dr. Watson mumbles, his gaze flickering between my face and shoulder.

 “I made you mad?” I ask with a lack of sureness. Dr. Watson was the subject after all, we were not allowed to watch him. He was a soldier, he’d know if we were watching him too closely. And so, his reactions to things were not stored away in my memory, but rather an open file ready to be filled with information. I have no idea if he’s angry with me or if he’s sad.

 “Not at all,” He says, “Just sickens me to see someone do that to a child.”

Sad then it would seem. Also, there it is again, ‘child’ . Odd that Dr. Watson and Mycroft both called me that. But, they are tools, pawns in the great game. They will never understand what I am.

 “This may sting,” Dr. Watson says slowly. I tilt my head to the side, watching as he starts to clean the knife wound with a little cotton ball.

  There was little to no pressure being put on it and I finally sigh, “Dr.Watson, sir, I lost feeling in that arm after the man who gave it to me decided to twist the blade.”

 Dr. Watson’s jaw drops as if he were just a skull that was suddenly beat by a bat. I look away from his eyes as they harden. I really should just shut up. Dr. Watson says nothing after that, but from the posture of his shoulders and the flare of his nostrils, it was child’s play to figure out why he was mad. I decide to just answer questions with my head rather than my voice.

 At one point, while he cleans the stab wound on my shoulder, I feel a spark of pain, much like if I put pressure on a paper cut. I can’t help but flinch away from him. Dr. Watson looks up, studying me with dark blue eyes, “You said you lost feeling in your arm.”

 “I did,” I say, then remember my decision and fall silent again. Stupid, stupid!

He frowns, and dabs at my shoulder again with the alcohol wipe, “Did you feel that?”

 I shake my head no. He goes back to work on my shoulder. I don’t feel the pain again.

Chapter Text

Over all, it takes Dr. Watson no more than fifteen minutes to clean and bandage my shoulder. It only takes another two for him to notice the cut on my hand and three more to bandage that. As we wait for Mycroft, he talks to me rather nicely, asking me all sorts of questions. At first, I didn’t really understand the point of him asking things like my favorite color, or favorite animal. But, I answered them none the less- white and rabbits.

 “Why white?” Dr. Watson asks after I answer. I nibble on my lower lip.

 “It’s the color of Siberian snow,” I say after a moment. He repeats it, Siberian snow , and smiles.

 “That’s a unique answer. What about the rabbit?”

 “The rabbit because of Bluebell,” I say before I can stop myself, excitement sparking through me like a firework, , “I studied that case all-”

  Dr. Watson is as pale as- ironically- Siberian snow. I bit down on my tongue hard just as the office door opens and the metalic taste of pennies fills my mouth along with stinging coming from the attacked muscle. Mycroft comes in looking rather smug, “Thank you dearly , John.”

 Dr. Watson looks back to Mycroft and says in a surprised tone, “How does she know about the rabbit?”

  I say nothing, too busy looking for an escape in the room. Mycroft’s office is a basement, and suddenly an overwhelming feeling that the walls are closing in on me makes me whimper slightly.

 “She knows more than we thought she did,” Mycroft says, “Thank you for pointing that out. It’s rather obvious.”

 “What are you bloody well going on about?” Dr. Watson snaps, “She’s a child!”

 “Why do you keep calling me that?” I ask quietly. What’s the point, the walls are going to crush us till blood oozes out of our bodies and our bones become mushy like apple sauce anyway.

 “Calling you what?” Dr. Watson asks, looking over with an expression of confusion.

 “A child. I’m not a child,” I say a bit louder. The walls are less than a meter from hitting our backs.

  “You’re not a child,” Dr. Watson repeats, an expression of uttermost incertitude falling over his features.

 “I’m a machine, not a child, “ I explain. I can feel my lungs starting to struggle for air as the walls cover the only two vents in the room. Fifty centimeters till the walls hit our backs. Dr. Watson’s face makes me worry. Perhaps he noticed the walls gaining speed.

Twenty centimeters.

 “You see yourself as a machine,” Mycroft says before Dr. Watson can say anything.

 The walls hit my back any my vision starts to go fuzzy. Dr. Watson suddenly turns blurry and the world sways vertically. My chest hurts- it's burning and the pain is piercing.

  "Puppet?" Dr. Watson questions. I see William fall to the floor, like a giant snowflake.

  "Can't you see the walls?" My words sound drunken, "We're all going to die."

  Dr. Watson shouts something to Mycroft and I can't help but giggle, "Dr. Watson, Mycroft doesn't know anything about that, you silly goose."

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  "Claustrophobia. Mycroft, why the hell did she have a bloody knife wound in her shoulder?”

 “I think the more proper question is why she thinks she’s a machine.”

 “Shut up, Sherlock, we can wait on that. She’s a six year old who has an infected wound in her damn shoulder!”

 “John.”

 “Sorry.”

 “She’s obviously been in an unstable environment most of her life, but from her knowing about Bluebell could have easily come from your blog.”  

 “I highly doubt she can read.”

 “I agree.”

  I roll on my side and slowly blink open my eyes. I’m back in the same pristine living room I woke up in yesterday morning, even Mycroft’s cuppa is still on the side table by his chair.

 “Puppet?” Dr. Watson stands up and puts a hand on my head. I flinch back and he sighs, “Right, sorry. I was just checking to see if you had a still had a fever.”

 I ignore him, keeping my eyes trained on the ebony haired man who stood next to an empty chair, the man I watched jump off a building two years ago. The man Daddy loved so much, he was willing to blow up the moon to have him, “Sherlock Holmes?”

 Sherlock takes two strides and crouches down to where I lay, “Yes.”

 “I named my bear after you,” I say. Speaking of which, where’s William? “Where is he?”
  Mycroft reaches down beside his chair and tosses William to me. I catch him with my left hand and crush him against my chest. Sherlock stares at William.

 “You named your stuffed polar bear after me.”

 I stop talking instantly. Sherlock Holmes was the one I had to worry about. He would be able to tell what I was thinking right away. Mycroft smiles, “I told you, brother dear.”

 Sherlock glares at me with such disdain in his eyes that make me wish the walls had squished me, and also makes me wish I knew how he switched from an emotionless, if not curious to a look of such hatred so quickly. I wonder how Dr.Watson and Mycroft managed to get us out of there, but I’ll ask another time, when Sherlock Holmes isn’t sitting in front of me.

 “How long will I be stuck with her?”

 “Until she tells us where the bodies are,” Mycroft says cooly. Bodies, right the bodies I lied about. I just didn’t want them to find more on Diego, so I distracted them with the ‘only I knew where one hundred bodies of men I’ve killed’ lie. I’m starting to regret that now. Sherlock huffs, “Why can’t you just let Interrogation take care of her?”

 “Sherlock!” John gapes. I nibble on my lip- Sherlock’s got a good point.

 “She isn’t responsive to interrogation,” Mycroft says. His expression is blank, but his hands are clenched at his sides, “Don’t think I want to leave her with you, but I have no other choice, brother dear. You do owe her majesty after all.”

Sherlock falls silent at that, but he’s still fuming. John frowns in Mycroft’s direction. And I can’t help but wonder what Sherlock did wrong to piss off the Queen. And why is Mycroft doing things for me? He didn't need to take me out of the interrogation, or let Dr. Watson bandage up my shoulder, or force Sherlock to 'be stuck with' me.

 "Why is Sherlock stuck with me?" I mumble, "You could just kill me and get it over with."

 Mycroft says nothing, but his eyes are actually wide, and his mouth open as whatever he was going to say cut off abruptly. John looks like he's going to cry, his warm eyes growing glossy. Sherlock stares blankly, through he seems to be shocked from his lack of communication. I frown slightly; did I do something wrong?

 "Sorry?" I try, looking between the three men. John lunges towards me unexpectedly, grabbing me and squishing me against his chest. I try and get away; he’s going to suffocate me with his wooly jumper!

 Mycroft coughs slightly and John lets me go, “Nothing to apologize for, Puppet. You merely surprised us is all. Sherlock?”

 “No,” Sherlock says after a moment longer of staring at me, “There is no room for her at Baker Street, and no time for a child.”

 “Sherlock-” John growls, but Mycroft interrupts him, “Brother dear, you killed people too.”

 John whips his head around to Mycroft clearly furious at the older man’s words. I don’t care though, my thoughts focused on the more important thing on hand is that Sherlock too knows I killed someone from what Mycroft is suggesting. Sherlock Holmes is distracting at the least, a mystery that Daddy couldn’t solve, because I killed him first. He is a world of interest, Sherlock Holmes is.

Chapter Text

"How much further?"

"Little over two hours away. Why are you so frantic ?"

"Eliza, you've seen Eliza."

"Well, yes, I saw her when she was with Diego still, Christmas time."

"What year?"

"You know I don't know anymore."

"Johanna, my baby is out there, I won't stop till I know she's safe.

   Mycroft calls my name, his voice ringing through the flat like an icy metronome. I sit up and rub my eyes a little bit, blinking a few times as my eyes adjust to the sunlight pouring through the window in gentle waves. Right, I'm going to be going to Baker Street today. The thought sends  a shiver of fear down my spine, creating ripples in my damaged shield around all that I know, around my world. My world that is a small thought around a hundred thousand others.

  I shove the blankets aside, and pull them back up to military standard. A messy room makes a messy mind , Ivan had told me when I had received my general rank and the room that came with it. He showed me military standard bed makings, ways to keep dust from gathering in my  room. I really don't have to do that anymore- I didn't have to in the soldier dorms- but it doesn't feel right to just drop it, to let the room grow to be a mess. So, I keep the room I sleep in unblemished.

  Mycroft calls again as I'm pulling on my rubber boots. I grab William and shove him into my Hello Kitty backpack. I make my way down the stairs with light feet, hopping from the second to last down onto the main floor. Mycroft is sitting on the white couch with a cup of tea in hand, and a newspaper in the other. He places the cup on its matching cream plate.

  "Do I need to explain the rules to you, or not?" Mycroft says cooly.

   "No, sir, you do not," I reply, sitting down on the white, posh Persian rug. Mycroft doesn't look away, but rather watches me with a look in his eyes that makes me rather nervous. And then, Mycroft Holmes smiles .

 "Up you go, Puppet dear," He practically purrs, the look in his eyes so menacing I can't help but scramble to my feet. My heart pounds- thump, thump, thump - my feet tingle with the urging prickle screaming for me to run. Mycroft yanks the sharp obsidian hand gun with swift motion from his back pocket. My feet are glued to the spot, my hands limp and unresponsive at my sides. All I can do is watch as he raises that gun, that malicious murdering tool in between my eyes. Mycroft’s head tilts slowly to the side and he smiles.

 “Did you really think I would die so easily?”

Bubbles boil up from his skin, his face melts, leaving Daddy's skinless, meaty face with bone white teeth. His grin reminds me of the reaper, gleaming with death oozing from his sharp canine teeth. My legs run on their own accord, taking me down several hallways that seem to never end, Daddy's voice cackling sharply from behind me. I turn and yank open a door, panic settling in once I see the dark nothingness it leads to. I turn to run again, but a dark, ripped suit blocks my path. Daddy smiles, and reaches forwards, hands wrapping around my throat-

  Bam !

  -my vision goes blurry, the lack of oxygen and the force being used to press me to the wall sending a horse race of panic through me.

  "P-please," I whisper hoarsely. He merely laughs, head thrown back in gloating madness.

"Puppet- Dr. Watson, some assistance is needed!"

 Daddy presses his pinky finger to the tip of my nose, his icey lifelessness touch forcing an unwarranted scream from the back of my throat.

"Hold her down, there, yes. Puppet, come on, it's just a dream."

 Soothing voices, calmly pulling Daddy away. He hisses, fighting back.  

 "Jesus, Mycroft hold her down!"

The voices manage to pull him far enough away that I can breathe for a moment, through my body is still shuttering in an attempt to dislodge the frantic beat of my chest to a normal even tempo.

 "Puppet, come on love."

  Soft footsteps make their way down the castle halls, the entity making their soft steps seem like a gentle breeze. I look up, not sure who I was expecting for a moment.

 " Open my eyes ," Comes the soft feminine voice, naturally the only thing my castle guards could come up with to soothe my panicked mind. The voice keeps singing its little song, a motherly tone sinking through. The golden light appears down the hall, faceless, nameless, shapeless, but not voiceless. " And told me the truth. He said just a little faith it will all get better ." (1)

My eyes snap open. Breathing in harsh pants, my lungs howl with panic, and fear, calmness far from its reach. My eyes flicker back and forth, regaining their attachment to my mind, matching people with names.

  Dr. Watson is smiling at me, his smile gentle, but there is a hardness behind his eyes, but seemingly it's not towards me. Mycroft is pacing in front of the door in the wrinkled clothes he was wearing before I went to sleep and that's when I realize I'm in the room I've been sleeping in for the last few days.

 "Sorry," I manage, sitting up and scooting away from the doctor. His face pulls into a frown, head tilting slightly, asking the silent question before he can actually ask it out loud. I answer him just as he opens his mouth, “For making a racket.”

  He frowns deeply, his brows scrunching up, “You were having a nightmare.”

 I nod, not too sure on how to respond. Dr. Watson sighs, his hands rub against his face for a moment before they drop to his sides again.

 “Puppet,” Mycroft says suddenly, his feet drawing to a halt, “What were you dreaming about?”

 I bite my lip, and merely stare at him. He doesn’t seem amused. Actually, he doesn’t seem anything, his face is entirely blank. I shift slightly,nibbling lightly on my lower lip. Mycroft’s eyes linger, before he struts over to the bedside. I jump slightly, and try to push myself further into the bed’s headboard.

 “Six different scars, two from training, the other four from different jobs you’ve had to do for your boss. You’re untrusting, yet you allow Dr. Watson to mollycoddle you. You refuse to be touched near your face, in fact it stirs a reflex you don’t like-for lack of better word, growling. And yet, you know you could escape, that you could kill every man in this building and then disappear, yet you don’t. So, why, Puppet, do you cringe at every little exploit to your personality just as you are now?”

  My fingers twitch on my knees, and my teeth start to chatter slightly. Mycroft looks blank, after he stated pure and utter facts about me in less than a minute. John is frowning, his jaw clamped shut tight, his eyes burning with emotions I can’t recognize.

 “Order forty-three,” I say slowly after a moment, “CAN’s generals, captains and soldiers are to be terminated if they differentiate from their fellow rank members.”

 Mycroft looks smug, and leaves the room, beckoning Dr. Watson to follow. Pity is glowing in the good doctor's eyes as he closes the door behind him. The door clicks shut.

Chapter Text

"Welcome back to London."

"It's been awhile."

"Still tired? That yawn almost scared me."

"A bit. Where are we?"

"Tourist attraction booth. I thought it would help your cover up."

"Thanks again Johanna."

"Anything to help, Chris."

A few hours later, Mycroft returns to the room, umbrella in hand. I haven't left, trapped within my own mind, to far from reality to make a run for it. He doesn’t say much, really he only gives me a mere look, “Dr. Watson says you should be fine.” He’s lying, the back of his eyes sparks with the false words. I frown, but listen as he continues on, “I don’t have time to take care of a child, not even one as important as you.” That surprises me and I blink a few times. How am I important?

 “The CAN has been undercover for years,” He continues. So that’s what this is about. “And if you are the only known member to survive after an assassination of a major leader, then perhaps you are just a petty tool in the CAN’s game.”

  The thought sends violent shivers down my spine, “No one but the CAN knows about the CAN,” I say softly.

 Mycroft gives off this thin smile, “I, and a few others know now. Only those who will be watching out for my younger brother.”

 I nibble on my lower lip softly, “You’re a scary man.”

 “Moriarty is a more fearful one,” He replies, “I do not have time for this. He taps his umbrella twice on the floor and two men walk in, both beefy with dark soulless eyes. I back up again, hitting the end of the bed. Mycroft smiles, “My brother was easy to convince, Puppet dear. All it took was a little initiative.”

   “Convince? What- what for?” I sputter as the men bother pick me up under my arms. “Hey! Let go of me!”

  “Puppet, you are to be under house arrest, with my brother,” Mycroft says, that smile becoming more evil and pronounced. Falseness; evil hidden in the depths of his eyes sends me into a spurt of panic. I swing my legs, turning myself in both mens arms, but it’s no use, their inhuman grip merely making my position more uncomfortable than before. Mycroft chuckles softly, and leads the way out of the room.

 “Wait!” I beg. William was still on the bed, lost and alone, “Please, the bear-”

 Mycroft pauses, then turns back to me, “The bear had a sealed package of  benzoylmethylecgonine within it, and has to be removed from the premises.” He turns and keeps walking. I give up my struggle, and let my head hang low. This world isn’t better than the one I had wanted to get far away from before, and I’m too far within it to go back where I started.

Mycroft leads them out to a taxi, where both men get in. He smiles sharply as he pulls a leather-bound notebook out from his coat pocket with a black pen and hands it to me. I give him a look that doesn’t take much effort for me considering as it is exactly what I’m feeling at the moment. His eyes are endless with falsified emotions, emotions that took years upon years of practice to comprehend. Maybe one day I’ll be able to see more than what he shows. He closes the door with a that same snarky smile and the taxi starts to move. Neither of the men let go of me.

 “What are you doing here? Get OUT!”

  I jerk slightly, my head hitting the wall- wait wall? Blinking a little more, I see Sherlock bloody Holmes standing above me with the most loathing face I’ve ever seen on a man.

  “I-I don't know,” I manage, “I was being taken somewhere and now I'm here..?”

  He looks furious, but reaches down and grabs my arm, harshly yanking me to my feet. The leather bound notebook and black pen fall to the floor my feet. The note that slips out falls under my feet as I'm practically dragged away from the door of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock slams me against the wall, my feet don't even touch the ground but the pain in the back of my head from the hit makes me see white for a moment.

  Sherlock looks furious, and then his mouth curves up, and he drops me to the floor, “Get out.”

  His eyes seem to sparkle with something, a lost look. He reminds me of the little boy who believed in magic that Diego told me about, Peter Pan.

 “You're lost,” I say quietly, “I am too.”

Sherlock turns in such a quick fashion, I'm surprised he isn't cringing from whiplash.

 “I'm not lost, but clearly you are. Go home,” He snarls, but he doesn't walk away- he stays right where he is, with his back turned to me. I sniffled slightly, and nibble on my lower lip, “You're Sherlock Holmes. You can see I don't have a home, can you not?”

  Sherlock glances back over his shoulder, “Mycroft-”

  “He doesn't have time for me,” I say and attempt to mimic his voice, “ I don’t have time to take care of a child .”   Sherlock sighs, “I suppose he left you here for me to be stuck with then.”

 “He said, ‘ My brother was easy to convince, Puppet dear. All it took was a little initiative,’ ” I say, “He's just as bad as Moriarty.”

  Sherlock stiffens and turns, “What do you know about Moriarty?”

  “I know what he's capable of,” I say, shifting uneasily.

  Sherlock huffs, “Stay there,” he says before heading up the stairs and out of sight. I reach over and grab the notebook and pen. Have I done something wrong? Perhaps telling Sherlock Holmes that I knew Moriarty was a bad idea. My knees find themselves pressed up against the notebook, which in return, is  pressed up against my chest once again. My arms gently hug my knees, and I wait for Sherlock to return.

Chapter Text

“Taxi!”

“Where are you heading my dear?”

“221B Baker Street please.”

“That Holmes guy’s house?”

“Yes, I have a case for him.”

“Hope he solves your problem. Holmes is a good man.”

   Sherlock does return, with an unamused expression, “Get up.”

I cling to the notebook as I stand. He doesn't seem to care, “Your room is upstairs.”

 “My room,” I repeat, a little untrusting. Mycroft may not have cuffed me to anything, but Sherlock doesn’t have a weapon on him from what I can see.

  “Yes,” Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes. His foot starts to tap against the floor as he crosses his arms, “Now come on.”

    I follow him back upstairs gingerly, “Mr.Holmes-”

 “Don’t call me that,” Sherlock says. I nod more to myself and don’t say anything more. The seating room of the flat is dark, with several books and things lying about. The skull on the mantle looks at me with silent eyes, the smile on the wall looks at me with murderous ones. A shiver makes a run for it down my back. Sherlock points down one hallway, “Don’t go down there.”

  My throat feels a little dry, but I nod anyway. Sherlock points up the second set of stairs, “Your room is up there. I’m sure one of Mycroft’s minions will be coming with things for you sooner or later.”

  Things for me? My Kris maybe? Probably not, I shouldn’t feel too hopeful. I nibble on my lower lip slightly. Sherlock huffs and his eyes narrow, “Go do what you normally would do.” He goes and flops down on the couch.

   Flooding pain grasps me and I look to the floor, unable to ignore the desolation. Normally, Diego and I would be heading to Russia to spend the winter with Aunt Jonna. What is she going to do when Diego doesn’t come home? She’ll be broken and alone in the dark cabin that only awoke with lights when Diego came and lit the first candle. Aunt Jonna is too kind for this wretchedness to be forced upon her.

  “Hand me my phone,” Sherlock demands suddenly. A memory of saliva splayed jaws flashes behind my eyes so quick that I’m already handing him his phone from the table before I can do anything otherwise. He stares for a moment then speaks with a rather bemused look on his face, “Should I call John?”

  “No, sir,” I say as quickly as possible. Slow reactions always made Daddy, Ivan and Diego mad. Sherlock sits up, watching me with cold eyes. I nibble on my lower lip again. Sherlock’s phone chimes, and he glances at it, “Case from Lestrade. You know Lestrade yes?”

  I nod slowly, “Yes, sir.”

 “Stop calling me sir it’s annoying,” Sherlock says and stands. I step back slightly. He glares at me, “Put the book down and let’s go.”

 “Go?” I echo, “Go where?”

 The look he gives me next forces me into silence.

  I put the book down and trail after him down the stairs. It’s cold outside, snow falling as if it is the sky’s gentle tears. He calls for a taxi and I look down the street. I could leave now, make a run for it. He would never catch me. Yet, I climb into the taxi that pulls up and sit down next to Sherlock Holmes, feeling as if I had made the correct decision. He’s watching me with calculating eyes, “You’re at least interesting.”

 “Thank you?” I try. He doesn’t get as mad as Mycroft does when I speak. I think I like Sherlock Holmes much better. Sherlock barks an address to the cabbie and the taxi slowly starts to move. Sherlock glances back at me, “How old are you?”

 “Six,” I say, glancing at him with interest again, “Why?”

 “Curious as to what you would respond with,” Sherlock says. His eyes offer the flicker of soft truth, and I accept that he isn’t lying to me.

“May I ask what the cases details are?” I say gingerly and roll my lower lip under my top teeth.

 “You’ll see when we get there,” He says, “For now, decide if you’re going to stay. I’d rather not have to clean out my bedroom if I don’t need to.”

   I look towards my hands in thought, and nod slowly. It seems best not to reply to what he said, but instead mull over his words. The scenic city life of London passes as thoughts tumble and sort in my head, attempting to find the right decision that I used to never have to make, a decision someone else used to make for me. The mulling makes more questions and that’s more decisions and in the end, I just shove the mulling into the dungeon where my Diego memories lie alone in the cold Siberian coldness.

The taxi pulls to a full stop outside a red and blue flashing and yellow police taped ridden cul de sac. Sherlock climbs out of the taxi and I go after him. He lifts the tape for himself, and after it drops, I merely walk straight under it. I’m a little surprised by the amount of adults dawdling about, but manage to keep my feet in the right direction. Sherlock is standing over a...a body. Crumpled clothes, bloody skin, whispers of terror and regrets still on cold lips. I stop fully and blink a few times. I haven't seen a body since...since Diego… no can’t remember that right now, I can’t go losing it around Sherlock Holmes.

“Greg! How the hell did a child get on the crime scene!”

  The voice makes me jump slightly, reminding me who I’m with and I quickly scurry over to where Sherlock is crouched by the corpse.

“Of bloody course! Sherlock Bloody Holmes, you’re a complete bastard, but surely even you didn’t actually bring a toddler to a crime scene!”

The women is dark skinned with dark distasteful eyes filled with sickened disgust and furious anger. I grab onto the side of Sherlock’s coat and hide behind him as he stands. He peers at me with a perplexed expression, “What are you doing?”

 “She’s mad at me,” I can’t help but whisper to him, “I don’t know what I did, but she’s very mad at me.”

Sherlock looks back over to the woman, “Sergeant Donovan?”

She comes over furiously, “Get her off the damn crime scene and arrest him!”

I realize then that her anger isn’t directed at me, but at Sherlock. I slowly loosen my grasp on his coat as she comes up to him with her hand raised, “L-leave him alone.”

  She pauses a look of pity in her venomous eyes, “You poor child, come here and we’ll get you home.” Home? Diego is dead, doesn’t she know that? I don’t have a home anymore. Sherlock is the closest to home I’ve got now. Sherlock’s hand rests on my back and I jump slightly at the touch.

 “She doesn’t have a home, Sergeant. If you had been considerate, maybe you would have noticed the state she’s in,” Sherlock says coldly. I gulp, glancing up at the malicious woman. Her jaw looks to be unhinged by the low state it is in now.

 “Sherlock! Why did bloody Anderson come running up to me claiming you- oh dear God, Sherlock no you did not .”

 The silver haired man who came forwards now looks beyond shocked, “You brought a child to my crime scene.”

  “Yes,” Sherlock says cooly.

 “You’ve brought a child to my crime scene,” The silver haired man repeats.

 “He did,” I whisper, “But, trust me, I’ve seen worse. My dad killed people for a living.”

  Donovan crashes backwards into a greasy black haired man’s arms.

Chapter Text

“Sherlock? Sher are you here?”

“Hello?”

“Oh hello Mrs. Hudson, is Sherlock here?”

“No, sorry he just went out.”

“Oh, alright, I’ll come back later. Thank you.”

“See you dearie!”

“Right,” the silver haired man says slowly, “I see why you’re here now.”

          “Good,” Sherlock says, “Come, Puppet we have a case to solve.”

Clearly the silver haired man had been sarcastic on that remark by the look on his face when Sherlock starts to walk away, so I just nod and follow after him. I nearly bump into him when he stops mid-step, “Sherlock..?”

 “Shut up,” he snarls, shoving a hand into my chest and sending me directly behind him again. I look out from behind him my hands starting to feel a little clammy. What is he seeing that I'm not? Something moves in the alley next to the building and Sherlock is running after it before I can do anything about it. A red dot trails after him on the ground, following like Death’s hound. I nearly trip as I start to pursue him.  

  “Sherlock! Sherlock!” I shout. Blood would be everywhere, his normally warm brown eyes would be unblinking, his gun on the side like a taunt to what I didn't do. Not again, no more blood, no more hurt, no more deaths I’m responsible for. Sherlock hops over a fallen trash can, the red dot behind him still. I can't possibly make that jump on my feet, my legs aren't long enough. Split second decision and I'm on my hands, flinging myself over it just like I was taught. The world goes from upside down to right side up within seconds and I barely skid as I make my landing and run after the man in the trench coat once again.

   A man comes running towards me, a knife in hand, the gleam of wet blood sparkling on its blade. His eyes are wild as he runs. I dive and grab his leg before he can get past me. My face burns from the impact, a sharp pain setting a slash of bright hot hurt. The blade disappears from view as he crashes to the ground. He's gasping, and howls, his fingers soaked in blood. I scurry away, unable to find words to say when I see the handle sticking out of the man's chest. He must have fallen on it, I'm sure of it, but the look of agony on his face sends me reeling backwards, only to trip and fall back onto my bum.

  Black dress shoes with dark indigo slacks lead up to the dark coat and white dress shirt, and lastly to the lord of unholy cheekbones. His eyes are closed, his breathing is shallow. His hand is pressed to a bloody patch on his side.

  No more blood- my hands grab and yank at Sherlock's scarf till I get it over his head, and pressed onto the wound. “Got it cover up? Good girl, t-that's my sersta.” Keep me awake- “Sherlock,” I plead, “Come on, stay with me.” Nothing better I can do, I have to keep pressure on the wound. “I-I've got it sersta, I'm not leaving you.” Call for backup- I find a cell phone in Sherlock’s coat pocket. It's locked but I click the emergency button. Emergency contacts one, two and three pop up. Which one to tap I don't know. Instead I tap at random, hitting the second contact.

  “Sherlock where the hell did you go?”

  The silver haired man!

 “H-he got stabbed or shot in the alley,” I say, “I've got pressure on the wound but he's not responding-”

  “You're the same kid he brought with, Christ. Keep talking to me kid.”

“He's going to die, h-he's going to die,” I panic. “I'm not dying Sersta, I'm tired….”

  “Kid, did you go around- stupid question I see your foot prints. Can you shout for me?”

  “Here! HERE!” I shout as loud as I can. My throat hurts from the effort.

  “I hear you kid,” he says from the phone. The silver haired man appears from behind the dumpster. The man who had the knife gives a quite whine, but the silver haired man ignores him entirely.

  He comes right over to where I'm sitting with my hands pressed into the wound in Sherlock’s side, “Shit- Donvan, over here!”

  The dark skinned women comes over, “Come here sweet heart.” She's talking to me, pity glowing in the depths of her eyes. I don't move, no way am I going with her when Sherlock is like this. She moves towards me, and attempts to grab my arm. I jerk away, managing to keep my hands on the wound, “W-where's Doctor Watson, S-Sherlock needs help.”

   “Come on love we have to get you cleaned up-” Donovan tries again.

  “No!” I snap, “I'm trained for this, but I'm not a doctor, and he needs help!”

  “Donovan,” The silver haired man says, “Just go get the bloody medics.”

 “C-can you check his pulse?” I ask the silver haired man, “He’s still bleeding, and I'm afraid to move my hands.”

  “Yeah,” He says, and places two of his fingers gently on the side of Sherlocks neck, “How old are you kid?”

  “Six,” I mumble, “How many beats per thirty seconds?” Footsteps, must be the medics.

  “Enough,” The man says, “Are you alright?”

  “Fine,” I say, “I've been worse.”

The medics come over and take my spot, keeping pressure on the wound while lifting him onto a stretcher. The silver haired man stands slowly, “Come on kid, you're coming with to the hospital.”

  “I don't need to go to the hospital.”

 “You don't want to be there when Sherlock wakes back up?” He asks. I realize what he's saying after a moment, “I do.”

  “Let's go then,” he says with a kind smile. I think I like him.

  The drive to the hospital was no fun at all. The medics kept yelling and at one point one of them shouted at me, but the silver haired man shut them up real quick with a threat to arrest them. When we got to the hospital, they took Sherlock into surgery and refused to let me go with. I'm worried about Sherlock, fearful for news that the great detective is already dead. The silver haired man seems to notice this, “You alright kid?”

  “He can't die,” I manage, “Right?”

  The silver haired man sighs, “Kid, I honestly don't know.” Silence slowly covers the air like a rising steam making uncomfortableness arise as steam makes humidity.

 He turns in his chair, “What's your name kid?”

 “Puppet,” I say, “At least that's what my code name is and what Mycroft has taken to call me. I don't know what my name is.”

   “You don't know your name?” the silver haired man asks with a sad expression that meets his eyes. I don't like it, and try to cheer him up.

  “What's your name, Mr. Silver?”

  “Mr. Silver?” He says with an amused expression, “My name is Greg Lestrade, I don't know who this Mr. Silver is.”

  I giggle slightly, “You silly. Your hair is magical and glows with silver.”

   Lestrade lets out a rather loud laugh at that, and the few people in the waiting room look up, “That's something I haven't heard yet.”

   I smile, “Good, I like to be creative.”

  “Detective Inspector?”

  A doctor enters the waiting room, “Mr. Holmes is able to see visitors now.”

  Lestrade gets up, “Come on kid, let's go see what the great big idiot.”

  Sherlock isn't an idiot, I want to say, but stay silent and follow after him. Sherlock is some what conscious, I think. He's growling and snapping at the nurses who merely risk and roll their eyes at him, infuriating him further. His eyes land on Lestrade and then me, “Come to take a video, Gavin?”

  “It's Greg,” Lestrade and I say at the same time. He snorts as I look up in surprise, “Jinx.”

  “Jinx?” I question.

  “He's using a pop culture term that means you guys spoke at the same time with a idiotic single syllable word,” Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes. I mentally make a room for pop culture terms.

  “You're not dead,” I manage after a moment. The want to climb up and sit next to him on the bed shouts and screams at me in my head, but I send it down to the dungeons with the rest of my pesky, or painful, thoughts.

  Sherlock sighs, “Come here, Puppet.” I go over to him as the door opens. I turn before the hands grasp my arms. Pain shoots through my left arm as it twists and I can't help but give a little cry of pain.

  “Oi! Who the hell do you think you are?” Lestrade shouts. I kick out at the men, knowing perfectly well who they thought they were. Sherlock just sat there, watching but something flashes in his eyes though he stays silent. Lestrade on the other hand, throws his fist into the man’s-who had grabbed my arm- face. The man let go almost instantly as the other man tackles Lestrade to the ground. Lestrade throws another punch into the second man's face Mycroft strides in. He looks mildly surprised.

  “M-Mycroft please make them s-stop, s-sir,” I manage, “Don't let them hurt Lestrade, t-they can hurt me if they like but leave him a-alone.”

  Clearly, I think, that's not okay in Lestrade's book by the flash of anger in his eyes. Both men stand and yank Lestrade to his feet. His face is smeared in blood that travels slowly down his face from the inside of his nose. Crippling fear attacks my sides, but I manage to keep from panicking entirely. Diego is dead, I remind myself, Sherlock is nice, Lestrade is nice. Mycroft isn't nice, so be careful.  

   Mycroft taps his umbrella against the ground once and both men let go of Lestrade at once, “Puppet it seems you managed to half way kill my brother-”

  “She did no such thing,” Lestrade snarls, blood making his teeth look like they were swimming in orange dye, “She saved his damn life, and has the damn cut to prove it.”

  “Cut?” I ask. The pain in my face makes sense now, though I had thought it came  

from when I pulled the man down the ground. I raise my hand up and feel the raised and heated skin on my left cheek, my eyes flickering up to see what I had missed in my moments of thinking. Mycroft’s men are standing by the door now, stock still. Mycroft has is eyes on my like a lion eyes its prey. I shiver and shift my weight.

  “Puppet,” Sherlock says with a fake happiness to it, “You're staying with me, correct?”

  “I-If it doesn't bother you,” I say, “Yes.”

  “It doesn't,” Sherlock says, “I don't know about you, Lestrade but I personally like when people save my life.”  

  I want to tell him that I'm trained for those situations, that it was standard procedure, but decide otherwise. It doesn't seem to be what I need to say. Instead, I grab Lestrade’s arm, “You need to stop the bleeding- no not like that you’ll drown in your own blood!”

 Mycroft leaves without a word. I can't say I'm upset he left.

Chapter Text

“Sherlock's been injured! W-who- oh of course . That damn cabbie, why didn't I realize it- oh my god.”

---

“Where is that women? She didn't pay her bloody tab!”

“She said something about Sherlock Holmes and Eliza.”

“Eliza huh?”

“She left a paper behind, The Sun says Holmes got stabbed by a little girl.”

“Jesus, the kid has a scar down the side of her face!”

---

“Found her. Seems she's found Holmes before us. You said the sniper had been taken care of?”

“Yes, Sebastian, sir.”

“Good. We can't have Holmes dying before the bride can bring him back.”

Well, shortly later our scene rejoices in the fellowship of John Watson. Grace isn’t something I’d use to describe the good doctor’s movement, more off a nameless, tad bit “how dare you get stabbed” kind of walk. I am rather nervous, my limbs twitching as the doctor comes into the room, his white coat in place, stethoscope smacking into his chest, his fists clenched around one pen in the left, a clip-board in the right. Fury isn’t a word I’d use to describe the burning anger relishing within the blue tsunami rising like the east wind in John Watson’s eyes.

   “Sherlock Holmes,” John snarls through his teeth, “It is one thing to go out and get yourself recklessly stabbed in an alley, but to take a six year old child .” John closes his eyes shut hard enough that I can envision is top eyelid sinking into his skin like nails in the palm of a hand, “I’m going to kill you with my own bare hands !”

   “I’d have to stop you,” I say quickly before Sherlock can get in a word, “No harm will come to Sherlock Holmes.”

   Sherlock looks to me, looking mildly surprised. Lestrade coughs from where he had been sitting in the chair across from the bed, “I’d have to arrest you John, so let’s not kill the berk, shall we?”

  “And you,” John snarls, turning on Lestrade, “What were you thinking letting a child onto your crime scene-”

  “Doctor!” I shout, and I feel as if I shouldn’t be surprised that all three heads in the room turn and stare. I lower my voice, “I’m a highly trained general, and I do not appreciate being told that I can’t take care of myself.”

 “General?” John and Lestrade echo. Sherlock says nothing, but he’s studying me, I can feel his eyes ripping the hair out of the back of my skull in an attempt to get further inside.

  “Yes, a general,” I say, but then I realize that is now a lie, I’m no longer a general, I’m lacking my army, my captains . Slowly, I lower my head, “At least until I went rouge.”

  “Right,” John says slowly, “I’d ask you more, but you don’t look to keen on answering, and that cut on your face needs to be tended to.”

  I shake my head and hop off the bed, “No thank you, Doctor, I’m quite fine- hey!”

Lestrade grabs my arms and pulls me towards him. His grip is much stronger than mine, and I’m left stuck like a log in a dam, glaring with as much anger as I can muster at John Watson. Good doctor or not, there is no need for him to tend to the stupid paper cut along the side of my face. It only bleed a small amount, not enough to make me dizzy in anyway.

  “There was a girl I met once,” Sherlock says suddenly. I can’t help but change my glare into one of curiosity as I turn my head towards his voice. “She mentioned being a rogue captain of an organization that wanted her dead.”

  John nods, “I remember that. You told her to get out of the flat and never return. Bloody berk.”

  Sherlock ignores him, but is instead keeping his eyes on me. I look away, “Sushi. Former captain, she left before Moriarty took power, saved herself right when I was put into power. The rest of those captains were killed and replaced with a group of eight infants all lead by a child who wasn’t even born.” Mouse, Kitty, Stick, Diamond, Surry, Hamster, Rocky,Squishy.

  “You,” Sherlock says with a growing smile, “You were Moriarty’s right hand army, an army of children. Brilliant!”

  John ignores that comment it seems,  clearly by the frown covering his face he heard it. Lestrade loosens his grip on my arms as John steps away, “Better?”

 “Can’t tell,” I say absently, “How is that brilliant?” My heart seems to have frozen, pain making its way in. I’m a game to everyone it seems.

  “That’s how he did it, how he got away with all those murders, you children killed people-”

“I never wanted to hurt anyone! Neither did the soldiers or the medics! We just were there to keep the peace!” I wail, jerking away from Lestrade, “That was all the C.A.N. was for- to keep the peace! Russia abandoned us ou-our mother country, gone gone, left us to die after we killed the imperials, sent us to Serbia! Oh the shame they had felt, written in the Princess’ very diary, the ancient library that was destroyed soon after I grew to two years old. But, I knew I read those words. Advanced education, strong memories that work like a computer's hard drive- I don’t forget anything! Engineered, we were machines under Moriarty’s control! I-I can’t, no more bodies, I’ve only killed two, and left a hundred others to die, paralysed. I pretended they were dead, but really they were left to die in the hands of Ivan, I didn’t hurt them I gave them mercy. God forgive me please,” I can’t think right, pain and guilt shoving me down wards, hands in my hair, tugging tugging, “I don’t want to hurt people, I don’t want to hurt animals, but they were hurting me first I had to to to to to to- had to please forgive forgive me lord.”

  “Puppet.” Sherlock’s out of bed, I can’t see him, only feel his hand on my arm. “You’re speaking Russian, calm down. Puppet calm down , you’re going to kill yourself like this you idiot!”

  Idiot. The word sends me still, I’ve never been called an idiot before. I turn slowly, breath caught in my throat, “D-don’t ask me anymore please, don’t make me remember again. I’ll hide it, but allow those thoughts to attack my sleep rather than my wake. Please. Allow my civil blood to remain clean please, allow my civil blood to make civil hands unclean please no lord leave me be.”

   “You are quoting Shakespeare,” Sherlock says harshly in Russian, “Silent, grow silent child.”

  I do, eventually sending the prisoners back to the dungeon within my mind, allowing myself to relax.

 In English, I repeat myself, “D-don’t make me remember again please. J-just leave it be.”

 “I didn’t realize you were speaking Russian until you were begging for mercy from God,” Sherlock says coldly, “I don’t think I want to hear what you said.”

 “You don’t,” I manage finally, “Please don’t ask again.”

  Sherlock doesn’t answer, but looks to John, “Not concussion, only a small cut in my side, it just bleed. I have no need to be here, John.” And with that, Sherlock walks into the bathroom and closes the door. I close my eyes, and scoot away when Lestrade’s hand touches my head, “Leave me be. I-I need to calm down, he’s right.”

 And with that, I return into my head, seeking out that Golden Voice, the one who sings to me at night.

Chapter Text

“Did you hear? Sherlock didn't even get stabbed that badly, merely a long cut down his side.”

“Really? That's...good.”

“Miss? The child was the one who was injured really. Had a reaction to the medicine they gave her for the anxiety.”

“Eliza? You mean the girl with the cut on her face?”

“Yes. Insiders say the pair will be returning home today.”

“I must be going.”

“Wait ma’am-”

“I must see Sherlock before he realizes the truth!”

  Something is touching me, a soothing touch to my hand leaving tingles behind. I can't help but stretch, sleep still clinging to my bones. Remembrance of strange events clings still to the wakeful world, and I squint, watching Sherlock pull on his coat.

 “What happened?” I mumble, rolling over onto my stomach and leaning my head onto my arms.

  “You had an allergic reaction to the sedatives they gave you. You started hyperventilating when Lestrade forced you to stand still while John cleaned the cut on your cheek. They had to sedate you once you started to thrash and scream,” Sherlock says coldly.

  “I was trained to fight against any sedatives or drugs,” I say quietly. I can't have any drug of any kind- well aside from the illegal ones- because I'm trained to fight against them. Our unit was specifically bred, I was the first success in years, and after me came the captains who were found with the memory needed for the perfect army. So my little panic attack had been in my own head it seems. I relax slightly.

 “What are you doing?” I ask, watching as he pops open a window.

  He gestures slightly towards the window , “Escaping, want to join me?”

 I can't help but grin, and follow him out, taking his hand and allowing him to help me out of the window. He winces slightly, but the look of pain on his face leaves as quick as it came. We start off out of the alley and onto the sidewalk. I watch the ground go by, the lines bumping into the smooth transition every once and awhile

 “I have a case,” Sherlock says as we walk, “John’s blog received three cases within an hour of each other, a man missing from their homes. Two straight men and one homosexual.”

   I try to figure out what homosexual could possibly mean, but if he said straight, and straight means something isn't bending, then maybe homosexual means a person who is more like a spiral or a rainbow that curves. So most likely a man with curly hair. That's a bit queer.

  Thought out my mental debate, Sherlock seems to have continued talking, “- their children were all at friends houses while this occurred and- ah here we are.”

  Looking up from the sidewalk, I can't help but be surprised. The building has dark red bricks, and a dark wood door to match. The windows reflect the color of the musty air and pale gray skies.

  “Who's house is this?” I ask as we head around the back. Sherlock crouches down by the back door with a hair pin, where he got it, I have no idea. He starts to pick the doors lock with it and after ten minutes of waiting around, I shove him with my hand and put my left out for the hair pin, “Gimmie. Clearly you missed the last click, or else you would have realized you just re locked the door.”

  Sherlock looks mildly annoyed, but stands and hands me the pin anyway, “You have two minutes.”

  I want to tell him I only need one just to mess with him, but I really need two minutes to unlock the stupid door. The click sounds quietly, and I stand up, “See? It's a new standard lock, something you mainly see in the United States. It clicks once, while the older ones click three or four times before they open depending on the maker.”

  Sherlock nods, as if he is merely accepting this idea and opens the door. The house is familiar, the striking blue walls sending a warning message blinking in a quiet yellow within my mind. A quick scan of my memories reminds me that I have been here before.

      Three weeks before I killed Moriarty, Ivan and I came here to investigate rumors of an assassin hiding in London. A former assassin of the CAN. Her name was Apple, at least that is what we knew her as. She was a former general. Apple had quit after a bombing on the meetup place for her and her captains. She took off, and no one knew where she had gone. Except that she was alive. Apple is the oldest living CAN member to this day- she's forty-one years old. From what both Ivan and I saw that day, Apple was alone. When she saw us, she was pitiful. “ You've come to kill me? ” She said, “ Go ahead. What's the point of living in a world with children like us .”

  “ I've never killed anyone ,” I had said shortly, “ Not one person in my life. ” Ivan was in the next room, setting up shop. Apple wasn't going to die, I decided, “ My trainer is in the next room, poisoning the vents. Run from here, Apple, quit working for the CIA and move. You can save yourself. ”

    Her face grew skeptical, “ Why should I trust you? I wouldn't be surprised if there were gunmen waiting in the streets for me.”

  “My name is Puppet..., ” I had said, “ And I don't want blood on my hands yet.”

  That was the last time I saw Apple until she appeared in the papers, smiling sweetly next to a very kind man with warm blue eyes.

  Now, being in this contaminated house, makes me feel ill. The poison should have cleared out by now, but the place still makes me nervous, a itchy-tingly feeling slowly slithering its way up my spine. Sherlock turns in a quick circle, “Finally something worth while!”

  I look over to him, “What?”

  He grins, “New information, Puppet! A level seven , maybe eight but it's a case that will take more than a day to finish!”

   I get a little excited even though I have no idea what he means, he's just bouncing up and down like a lunatic, and I want to join in, “Yay?”

  “Yes,” Sherlock says with sparkling eyes, “Yay.”

  I can't help but laugh, and cover my mouth when I do. I haven't laughed like that since before Diego....before Diego died. He really is dead isn't he? I fall silent, watching as Sherlock searches the house. Diego died, he wasn't going to save me anymore, he wasn't going to be my brother, and I would never be called sersta ever again. I sniffled slightly, and follow Sherlock into the next room.

 It's a bedroom, clad in bumblebee yellow, with little flowers on the walls. Stuffed toys lay scattered about, dolls lay carefully tucked in the dollhouse. Longing tugs at me, I remember when this room was a baby's nursery, yellow of course, but no yet clad in toys and a covet to live among it.

  Sherlock merely frowns, stepping closer to the big bee on the wall, “Do you see it, Puppet?”

“See what?” I ask, walking over to where Sherlock stood by the bee. I can't tell what he is looking at. He reaches out to the bee, his fingers closing around the shiny, sparkling clear stone that is its eye. He plucks it off, studying the shiny stone with narrowed eyes. He frowns after a moment, and replaces the stone back into the bee's eye.

 “What?” I ask, “What is it, what's with the stone?”

 “It's not a stone,” Sherlock says, “It's a diamond.”

  The next home stands in the middle of London, tall and posh, white stone making the pale sun reflect to a steam trains beaming light. I have to make little cups around my eyes to see it; Sherlock just grunts and strides towards the door. He knocks hard, twice against the door. The door opens, a thin woman with silvery hair opens it, her face blotchy with silver ghosts trickling from her olive green eyes. Her face brightens when she realizes who is at the door.

  “Oh! Sherlock Holmes! Have you found my husband?” she asks hopefully.

  “Your husband gave you a necklace last month didn't he? A little bottle necklace with a diamond inside,” Sherlock says, pointing to her neck, “May we come in?”

 “I-I” she stutters as Sherlock pushes past into the house. I smile up at the woman, “I don't know why he's so nice either.”

  “Y-you can't come in,” She stutters, “Gilbert never liked other people in the flat-”

  “May I see the necklace he gave you?” Sherlock calls from the kitchen, “I'm searching around for the other conflict diamonds.”

  More to himself, I hear him add, “Mycroft will have a field day with this.”

Conflict diamonds, I've heard that before, when I went with Ivan to the land of pirates. Interesting, I'll ponder that later.

  “My necklace?” The woman stutters, “O-Oh alright.” She puts her hands behind her neck and brings the necklace out in front of her. She studies with side eyes.

 “Get that from her Puppet,” Sherlock calls from I think the sitting room now.

  “Sorry,” I say as I take the necklace, “I really don't know what he's doing.”

  “I was looking for more diamonds,” Sherlock says as he strides back over with a flourish, “But it seems there are no other diamonds.”

  “M-my husband, Mr. Holmes?” The woman stutters, “Do you know where he is?”

  “I’d say somewhere near Equatorial Africa by this point,” Sherlock says with ease, “He's been planning this trip for months, the sticky notes around your flat are written in German so he'd remember but you wouldn't understand them.”

 “Sherlock?” I huff as I jog to keep up with his long strides, “What about the man's husband? Are we going to see him?”

  “He was caught with the diamonds a hour ago,” Sherlock says coldly, but he looks at me still with this questioning expression, “Do you know what a conflict diamond is?”

  “A diamond from Africa,” I huff, “That is sold illegally and helps rebels.”

  He slows slightly, “How do you know that?”

  “You tell me,” I say a little rudely after he made me jog to keep up with him for at least half a mile across London.

  “Later,” Sherlock says, “Lestrade!”

  The kind detective turns with a look of surprise, “Sherlock what are you- Vatican Cameos!”

   Sherlock flat out drops to the ground, and the red dot now lays against my chest. I stare at it in surprise, and look up. The “sniper” is visible from the rooftop of Scotland Yard. I step to the side, snorting when the dot doesn't even follow. How could Lestrade and Sherlock be so easily fooled?

    Looming in the alley next to us, just a few feet off, stood a man clad in white.

  “Puppet!” Lestrade shouts, “Get down!”

   I put myself in between Sherlock and the man in white, “There is no sniper.”

    The man in white lunges forwards, fist clenched and coming like a train towards me. I duck, and swing my right leg under him. He jumps over it. He's trained, clearly from the fake sniper, but he is skilled in combat as well. Too bad for him, he is bigger than I, and so much easier to knock of balance. He goes for a lightning like kick, but I jump up onto his leg instead. I use his leg for extra height and footing, and fling myself up towards his face. I slam my open hands on his face, and dig my nails in hard. He shouts furiously, and shoves me off with his hands. If he weren't stronger than me in physical strength, I would have gotten ahold of his eyes before he could have throw me off.

   I hit the ground and rebound back up, hitting him in the stomach with my foot. I'm getting rusty , is my only thought as I stumble on my landing, Ivan would be disappointed. The man takes a knee, clutching his stomach.

  “ ille snigmorder ! Apple eller Puppet (1) ?” he spits. His Danish is much better than mine, and the only bit I can understand is ‘Apple or Puppet’. I'm taken back a bit, Apple or Puppet? What is that even supposed to mean?

  A sharp weight hits me and I fall back, hitting the sidewalk hard. I can taste metal in my mouth, and a sharp pain in the back of my mouth. Something hard tumbles along my tongue and I spit it to the ground. A little white tooth sits in the middle covered in spit and blood. I've never lost a tooth in combat, never- not once in my four years of training or my two years with Diego. I'm not sure I like that.

  He swings again, and I jump, landing onto his arm and pushing up to be by his face again. I grab his black hair and lock on good. He screeches, and I shove my feet into his face and start pushing. His head leans far back, is screeches cut off as I slam my foot down hard on his chin. He starts crumple and I let go, stumbling slightly as I hit the ground.

  “Christ,” I hear Lestrade curse, “I need back up! Over here, Sally!”

  Sherlock is sitting on one knee, clutching his side. His eyes are rather wide, but he slowly stands, leaning against the lamp post.

“Vatican Cameos means duck,” he says, “For further reference.”

    “I think I got that now, thanks,” I say. The metallic taste grows bitter and I spit onto the ground again.

     Sitting with Lestrade while Sherlock talks to a very annoyed looking Mycroft is not fun. The medics forced me to hold a cotton ball in the back of my mouth because of the bleeding, and I can't talk right because of the stupid thing.

   Mycroft and Sherlock are arguing by the look of it, with Mycroft's eyes boring into his brothers and Sherlock’s arms being thrown in the air. I glance at Lestrade who is preoccupied with his phone at the moment. I stand up from the curb and walk over to where Sherlock and Mycroft argue across the street.

  “You can't be serious Sherlock, that's absolutely mundane-” Mycroft snaps, but Sherlock growls back.

   “I've made my decision and I have my proof, brother dear ,” He says harshly, “She never killed anyone, and she's saved my life twice!”

  “Who never killed anyone?” I can't help but ask, “And why did your life need saving?”

   Mycroft and Sherlock both fall silent, Sherlock staring at me with dark blue eyes and Mycroft watching his brother.

  “You,” Mycroft says after a moment, “You've never killed anybody have you?”

  “I...Diego…” I mutter, “I killed him.”

  Mycroft sighs, a look of distaste crossing over his face, “Your wish be granted brother dear.”

  “What wish?” I ask, feeling rather left out of the conversation, “You're confusing me.”

  Sherlock merely smirks, and -much to my surprise- picks me up off the ground and holds me a distance away from him, his elbows locked leaving me hanging from where he holds me under my arms.

  “Sherlock-?” I start but he bursts into a rather meniac like grin.

  “It would seem I am now legally your guardian, Puppet,” He says.

 “Guardian?” I sputter, “What do you mean by that ?”

  Sherlock walks off, still carrying me by the arms, towards the awaiting black sudan. He's crazy, he's absolutely crazy if he thinks he's going to get rid of me like this.  

  “Oi! Sherlock! What's going on--what are you doing?” I shout, “Sherlock!”

  “Taking you home,” Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes, “Mycroft said Anthea got you more clothes.”

  He drops me into the backseat and shoves me over, sitting down next to me with a look of distaste, “How old is that dress?”

  “Two years old, it's practically brand new,” I say and cross my arms, “What did you mean by guardian anyway?”

  “Mycroft did some research,” Sherlock says, “And he only needed some final proof to prove your innocence.”

  “Innocence?” I sputter, “You're not making any sense!”

  “Mycroft resized about half way through your interrogation that you lied about those bodies,” Sherlock says, “He asked me to take care of you at first, and I denied.”

  He glances over at me, “But then he threatened John. So, I accepted after and you ended up with me. Then, you managed to save my life twice within seventy-two hours, and prove to be more of use than I thought you would.” He turns to the window, “So I adopted you, since you would just end up in the adoption system anyway. Mycroft will have to pull a few strings due to my habits, seeing recent events of course.”

  Habits? “Why? I'm not sure I understand still,” I say. The look he gives me makes me look away, “Sorry.”

    The car ride back remained quiet, but not tense surprisingly. When it rolls to a stop in front of Speedy’s, Sherlock clambers out and I follow after him. The door of 221B Baker Street is opened, and the stairs meet both pairs of feet. The hideous Palm tree wallpaper is passed, and Sherlock drops with a flourish onto the couch. I stand in the doorway, unable to move.

  “Miss Adler,” Sherlock says cooly, “What brings you to my flat?”

Chapter Text

“Things are about to get interesting.”

“How so?”

“Miss Adler has found her, and Sherlock is curious.”

“Mr. Holmes just adopted Puppet did he not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You're right then, this is about to get very interesting.”

---

“Where is she?”

“I will not tell scum as low as you.”

“Where is she!”

“I will not tell scum-”

“Where is Puppet Moriarty!”

“I do not know who that as.”

“You are her trainer-”

“I've never trained any child named Moriarty.”

“You're full of old man's whisky, Ivan Minch.”

    Hair as black as her record, eyes as crystal as poison, skin as white as a corpse, teeth as ivory as bone. Irene Adler, Daddy’s least favorite connection, known murderer on charges even I can account for.

  And she's standing by the fireplace, twirling a pen between her fingers.

  “Sherlock, I've read the news articles,” She says in her posh French accent, “You’ve found someone very dear to me.”

   I slowly step in, shoulders straight, fists clenched, “You'll leave Sherlock alone, Miss Adler.”

  She turns, rather quickly really, her eyes landing on me, “Oui, I will, Eliza.”

   Sherlock frowns, “Quit the accent, Irene. It is tedious.”

   She frowns, “I shall not.”

  “You will,” Sherlock says coldly, “I saved your life, you owe me.”

    ‘You owe me’ rings in my head like a gunshot. He feels as if he owes me, he doesn't care . The thought makes me feel nauseous.   

   Irene frowns, “The reaction will be worse, Sher.”

   “I will not respond to you,” Sherlock says, “The French don't get along with the British after all.”

   “Sherlock,” She says in the accent he asked her not to use, “I'll blow my cover-”

  “Puppet can keep a secret,” Sherlock says, “She's quite good at it.”

   She glares at him in frustration, “ Sherlock Holmes!”

 He sighs, “Fine fine. What do you need?”

   “Eliza,” She replies, “You’ve been looking for her, yes?”

   “I have been since you asked,” Sherlock says.

    She frowns, “Well you didn't look very well. She's in this room. You didn't even realize she was here when I said her name, did you?”

   “I did,” He says shortly, “But that's not Eliza, she looks nothing of your description, and doesn't even respond to Eliza. Puppet-”

   “I'm going to quit the accent Sherlock,” She says, then follows through with her promise. She says Eliza, in her normal British accent, and the words make my head spin. Spinning spinning spinning….

   “Y-You're the Golden One,” I whisper, “Y-You…”

  Sherlock sits up on the couch, “Puppet?”

   “You're her,” I manage, “You're...you left me with him! You let him do what he did!”

   She looks rather surprised, “You'll forget it, you're only six-”

  “I can't forget anything!” I wail, glaring at her angrily, “That's why Daddy never killed me! Because I've got a hard drive for memory!”

  She freezes, her body tensing up sharply, “I didn't-”

   “Don't tell him,” I say harshly and quickly, “Don't tell him who daddy is. I'm not daddy, and daddy is dead. Don't tell him.”

  “I wasn't going to,” Irene says just as Sherlock asks, “Who is ‘daddy’?”

    Irene and I have more of a stare off as Sherlock stands, “Puppet, stand down.”

  “She left me,” I snarl, fists clenching and unclenching at my sides, “She left me to die!”

  “I did no such thing!” Irene screeches, “I would never leave you to-”

   “Shut up!” Sherlock shouts, “Both of you, sit down, now.”

  Irene sits first, plopping down onto Sherlock’s chair. I sit on the floor, right where I was standing before.

  “Right,” Sherlock says slowly, “Irene, explain your association to Puppet. Puppet, don't talk unless directly asked.”

   I frown, but stay silent.  

  “She…” Irene says quietly, “I...she's my daughter.”

   “Why on earth would you ever want a child?” Sherlock says, not a spot of emotion on his face. I, on the other hand, am worried about my mental health. The urge to scream what! at the top of my lungs as if the sky had just decided to go ahead and free fall down upon the earth.

     “I didn't,” She says rather harshly, through I can't tell if her anger is directed towards me or Sherlock, “Moriarty paid me.”

   I slump back against the wall, barely holding my tongue, my head beginning to spin rapidly with a mixture of pain and flashing of Daddy’s face and bloody gaping jaws and-

   Sherlock looks back over at me, “What didn't you know from that situation?”

  “Everything,” I say and let my head thump back against the wall, closing my eyes, “I didn't know any of that.”

   Sherlock frowns, “How could you not know who your mother is?”   

  I huff, “I didn't know I had a mother. And really,” I say with a look towards Irene, “And I still don’t.”

  Irene looks appalled, “I searched for you for ages-”

   “You would never have had to search,” I shout, shoving myself to my feet, “Had you never given me to him!”

  “I did not come here to be yelled at by a five year old girl-” Irene starts, but now she's hit a new level of anger. She doesn't even know how old I am, how dare she come here claiming to be my mother, how dare she ruin the only safe a being in my mind! How dare she ruin me, allow me to become a killer, a monsters!

    “Miss Adler,” Sherlock says cooly, “What is your point of being here aside from attacking her mentally?”

  “I want my daughter, Sherlock,” Irene says rather softly after a moment, “I'm ready to take care of her, my girlfriend-”

  “No,” He says rather bluntly, “You left her in the care of a murder from the way she's going on. She can stay here.”

  “ Really ?” Irene hisses, “Because if my sources are correct, William , you're a murder as well.”

    Sherlock doesn't seem phased, “You're right. Puppet, who do you wish to go with.”

  “I’d rather die than go with her,” I say instantly. Hesitance crawls at my heels through as I glance at Sherlock, “But you're a killer too?”

   He looks a little bit ashamed, “I did it for a friend.”

  “That's not murder, that's loyalty,” I say rather surprised, “I trust you more than I trust anyone else alive at the moment, except maybe John, but if you're willing to kill someone to save another, that's different…”

  “Eliza, he killed that man in cold blood-” Irene starts. I attempt to burn her alive with my eyes, “Yes, but at least he didn't give a baby to a serial killer.”

   Her eyes flash and she stands, “I'll be off then. I see no other reason to be here.”

   She walks out with her heels clicking against the floor. I feel a tad bit guilty as I see the glistening ghosts swirling in her eyes. Neither Sherlock or I move until we hear the door slam. I look to my feet, “I…”

    “That explains a lot,” Sherlock says slowly, “Your father used you as a child soldier. I thought you were from Baskerville for a moment when you took that man down in the middle of the pavement.”

    “I didn't want to hurt him,” I say, “But I didn't want him to hurt you either.”

   “Loyalty,” Sherlock says slowly, “The word has many meanings to you.”

  Diego, Ivan, Mouse, Kitty...all the people I'm loyal to, and now Sherlock has made his way onto my list in a matter of hours, “I'd p-prefer not to talk about it now.”

   He frowns, his brow folding in on itself, “Right then. I'm sure Anthea has finished shopping for your room.”

   I look up towards the second set of stairs. My curiosity to see what Anthea did to my room scratches its way up my back, “May I go see it?”

   Sherlock flops down on the couch, and waves his hand slightly. He then steeples his hands under his chin, and closes his eyes. I’ll take that as a yes. I walk up the stairs slowly, and open the first door to my left. The room is the same as it was, same bedsheets, same walls, but there were things added to it none the less. On the bed sat the notebook Mycroft gave me before he left, beside the notebook was a book of blank pages and a box of colored pens. I turn slowly from the bed, and can't help to stop the little gasp that comes from my mouth. In the corner of the room in a little basket, there are three little stuffed animals- a ginger cat, a polar bear that looked much like the one Diego gave me and a stuffed thing that was yellow and looked to have a telly on its belly.

   I make a line for the polar bear and shove it against my chest. It wasn't the same polar bear, it wasn't, this one has blue eyes and my other one had brown eyes. I name this one Lock none the less. Much to my surprise, where the polar bear had been in the basket was a handle. A black handle with the letters “E.C.A.” engraved in the side in silver thread. My breath hitches and I slowly put the bear on the ground. No way, Mycroft had taken that from my Hello Kitty bag that can't be…

  But it is, it is! It's the same leather handle that is worn where I held it, the same silver snake blade that reflects the new soon-to-be scar across my cheek, the yellowing bruise on my face from the gun impact, the stains of blood on the yellow dress I'm currently wearing. The same blade Diego had made for me when he realized all I had was a pen knife. My heart screams as I sheathe the blade, begging for Diego’s hand again. It was the two of us against the world….

  And now it's just me in a world I've never seen….

Chapter Text

“You, come here.”

“He can't speak-!”

“Shut it. How old are you child?”

“ Click...click...click click click .”

“You're a year younger than my niece...yes you will work perfectly. Does he have a title yet, Joke?”

“Loser, that's what we’ve been calling him, sir.”

“Loser, welcome to the C.A.N.”

  Fog, I hate fog more than I hate logs in the forest. Though logs in the forest are harder to dodge with fog claiming the log’s visible matter. Although the logs aren't like the dogs, they still remind me of fog in which I had run from a monstrous dog, and then tripped on said log. That is confusing, but within the ruined world around me, I assume I’m just stupid. I probably am. After all, I’m sitting here making up stupid sayings to keep from panicking as Daddy’s hounds prowl closer on nimble paws. The heavy breathing, the glimmering eyes, the snarling slime dripping slowly off wrinkled dog lips.

   The first dog lunges forwards, holding my leg in its mouth. I scream, and scream, holding onto the rusty pipe and bashing it on the hounds head over and over and twack twack TWACK ! It whimpers and cries, but holds its jaws in place. I’m going to die in this cellar, with the rusty pipe still in my hands, just my bones left once the hounds finished munching on my human flesh-

  “Puppet, stop shouting you will wake Mrs. Hudson,” The hound growls. Great, talking dogs, just what I need. Guilt gnaws on my heart as I continue to fight and fight and fight against the hound. The dog reaches up with its hands ( hands ?) and grab my shoulders. The ground shudders, “ Wake up ! Wake up you insolent child !”

 Child, I'm not a child, but only- it's a dream, oh it's a dream! The dog crumbles, the pipe is really that yellow-Telly-belly toy from the basket, and the hound with hands is a rather surprised Sherlock, “Are you awake?”

  “Y-yes, sir,” I sputter, “S-Sorry for waking you.”

  “I wasn't sleeping,” Sherlock says, “I was in my mind palace. You yell louder than John does.”

   I stare, “Mind palace?”

 He sits down on the edge of the bed, “Yes, I'll tell you about that another time.” He hesitates, “Are you alright?”

   “I'm fine,” I say quickly, “It's nothing I can't handle.”

  He frowns, “I didn't ask if you could handle it. But now, answer this, do you want to handle it?”

   I don't say anything for a moment, confusion settling in. How can I just not handle it, it's not possible! I can't just delete these things I see in my mind...can I?

  “No,” I admit, “I'd rather not, but I don't have a choice.”

  He remains silent and stands. He heads to the door, “Do try not to allow your dreams to overwhelm you again.”

  The door clicks shut. This may be on the top of my “weird things Sherlock Holmes does” list.

  I don’t fall back asleep after that, instead I study my Kris, that used to be Diego’s until he carved “E.C.A.” into it and stole a cruel Frenchman's Kris for his own. The blade is still stained scarlette from Diego and I’s last mission before I got stabbed; I never got a chance to clean it.  I shethe the knife and place it on the bed, slipping out of the covers and reaching my toes to the floor. Anthea’s haul of clothes is still in the cupboard, but I have to admit, the pajamas and clothes are rather comfy. I nearly trip on my red rubber boots that I had left sprawled on the floor as I stumble over to the cupboard. I yank the doors open and instead of grabbing clothes off the hanger, I open the drawers instead. The first drawer is full of socks and obviously underwear. I close it, and open the second. The second makes the air in my lungs flee in terror, makes my heart petrified. My old vest, the one i left on the rooftop, imprinted with “CAN, UNIT ONE”, a blue spray painted dot on the front. My hands shake, and I can't help but give a little whimper. They know where I am.

   “Puppet! Come down here!”

   I slip the Kris into my red rubber boots , and check to make sure my right shoulder to make sure I haven't reopened the stitches. Right then ,

I think, into the war zone I go.

 The trip down the stairs takes less than I would have liked. Sherlock stands with his arms crossed, his expression shows how vexed he is.

   “Sorry,” I mumble, “I-”

  “I don't care what you were doing,” Sherlock snaps. He turns so fast his coat swings around with him, and he blunders down the second set of stairs, and I can only bound after him.

  Every corner we turn as we walk through London, I peak behind. Every street we cross, I stay tense and ready to spring. Every building we go by, I watch the windows to see if there are any warning sparks. Everything and everyone is in danger, and I can't stop it. It makes my belly tumble like a weed, whine as loud as a puppy, fall like a stone in a stream. Everything is too loud, and too quiet at the same time, the cars pass by and honk, people push around, Sherlock has one hand on my back and we turn another corner.

   The street is quiet, soft sunlight shines down and makes the rose bush lined homes glow. Pastel white bricks flutter like a doves wings, Windows clearer than my thoughts, doors as red as the roses lining each yard. Surprise, in the middle of London is a quiet neighborhood. I doubt this is outside my head, but Sherlock is still here, and Sherlock isn't in my head, he's never been. Odd, this is utterly real .

   “Where are we?” I say in awe, “I've never seen such a clean place in London.”

   “We’re in John’s neighborhood,” Sherlock says. He stops in front of the twenty-fourth townhouse and climbs up the steps towards the door. One, two, three knocks and we wait, and wait and then the door opens.

   His jumper is more hideous than the palm tree wallpaper in 221B, and yet he still smiles widely at Sherlock, “So you decided to keep her?”

  “I did,” Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes, “And you requested I bring her here.”

  “Yeah,” John says and with a look to me he says, “I need to make sure your shoulder hasn't gone rotten from your little fight with the man in white.”

    “Really John?” Sherlock says with a rather shocking smirk, “The man in white? It wasn't even a case.”

  John grows a little red, “Get in here you prat.”

   Sherlock snickers and steps in. I follow after him. I can't see most of the pictures in the frames due to the sunlight's glare from the window, except for a picture of John with a little red-velvet haired girl with freckles spread across her face and dark green eyes. The definition of Irish, really.

  “Who’s that?” I ask, stopping and pointing to the picture. He glances over, then stops for a moment. It’s like the world suddenly stopped as he grabs me by my coat collars and says very quietly, “My goddaughter, her name is Melody. If you even lay a finger on her, even if she is holding a gun to your head , I will have you shipped back to where you came from in a heartbeat .”

  He lets go, “Come now, I’m curious to see what Mary thinks of you.”

  After remembering how to breath, I stumble after him.

    “Mary,” John calls into the flat as we step out of the foyer, “Sherlock is already being a prat, but he’s here nonetheless!”

Soft laughter comes from the kitchen and makes its way into the sitting room. My jaw drops at the same time the laughter cuts off abruptly and turns into a glass breaking scream.

  “You!” Apple screams, “What are you doing in my house?! Get out, get out, get out!”

  “Mummy?” questions the little red-head, Melody, “What’s going on?”

   I jerk backwards, “A-Apple-”

 “Don’t call me that, you little monster!” Apple snarls,”You killer!”

  I flinch, slowly becoming overwhelmed by the amount of shouting coming from one women and the pleading shouts of her child.

 “Enough!” John shouts, probably startling me the most. He grabs me under my arms and I don’t argue, but rather take advantage to hide my face against him. I can practically feel the anger radiating off of him, and mentally beg that he isn’t directing that anger at me.

  “John,” Apple says harshly, “That creature isn’t who you think she is.”

 “Sherlock,” John says, “Go outside and smoke a fag.”

  Sherlock doesn’t argue, nor does he reach for me. Instead, he just heads back into the foyer.

 I look up when I hear the front door open and close.

“Mary,” John says, “Explain why you were screaming profanities at a six year old girl.”

  Apple frowns, “John, do you know who her father is? Who she is?”

  “Moriarty,” John says, “And she’s Sherlock’s adopted daughter.”

  I don’t know how, but my blood has turned into an ice age with a volcano in its center, “Y-you know.”

  John looks rather surprised, “I'm a doctor, and had to take your blood sample, of course I know.”

  “I'm-”

   “She's-”

  “-not in the system,” Both Mary and I say.

  “She is now,” John says, “But that's not the point. Mary you threatened a six year old.”

  “But she…” Mary says, “She…”

   “She what?” John prompts.

I'm starting to feel guilty, “I nearly killed her.”

  Both John and Mary say at the same time, “What?”

  “Well, I did nearly let Ivan shoot you-” I start but Mary is already shaking her head , “You let me go, Puppet.”

  “So what's the problem?” John asks, “Sherlock is going to be up here soon, and I'd rather him not find out about Puppet’s parentage this way.”

   His calmness still made me nervous, “Does Mycroft know?”

   John smiles, “You're not in the system.”

   “John,” Comes Sherlock's voice mimicking a child's, “Can I have Puppet back yet? Please please please?”

   John snorts and lowers me back onto the ground. My head is starting to hurt from all this conflict, my fingers itch from the amount of pressure being put on me. John knows who Daddy is, my mother came and dropped by for a cuppa and the CAN is out for my blood. Everything is amazing, clearly I'm having time of my stupid little life…

   “Mummy,” Melody says slowly, “Who is Moriarty?”

   ...and now Sherlock is as tense as a cat waiting to pounce on a mouse. He crouches down to her height, “Melody, where did you hear that name?”

  “Daddy,” Melody says cheerfully, “He said that Moriarty wasn't in the system.”

  “Sherlock,” John says, “Mary thought that Puppet worked for Moriarty, but realized she was wrong-”

  “Don't lie to me John,” Sherlock says, “Clearly it's not important as you would have told me if it was.”  

   Everyone stays quiet for a moment, until Melody says, “Who's the girl?”

   “I'm Puppet...just Puppet,” I say and give a little wave, “Hi.”

  “I'm Melody Watson,” Melody says proudly, “I'm everyone's favorite.”

  “Mel,” John says warningly, “Manners.”

  “Sorry Daddy,” Melody giggles, “Come on Poppet, I'll show you my room.”

   “It's Puppet,” I correct, but follow her up the second set of white carpeted stairs none the less.

  “Come on,” She says as we hit the top of the stairs, “In that room over there.”

   I walk into the baby blue room, surprise catching in my breath. These is an  ocean of toys spreading across the pearly white rug,a mountain of clothes in a bright blue basket, and a billion stuffed animals all over the bed. And then there is me being shoved into a wall by a frowning Melody Watson, “He hates you.”

  “What?” I gasp, “Who?”

  “Sherlock,” She snarls, “And Daddy and Mummy. They all hate you. I'm their favorite little girl they say so all the time. And if you try and replace me I'll-”

  I zone out, and get ready to bash my skull against hers when I remember Sherlock's threat: I will send you back where you came from in a heartbeat .

   “- and I'll make sure you regret ever coming here,” Melody finishes, “Understand, Poppet?”

   “It's Puppet,” I mutter, “And I think you're pulling my stitches.”

  Melody glares at me, then punches me in the stomach. I just stand there, knowing I'm not allowed to do anything to harm this little girl. Someone, anyone, get me a noose.

Chapter Text

“Where is Puppet Moriarty?”

“Up...your...arse…”

“Ivan, you and I both know you can't handle anymore of this. Now, where is Puppet Moriarty.”

“Try...your...mothers-”

“WHERE IS PUPPET MORIARTY?”

“I DON’T KNOW.”

“You fucking useless little-”

“Sir! Sir we have a prob’em on the roof!”

“What?!”

“We've been found sir.”

“This isn't the last you will see of me, Ivan Minch.”

“I...hope...I...see you….six feet...under…”

   “How did you manage to loosen twelve of your stitches?” John grumbles, “It couldn't have been from your fight, you'd have bleed out before you got here.”

  Mary, Sherlock and the little wrench are in the other room, sounds of Sherlock's sharp baritone talking to the little wretch's Irish accent.

   “I don't know,” I lie, “but can I ask you a question?”

  “Go ahead,” He says as he wraps the bandage around my hand, “But I get one in return.”

  “Is Melody really your daughter or…is she adopted like I am?”

   He sighs, “Adopted, but not like you were. She showed up on our doorstep one night bleeding from a head injury.”

  “Oh,” I mutter, “What's your question?”

   He helps me off the counter, “Who taught you how to fight?”

  “I'm not allowed to say,” I say while nibbling my lower lip, “Against the C-O-C.”

   “C-O-C,” John says quietly, “Code of Conduct?”

  I nod, “I'd prefer not to talk about...that stuff, if…that's okay…”

  John smiles, “You don't have to talk about anything you don't want to talk about.”

  That's new, I've never been told that before. I took a risk asking if I could keep my skills to myself, and it seems to have paid off. I smile slightly and head off into the sitting room with John at my heels.

  Sherlock looks up, “Puppet, Melody was just telling me about what you guys played upstairs.”

  His voice is monotone, yes, but I can hear the threat in his voice, so I just tell him the truth, “We didn't play-”

  “She beat me up,” Melody inserts quickly. My mouth suddenly feels rather dry, “I did not-”

  “You're lying!” She wails and bursts into tears. My fists clench at my sides, “I am not!”

   John looks absolutely shocked, “Quiet, both of you!”

   Sherlock is frowning at me, “Both of you will write your sides of the story, and then John, Mary and I will decide which of you is telling the truth.”

 John looks rather surprised, “Great idea, ‘Lock. Both of you, go.”

   Melody stops off and grabs one of the papers and pencils her mother is holding out. I take the other two and thank Mary before going and sitting in the corner of the room.

 I stare at the paper for a while, panic starting to seize at my chest. How do I write? Is it like drawing? I can see Mycroft frowning at me in the corner of my mind. So instead I slowly start to doodle the little irish girl with her pigtails and an angry expression; myself wearing the stitched mouthed mask I wore at the CAN, limp like an unmoving doll, merely taking the abuse.

  “Puppet, Melody,” Mary says, “Come here with what you wrote.”

  My heart shakes my ribs violently. I think I did it wrong, Sherlock will be so mad if I did! With trembling fingers and my mind spinning clips of what could happen if I did this wrong, I stand up from the corner and hand Mary the paper. She looks rather confused, “You look like you're going to be sick.”

  “I'm fine,” I mumble, “My head just hurts a bit.”

      Mary frowns, “You said that earlier. Do you want some Paramol?”

  I shake my head, the thought of being on painkillers making my stomach do a flip.

  “Puppet,” Sherlock says, “Why didn't you write anything?”

   I shift my feet, “I...I just…”

  “Oh hurry up,” Sherlock says impatiently.

   “I don't...I don't know...how…” Oh I'm an idiot, a complete idiot. The facts are against me, I can't compete with Melody when she can write.

  John frowns, “Sherlock, hold on. Puppet,  do you know how to write?”

   “I don't know what writing...is…” I mumble, “Sorry.”

   Sherlock groans and throws his head back, “I'm stuck with an idiot.”

  “Sherlock,” John growls, “Shut up.”

   “She can't write, John,” Sherlock grumbles, “How the hell am I going to get anything-”

  “Sherlock Holmes, shut up!” John snaps. Sherlock frowns but says nothing more.

  John sighs, “Melody, don't interrupt. Puppet, what happened upstairs?”

  “Melody…”I frown, John had said I didn't have to talk about anything I don't want to, “...I don't want to talk about it.”

  John frowns, “Puppet…”

   “Y-you said I didn't have to talk about anything I don't want to talk a-about,” I mumble. Sherlock crosses his arms and I wince, “Sorry...she….” I really don't want to tell them, Melody was right about what she said, that they hated me. Well, about Sherlock and Mary anyway. B...but I don't want to lie. These feelings of conflict are starting to make my belly flip and squirm, and my head is starting to feel heavy, “I...I didn't hurt her, even though I wanted to protect myself, I didn't.”

  There, hopefully that would be enough for them, and this could be all over. Sherlock frowns at me, “Protect yourself?”

  He stares at me, “Stop it.”

  “Stop what?” I ask. He rolls his eyes, “You don't even know you're doing it. Right, then I'll just have to try harder.”

  He steeples his hands under his chin and closes his eyes after that. I frown and look back at John, “What is he doing?”

  “Deducing you,” John answers and crosses his arms, “Give him a minute.”

   Deducing , that must be the mind-magic that Ivan told me Sherlock could do. Sherlock doesn't seem to be doing much, merely breathing. But I can see his eyes moving like jets under his eyelids. Or like a flock of crows scattering out of the way of a car. I saw those a lot when driving through Germany with Diego.

  “Ah,” Sherlock says, his eyes opening rather quickly, “John thank you for not teaching Melody to hide anything .”

  “What?”

  Sherlock stands, “Melody, you know better than to lie to me. Do you know what would have happened to Puppet if your lie worked?”

  Melody glares at him, but shakes her head none the less. Sherlock smiles in a way that makes me take a step back, “Drowning in the Thames would have been the least of her priorities.”

   Everything sinks in then, that Diego is dead, that I'm a monster, that I should have died. And that Daddy knew exactly who I was, who I am. The ringing in my head drowns out whatever else Sherlock is saying, whatever John is saying. But...Mary is staring right at me, like a wolf and a bunny. Her eyes narrow slowly, and her mouth moves; I can’t hear what she’s saying. My vision goes black around the edges and that’s when I realize the problem- I’m not breathing.

  I gasp and cough harshly. The ringing dulls down and my eyes tear up. John goes to move towards me, but I can feel menace from him, i can feel the anger. I flinch back like a skittish animal, through by the look in John’s eyes, I guess that’s exactly what I am. A skittish animal wanting nothing more than to get away. John frowns more, “Sherlock, stop talking.”

  Sherlock does, almost immediately. Odd, I thought Sherlock Holmes didn't listen to anyone.

  “Hey...Puppet…” John says slowly, “Come here, love, nobody’s going to hurt you.”

  Drowning in the Thames would have been the least of her priorities. Sherlock’s smile flashes in my head and suddenly I really don’t want to be here anymore, I don’t want to be anywhere near these people. For a moment, I really do wish I died that night with Diego. For a moment, I wish I never messed with Daddy’s gun. For a moment, I really wish I had my-...oh wait…

I do.

I step back again and reach down towards  my boot…

Chapter Text

“Oh my god, sir are you alright?”

“D-does it….look like...i am...alright?”

“Honey call an ambulance-!”

“N-no th-they’ll find me ...if you do…”

“Sir, you’re bleeding out-!”

“J-just send this note to baker street. W-while you’re at it, spray paint a blue...

-”

“Sir?”

“A blue dot...on her vest…”

“Sir..?”

“I’m going to die here, promise me please...she needs to know they’re coming..”

“Sir….please...an ambulance…”

“Promise me please, that Sherlock Holmes knows who he’s dealing with..”

“Ivan, I’m not letting you die like this.”

“Promise…”

“Fine you damn bastard. I promise. But you need to let me care for you at

the least.”

“Of course, just...make sure she gets that.”

The birds are singing, the flowers are blooming...on days like these, people like me…

Should have never pulled a knife out around Captain John Watson or his former assassin wife.

 Within seconds, a gun is pointed at my head, and John Watson stands between me and Sherlock Holmes. Mary doesn’t even shiver when I drop the blade. Sherlock frowns,“Why?”

  “She feels threatened,” Mary sighs, “All of us were taught to fight rather than flee.”

  I say nothing, commands from the C-O-C ringing and slamming against my skull. Fight, don’t flee. Don’t trust anyone. Find your trainer. Except, my trainer is nowhere to be found, and I’m surrounded by a former army doctor, and ex-assassin and a consulting detective. All of which want to kill me. So now what, do I stay and fight a losing battle...or run like the little coward I am? Heart pounding like a storm with in a bottle, and yet I still hesitate to fight them. John helped me, Sherlock took me in and Mary spared me. What am I doing? Clearly they aren't the danger, so what is making react like this? Even with a gun pointed towards my temple, I look around the room. Is there a bomb? No, I’d know if it was a bomb. Daddy? Nope nope nope, he's dead.

Dogs? No….

 A shooter? My eyes jerk quickly to all three people, but not to the target, I realize. If a gun was pointed at any of the three adults in the room, they would know . Oh no.

“Vatican Cameos means duck. For further reference.”

“V-Vactican Cameos!” I shout at the top of my lungs, and dive towards Melody, sending her crashing into the ground. John and Sherlock drop on instinct, but Mary shoots the spot where I had been, before crashing to the ground when John swings his leg and knocks hers out from underneath her. Melody struggles from under me, just as the blue dot lands directly centered with my tummy.

 “Welp,” I manage to laugh quietly and the bruising sensation of getting shot hits me directly in the tummy, and sharp pressure and the ringing from the impact. Little do they know, I never forget the code.

 The blue dot, the blue spray paint that is a warning among all of the CAN. It was a warning, normally from a trainer. I laugh slightly as the shooter shoots again ,my head out of view. Ivan is alive! I hear John shouting at sherlock to, “Call Mycroft damit!” But I can’t help it. This Idiot thinks he can take me down this quickly? He thinks he can kill a little kid in front of me, a trained CAN General? He’s funny, he truly is. This shooter should know by know that my unit is always watching Sherlock Holmes. The shooting stops and I wait for a moment until the stuffed cat hits the window. I giggle to myself and sit up a bit. Rabbit always did have a good sense of humor. Mary stares at me in shock as I lift up my shirt, “The vest is a bit too small now, so I just put it on so it would protect my belly.”

 Mary laughs slightly, “You did not.”

 “I did,” I giggle, “But uh, thanks for nearly killing me. And um sorry I went a little crazy there.” Nervousness crawls its way into my belly, “I couldn’t figure out who the threat was, my head is hurting and I felt too pressured.”

  Melody growls, “Get off of me!”

I jump up immediately, “Sorry!”

 “You just saved her life,” Sherlock says shortly. I may be good at reading people (it’s part of the job) but Sherlock puts up walls. Yet, I can still see his opinion of me has changed slightly. Different from before, through it what way, I can’t tell. He seems to view me less like an object, or a subject to study, and more of what I am, I think. More like, as Mouse used to say to me, “A killer with the heart of a butterfly”. It makes me miss her a little more, “I’m just doing my job.”

 “And that is?” Sherlock responds with.

  I smirk, “Keep Sherlock Holmes alive at any cost, and make sure that John Watson doesn’t get hurt along the way.”

  His eyes flicker again, and this time, I actually smile.

=

=

=

 “Thank you,” Sherlock says on the cab ride home. I look away from the flashy street lights and honking cars, and over to him, “I was just doing my job.”

  Sherlock stares out the window, not making any eye contact with me, “You had no reason to save Melody, not after she nearly sent you to your death.”

  I look down towards my hands, “I don’t want anyone to get hurt you know. I knew I could protect her, even if she hurt me, I knew I could, so I did.”

  Sherlock glances over at me, “Would you prefer if I called you Eliza?”

  I jerk back into my seat a little, “Not until it’s safe.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Sherlock asks quietly, “Do you not feel safe around me?”

  I shake my head quickly, “The CAN knows I’m alive, that’s why I had my vest on- I didn’t know if they were going to make a move.”

 “You always reference to this CAN,” Sherlock says, “Mind explaining?”

 Clearly, he doesn't care if I don’t want to, he wants answers. We leave the cab as it stops and enter Baker Street. I stay silent as we walk up the stairs, and only start to speak once he sits in his chair and I am on the floor.

  “The CAN stands for The Child Assassin Nexus,” I start, “Each unit had a captain, ten soldiers and one healer. They were nine units, all the same until Unit One. Unit One, my unit, had all the other eight captains and then me...I was the general.”

  Sherlock’s expression doesn’t change, so I continue, “I wasn’t supposed to be general, my second-hand, Mouse, was supposed to be General. But...Daddy wanted to kill me at first, I was, am, bad at everything. But, Mouse stopped him by saying that she’ll train me. She gave up her general spot to be my mentor, even though it gave her the risk of death. If I failed or abandoned the CAN, she would die for it.” Tears spring to my eyes, knowing that Mouse’s death was on me. “I learned quickly, and my General position made sense. The other captains, through, tried to overthrow me...they were all killed….I had to select new Captains. I chose six of the older Soldiers, but took one little girl, she was only two, Kitty was what she was called, was going to be killed. I took her in as my apprentice, just to make sure she’d live. My trainer in the end, was Ivan Minch. He’s a good man, and helped me take down Moriarty.” Sherlock’s face tenses slightly, but I continue, “The CAN has a long past, dating back to the time of Imperial Russia. Katsevich and Sersta were the first General and O.W.. O.W. stands for ‘over watcher’ and is basically the scientist that studies us and makes sure we are mentally capable to do our jobs. The O.W. of the CAN I grew up with merely stocked us with supplies- weapons, battle clothes, vests, food, you know, the basics. Anyway, um..” I pause for a moment, “The CAN ran on those jobs through most of the time, Ivan and I were on different missions. One of them was a mission in Somalia. We had to pretend to be pirates. I met a boy named Link there, a pirate of course. He taught me to read, but Ivan and I had to go before I could learn how to write.”

 Sherlock raises a brow. “Sorry,” I mutter, “I’m a bit off topic.”

 “It’s fine,” He says slowly after a moment, “But I have a question for you and you need to answer it honestly.”

 I nod, “Okay.”

 “Is your father Moriarty?”

Chapter Text

“Ah, you’re awake.”

“...did you give her...my message?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

“What is your next mission?”

“...”

“Ah, classified?”

“Da.”

“Right then. Need help with anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

“I’ll be back later today.”

“Alright, see you...”

“...If i decide to stay until you get back. Come now, you can do this Minch, you’ve got to find out where your son has gotten to.”

“Is your father Moriarty?”

 My heart misses a beat. Is this what it feels like to be dying?

 “Puppet,” He says slowly, and reaches out towards me,  “Is your father Moriarty?”

I know I’m crying now, the warm saltiness of tears surprising me as i mutter yes over and over again under my breath. Sherlock looks absolutely revolted to be around me, leaning so far back in his seat that the feet of the chair are coming off the floor a little. I can practically see blood on my hands once again, the hands of a killer. Hamster lays limp in front of me, my heart pounds as if it is a drum, my eyes drop salt that burns the cuts on my former best friends body. His eyes scream, his voice screams. I’m not screaming. I’m laughing. After all, killers put the laughter in manslaughter. And yet, I can’t help but scratch at the sins crawling up my back, I can’t help but wish I can take it all back.

But…”I am a killer.”

“So am I,” Sherlock says quietly. I jump slightly, looking up. He’s not looking at me, but past me, remembering, “Your nightmares make a little more sense now.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, “I…”

“Don’t apologize for everything, the things you can’t help,” Sherlock says dully, “It’s tedious. But, if you told me earlier, I could have...treated you differently.”

 “You thought I was just some child soldier that didn’t have a care about who they killed,” I manage, “I deserve that.”

 His eyes twitches slightly, “You don’t deserve to be treated like that. I know who Moriarty is, as do you.”

  My heart crumbles, “The CAN knows I’m alive.”

 “I know,” Sherlock says, “I found a note stabbed into a pigeon on my bed.”

 “Y-You did?”I squeak, “What did it say?”

 “Something in French,” Sherlock says, “But I can’t translate it. It’s a coded message.”

 “Can I see it?”

  He nods and pulls it from his pocket. There’s still blood stains on the paper.

I know what it is right away, “Book cipher.”

 “There are no numbers,” Sherlock says quietly. He’s watching me through, his eyes flickering a little bit to glance at the note.

 “T...there are,” I say. I reach down and take my Kris from my boot. Sherlock tenses, but doesn’t move. I pull the casing off of it, and swipe my finger against the edge. Blood drips slowly, and Sherlock watches with odd fascination as i swipe my finger across the blade. The numbers show, my blood dripping slowly off the silver blade, 2; 22; 153  I glance at the note, and count 153 letters. The 22th letter is part of the word You . I shake slightly, and go back to the start of the note and count 2 more letters. Run . I go 153 more letters from the first word. Genocide . My heart burns as I drop the note.

 “Puppet?”

  I laugh slightly, realization flooding over me, “Genocide, Sherlock. I ran, and then genocide. The CAN isn’t looking for me- they’re trying to warn me. They’re all dead, all of them! My friends, they’re all dead.”

 “You’re not making sense.”

 “I don’t care. I’ve got more blood on my hands then I realized.”

  “Oh?”

“My whole unit, genocide.”

 “I think you’re reading it wrong.”

 “Oh?”

 “I think they’re saying that they’re going to commit genocide until they find you, Puppet.”

=

=

=

 Within the next hour, I start to make a plan. It’s going to take a while to complete, but I can’t kill anyone else.

Chapter Text

“...Link? Are...are you here?”

“I am, Doll.”

“...I...I need your help.”

“With what?”

“I have a plan, but I need back up.”

“I've always been here for you. You've got your back up.”

“Thanks, Link.”

“Anything for you, my sweet.”

“Y-You're making it hard to talk.”

“My regrets.”

“I...I’d recommend reading the text carefully. Things aren't what they seem, you understand? Sometimes the things we don't understand were explained to us already, but we just didn't realize it, you know? I mean, the reader of a text may miss small details that helped them understand the mystery behind an important event.”

“...I have a feeling, my dear that you aren't talking to me while talking to me are you?”

“You've always been the smart one.”

“Heh, thanks P.”

   Mycroft is lounging in the sitting room when I wake up, in a heated argument with Sherlock. Sherlock is red in the face, anger seemingly filling every pore in his body, his clenched fists shaking with rage. I step back a little bit, hoping neither of them saw me.

  “Puppet, you're not as sneaky as I would have liked,” Mycroft says in a crooked drawl.

  I wince and step away from the hall, and into the sitting room, “I'm out of practice.”

  “Clearly,” Mycroft says, “How do you feel about going to the local public school so you can learn to write?”

  I can't help but give a little squeak of shock, “B-but there are children there.”

  “You're a child,” Mycroft points out.

 I shake my head, “I'm not. And even if I were, I'm dangerous.”

  Sherlock seems to have cooled down a bit, “You are, but you won't hurt any of those children. Same rules apply with Melody as they do to any other child.”

   I look towards the floor a bit, “...do what you want to do.”

  “You'll start schooling today,” Mycroft says. I look up in surprise as he nudges a pale pink backpack by his seat with his umbrella.

=

=

=

   I never realized how normal Sherlock could be. I mean, I wasn't the one who watched and studied the man, that was below my level of skill, but living with him for these past few days, and Mycroft before him, I'd like to think I've learned a bit.

   Mycroft pretends to be a soulless demon who hasn't got a care for anything or anyone, aside from his brother. And yet the man didn't kill me when we met, he stopped the interrogation and put his brother in direct danger of me. He gives trust to those he feels deserves it, and yet he took a risk. I nibble on my lip, and glance at Sherlock. Big Ben gives out its sollom ding-dongs in the distance eight times. I don't plan on breaking his trust.

  Sherlock is another matter- he isn't a easy one to crack, and yet his brother was harder. Sherlock Holmes, a man who will do anything to solve a case, including getting shot in an alley-

   Sherlock glances at me, “What?”

   “Huh?” I squeak, head jerking up slightly from where I was watching my feet as we walked, “What do you mean?”

  “You winced,” Sherlock says slowly, “John says you can't feel the injury to your shoulder, but I know that you can be a convincing liar-”

   “It's not,” I interrupt, “I can't feel it, I swear. You can test it if you like.”

   Sherlock looks mildly disturbed, and looks back up as we cross the street, “I'll trust you on that.”

   -and is willing to trust me with little time to know me. Honestly, I can't tell which of them confuses me more, the ice man or the “sociopathic” detective who chose to lose his credibility and nearly gave up his life for his friends, and killed another man in cold blood. The same detective who is currently walking a former child soldier to her first day of reception(1).

   “Puppet,” Sherlock says, “You're not going to make me walk you to your class are you?”

  “I can't make you do anything,” I say slowly, glancing up at him. He is frowning. Was I supposed to say yes?

  “Never mind,” Sherlock says as we walk up the front steps of the school. Above the doors in big letters is “International Community School”(2).  

   Sherlock doesn't hold the door open for me, and it nearly hits me in the face as I walk in behind him. He glances back with a look on his face that I'm not sure I understand.

  “Ah, Mr.Holmes!”

  I make a noise I didn't know I could make and clasp my hands over my ears. In front of me, with as much resemblance to a pug that I've ever seen in a human, is an older women. She wears a clown's face, and eyes the color of a rock. Her skin is pale and wrinkly, and not littered with freckles like Melody’s, but I can absolutely see a wart from here on her right elbow and another on the underside of her left cheek. But, her hideous looks aren't what sent my hands to cover my ears- it was her goose-like voice. I can't help but imagine her squawking like a goose on the hunt for bread by a lake's edge.

    “You must be…” Sherlock starts.

  “I'm Katrine Raske, the Headmaster,” She says, making me wince again, “And is that Eliza behind you?”

    This time I jerk my head up, “I go by Puppet, ma’am-”

  “Oh certainly not, that's not a name for a young woman like you!” Headmaster Raske says with a shake of her finger.

  “That's the name she goes by,” Sherlock says coldly much to my surprise, “And that is what she will be called.”

  Headmaster Raske’s smile fades, “Now, Mr. Holmes, certainly you-”

 “She goes by Puppet,” Sherlock says firmly. I'm tempted to hug him, but I feel like he wouldn't appreciate that. “Now I'd like to meet her teacher.”

  Headmaster Raske adjusts the top of her dress, and nods, “Oh of course, Mr. Holmes. Right this way.”

   The school's hall ways are littered with drawings and posters. Each door has a name (lead by “Mr.” or “Miss”) and an assortment of drawings on them.

   “Right here we are,” Headmaster Raske says sharply. She opens the door quickly and steps into the room, “Miss Harding, you have a new student.”

   I step behind Sherlock who steps behind me. I glance back behind myself with a begging look. Sherlock looks at the ceiling and I turn back around. Miss Harding is an angel compared to Headmaster Raske- an amazing change if I do say so myself. Miss Harding smells of sweets, like those little squared taffies that come in the rectangle packages, and has the same skin tone as the few women I met while in Bangladesh.Her black hair is braided down her back like three intertwined flowers, and her eyes shine like freshly watered blueberries. Her voice reminds me of a generous songbird who merely wants to sit and sing for those around it.

   “Oh, hello! What's your name sweetheart- oh dear lord how did you get that nasty bruise and cut?”

   “Uhh…” I sputter, “I-It's not a bad-”

   “She was almost kidnapped is all,” Sherlock says with a glance at his phone.

   Miss Harding’s strawberry ice cream colored lips turn downwards, “She was nearly kidnapped?”

   I glare back at Sherlock, “No, I just got in a fight with a friend of mine, that's all! She was upset that I took her Barbie doll by accident. Uncle John split it up, it's okay now though! Uncle John is a doctor.”

   A smile makes its way back to her face, “So your father-”

    “Guardian,” Both Sherlock and I correct at the same time.

 Miss Harding nods, that kind smile never leaving her face, “- is the Sherlock Holmes, correct? Consulting detective?”

   Sherlock actually looks at Miss Harding this time, “Yes.”

  Miss Harding smiles, “Your blogger, Dr. Watson, how is his daughter doing at home?”

  “She's doing well,” Sherlock says. The look shadow that crosses over his face makes me worry, “Why?”

  “She is getting into fights with the other students,” Miss Harding says, her demeanor changing as she stands from her crouching, “I was merely curious.”

   “She's in your class,” Sherlock says. He glances down at me, “Maybe…”

“It’ll be fine,” I say with a small smile, “How much harm can she do to me?”

  Sherlock hesitates again, but his hesitation disappears quickly, “Right, I'll be here to pick you up after school. Be out in the playground, I'll be there at three twenty sharp.”

  “Yes sir,” I say with a salute. Miss Harding laughs as Sherlock rolls his eyes and is led out of the building by Headmaster Raske.

 Miss Harding opens the door and holds it open for me as I walk in. I feel rather childish to say that I'm appreciative of the gesture.

  “The other children are having lunch in the courtyard. Have you eaten lunch yet?” Miss Harding asks. I haven't even eaten breakfast, but really I'm not hungry- dinner at the Watson’s last night could hold me off for at least two or three days. So, I nod in agreement. She smiles and leads me over to a wall with rows of backpacks and sweaters up on hooks.

 “Here, let me put your backpack up here,” She says with a small smile. I hesitate slightly and shift my boot- when I feel the sheathed blade hit the ball of my ankle, I smile and hand her my bag. She hangs it on the hook and then looks back at me.

  Her face seems to lose all its color, her pupils grow so large I can hardly see the blue of her eyes, and her hands shake as she covers her face with her hands.

  “Ma’am?” I say carefully, “Are you alright?”

  “Swe- Puppet, what… What happened to your shoulder?” She says gently. Realization floods through me- I’m wearing a sleeveless dress, one that is cut like the bullet proof vest that Sherlock made me leave at home. Clearly, the wound still red, bruised and stitched is a bit obvious.

  “I-I…” I sputter, “I got stabbed. Be-before I went to live with Sherlock!” I add when her face grows tut, “I-It's okay, really! I can't feel it at all.”

   Miss Harding looks suspicious and worried so I keep talking, “Really, I mean you can ask Mycroft, it's in my medical file.”

  “Are the reasons for those bite and burn scars in there too?” She asks bluntly, “Because I'm supposed to report these kinds of things.”

  “W-would you normally talk to a six year old like this?” I fire back, “This seems more like an interrogation!”

  “Most six year olds wouldn't even know what interrogation means,” Miss Harding says softly, “You’ve had to grow up too fast, didn't you?”

 “L-leave it be, please,” I beg, “It doesn't matter. I'll put on my hoodie, it's in my bag, so I don't scare the other students.”

  “Scare the other students?” Miss Harding squeaks, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. I nod, glancing away from her for a moment. It looks like she's about to cry, but I don't know why.

  “Puppet, sweetheart, I'll let it be, I'm sorry. And you don't have to wear your hoodie,” She says rather softly. I nod but pull my hoodie out of my bag anyway- I'd rather not have anymore questions asked about past events. Personally, I'd rather to forget them entirely.

=

=

=

M     The other children don't talk to me, they only look and whisper. It makes me a bit nervous. Some of them won't even look at me. This is reception, not prison, right?

  The children who’re sitting at the circle table with me won't say a word, none of them even look up from their color sheets. This isn't what I envisioned, what I saw on the telly. This is alien. I don't like it.

  Miss Harding lets the class out on break. She gives me a shaky smile as I walk out after them. A lot of the other kids stay away and whisper to each other, glancing at me. I feel a little closed off, like a zoo attraction. I pull the hood over my head and duck down, pulling the journal Mycroft gave me out of my pocket. Oddly enough, drawing and attempting to write like Miss Harding was showing me makes it easier to block out the looks.

  That is until the warming sunlight is blocked by a cold shadow. I glance up, tucking the note book back into my pocket.

  These boys are clearly much older than me, probably around ten or eleven. The four of them snicker, but only the dark haired one speaks.

  “How'd you turn into a lemon, freak?” He says harshly. I'm not used to this lack of respect. At least Melody got straight to the point. I may not be able to harm these menaces, but I can absolutely give them a reason to fear me.

 I stand up, “I'm not a lemon; I got these from-”

 The kid doesn't give me a chance, he doesn't even give me a second to force fear down his throat. The first punch hits me directly in the throat, and I'm down onto the ground, fear rumbling in my belly. My throat feels like I've inhaled too much smoke, air isn't getting into my lungs fast enough. The kid goes in for another kick, and I can't help but smile. A day ago I was sending an adult crippling to his knees, and today I'm being beat up my a kid that normally wouldn't have a chance against me.

  “Hey!” Comes a familiar voice, “Take your bloody hands off of my punching bag or I'll take a crack at your nuts!”

  The four becomes one as the black haired jerk’s friends make a run for it. My least favorite redhead stands with her hands on her hips in front of him, her eyes narrowed and her fiery red hair swallowed by a dark sea bow.

 The black haired fellow glares, “Your punching bag? I don't seem your name on the lemon!”

 “And I don't see your life on God’s list of angels. Can't wait to see ya in hell you little shrimp!” Melody snaps back.

  I slowly stand again. I'm pretty sure Sherlock wouldn't mind if I kept blackie from beating the life out of Melody.

  I rethink that when another boy stands behind Melody, and seemingly reenforces Melody’s threat. Blackie takes off running. I can understand why. The boy is huge, probably in fifth year. His hair is ink black and slick, his eyes are yellow brown like a wolves. His skin is so pale that it makes him look like a zombie. His nose is crooked like a witches, and he doesn't seem to have any emotion behind his eyes at all.

 Melody growls, and turns around, “Go away, Wesley Arser-son!”

  Wesley’s facial expression doesn't change in the slightest- he seems to be in a stoic still frown, “Wes. Wes Ander son. Come on, Mel-Bell, no need to mess it up, it isn't hard.”

  “Punching bag?” I cough and rub my throat.

  Melody smirks, “Yep.”

  “She told me about her guilt about hitting you. Apparently John-” Wes starts but Melody elbows him him the stomach. He doesn't seem bothered by this.

  “Anyway, since Wesley introduced himself already..” Melody says and points to me, “That's Puppet. Sherlock adopted her.”

  “Hi,” I say, grateful that my throat only feels like a lump has settled in.

  “I'm Wes,” Wes repeats, “I'm in fifth year.”

  “I'm in reception,” I say carefully, “Melody, what year are you in?”

  “Second,” She says with a smirk, “I am too smart for first year.”

  “More like you just happened to know random stuff because of that Sherlock Holmes guy my dad obsesses over,” Wes says with a roll of his eyes.

   Melody glares at him, “Oh yeah tough guy? How ‘bout you say that to my dad huh?”

   I hear Miss Harding call my name in the distance, “I think it's time for us to go in…”

  Melody huffs, “We should have more break time. Cya tomorrow Puppet.” Wes shrugs and follows after her.

=

=

=

     I'm on the swings when I see the taxi pull up. Sherlock steps out, and leans against these side of the cab, watching as I catch the ground with the heels of my feet, slowly coming to a stop.

  “Hurry up,” He calls, leaning off the side of the cab. I pick up my pace and start to jog, my backpack bouncing against my back.

  I hop in after him, and lean back against the seat as he pulls the door shut. Slowly, the taxi starts to move and the school is out of view.

  I start to him one of the nursery rhymes that Miss Harding taught us.

  “Stop that,” Sherlock snaps. I stop, but continue to play the tune on my knees with my fingers. It's a rather simple melody, and after watching Miss Harding while she played it on the piano, I think I can make Diego proud and play it myself. I decide to make a mental reminder to ask Mycroft to use his piano- Sherlock slaps lightly my hand, “Knock it off.”

  I let my hand go still, but I can't help but bite down on my lip.

 He sighs, “...I shouldn't have hit you.”

  I nod, but don't say anything. I'm not sure I should speak, he did tell me to stop humming.

  The taxi slows down in front of Baker Street, and I climb out on my side, and wait by the door till Sherlock is out as well.

  We don't say anything to each other, until Mrs. Hudson comes up with biscuits and pasta for dinner. Of course, Sherlock is the first to speak, “You don't have to sit on the floor.”

  I glance up to where he is on his chair, plate barely touched by his side (except for the biscuits, those are gone), “I like to be on the floor.”

   He scowls, “Why could you possibly like sitting on the floor?”

  “It's safer,” I say, a little bit embarrassed. Dadd- Moriarty was less likely to get mad if I wasn't taking up room on his furniture.

  Sherlock stares at me. I duck my head down and continue to eat, hoping that he wouldn't be angered by my response.

 I look up at the sound of rustling, and my to my surprise, Sherlock Holmes is now sitting on the ground across from me. He gives me what I think is a smile, and I learn to look at him from another perspective: happiness.

  Sherlock Holmes, the so called sociopath, in his own way just made me smile since the day I met Diego.

Chapter Text

“Link? Are you here?”

“I am. I’ve got a prototype of the wings over here, come try them on.”

“I’m lucky I’m not scared of heights.”

“You’re not scared of anything, girly.”

“I’m scared of killing someone. I’m scared of hurting someone. I’m scared of Jim Moriarty getting revenge on me when I enter Hell one day.”

“Lord, Puppet you’re not going to Hell, don’t let me hear that from your beautiful lips ever again.”

“Shut up, you know you can’t say my name in areas like this. I’ve been wearing my hood for a reason you pedophile.”

“I’m not really a pedophile am I?

“No, I...sorry. Just, let’s work on the plan, yeah?”

“Right, so you know how to get to the Eye right?”

“Yeah, I’ve got the map memorized.”

“Good. Next, you’ll be equipped by my girlfriend-”

“You’re what fifteen now? Already risking getting a girl killed?”

“She ain’t gettin’ killed any time soon, darlin’.”

“She’d probably cut all my hair off if she heard you calling me all these names.”

“Nah, she’d neva’ lay a finga’ on ya’.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure, but I’ll cut it out for now. Heh, you probably can’t think straight with all that blood flowing to your cheeks.”

“Oh shut up ye scurvy pirate.”

“Those were the days, P, those were the days..”

“I have to get going. I have no idea what Sherlock is going to make me do this weekend, and even I can’t last on only a few hours of sleep within a two day period.”

“P..are those nightmares comin’ back?”

“I have to go, see you in two days?”

“I better, or else I’ll have to explain to Sherlock Holmes that he’s in danger less than five hours after you’re shot down. But, you avoided my question-”

“...lets not scare people please. We’ll give them the wrong idea.”

“Who?”

“Bye!”

=

=

=

“Sherlock? Why are you calling me at bloody midnight?”

“Puppet keeps waking up from nightmares. PTSD related. How do I help her?”

“...you couldn’t have Googled it?”

“..You know more on the subject.”

“Right, well...I don’t know too much about kids with PTSD, but I know that Mel feels better when I let her sleep with us.”

“...”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Just comfort her. I left a copy of The Lion King and Lilo And Stitch on your bookshelf for when Mel comes over, just put one of those on for her.”

I never thought that I'd be playing Barbies with the girl who two weeks ago called me her punching bag. Actually, i never thought I'd be playing Barbies at all. Melody’s been trying to catch me up with all the stuff I've missed out on, from Spongebob to Teletubbies (that's where the yellow Telly belly toy came from!).

   “So wait,” I mutter, “Brenda is dating Jeff but she and Ken have a thing?”

  Melody nods in all seriousness. I frown, “Why is Brenda being so sketchy?”

   Melody brings the child doll-Lucy- over, “Because she's trying to make Jeff know what he was missing, but Jeff already had Lucy.”

   I frown, something seems a bit off here, “What do you mean?”

 Her fists clench around the doll, and I watch in confusion as she rubs her head a little, “Lucy was his favorite, but then Brenda came home with Jackie, and then Jackie replaced Lucy as Jeff's favorite, but Jeff found out that Jackie wasn't his kid, and he got sad.”

   Her eyes start to tear up and I can tell she isn't talking about the dolls anymore, “And when Jeff gets sad, he drinks that foul smelling, those burning liquid. A-and then he gets mad. But Brenda already took Lucy's replacement and left. Jeff w-was so mad, h-he decided he would g-get b-b-back at her by hurting Lucy.”

  “Mel,” I say suddenly. I know exactly where this is going, I know exactly where this is going.

  “A-and he beat her! He beat her in the head, and he grabbed her arms and dangled her from the balcony and he yelled and threw me back into the house- a-and I just sat there and let him hurt me because Daddy was so s-sad and I didn't want h-him to hurt anymore but then he…” Melody sobs, and suddenly I don't want to hear anymore, but I know how it feels to hold all this in, to see those memories whenever you close your eyes, and suddenly I just hug her, my skin tingling from the contact, this contact I haven't had in so long because I made it very clear. And yet I don't let go.

   “H-he pulled the g-g--gun out on me, like Mummy did to you when you pulled out that snake-knife. H-he pulled the t-trigger but...but the gun backfired and and and…” She finally shoves me away, anger showing on every pore on her face.

  “Just don't aim me for my face...or my bad shoulder,” I say gently, and then those little fists hit me as hard as they could, with all their might. That child who grew up being loved and then having it suddenly stripped away from them, and that feeling of being replaced. I could only imagine what it must have been like for her to see me walk in with Sherlock.

  “Melody Watson, get your bloody hands off of her!”

   I smile as widely as I can at John, “It's fine, she's not hurting me.”

  John looks even angrier, but I catch Melody’s fists and she slumps against me. I look at John from over his shoulder, and give him that same smile, and mouth, “I get it.”

  His eyes widen and suddenly he turns away and wipes at his eyes with his sleeve and heads back downstairs.

  “M-Mummy says that the greatest gift of life is friendship…” She lets out a sobbed giggle, “And I have received it.”

 Later at dinner, Mary notices the faces Melody and I are making at each other

  “So what did you girls do upstairs?” Mary says with a kind smile. Melody glances down, mand John coughs. I smile, “We talked about how Sherlock would rather hug Mycroft than call Lesie ‘Greg’.”

  John bursts out laughing as Sherlock drops his fork with a disgusted look on his face, “Hug Mycroft? That's revolting just as a thought.”

 Mary and Melody burst into giggles. I wink at Sherlock who raises a brow. Sherlock rolls his eyes and asks if John and Mary have come up with a name for their unborn baby.

=

=

=

   “You're seemingly getting used to a ‘normal’ life,” Mycroft says over his cuppa. I shrug, and swing my feet back and forth. These conversations we've been having every Sunday when Sherlock is out always are the same. “ How are you Puppet?” “Any murderous thoughts?” “Planning anything?” “Anyone try and contact you?” “How is school, you are not causing any trouble, correct? ” Everytime. It's kind of annoying, even if it's happened three times in the three weeks I've been living with Sherlock-

  The clatter of glass on wood makes me hop to my feet. Mycroft's eyes are closed tight, his hand clutches his chest and his breathing his off. He looks to be in pain, and I reach out timidly, “Mycroft? Are you- ah !”

   He shoves me away with enough force that I hit the fireplace on my way to the ground. Blood rolls its way down the side of my head, and scoot back away from Mycroft once again. This isn't the first time this has happened, but it's the first time he's shoved me away; before, he had just shouted at me to get out.

  And slowly, like when it happened the last two times, he blinks open his eyes and let's his hand drop to his lap. He sighs, and looks up, clearly expecting me to be on the chair in front of him. He frowns and sits back, his eyes search the room until they land on me.

  “Why are you on the fireplace?” He snaps, “Get over here.”

  I never talk about what he says or does when he does the thing, and I hesitate when he orders me to return to the chair. But, his eyes land on the blood slowly drying to the side of my face.

  “What happened to your head?” He says sharply. I glance at my hands, and bite down on my lower lip.

  “Puppet,” He says, and stands. I wince when he comes down to my level by the fireplace. His eyes are rock hard, but I can see the flash of uncertainty, that shine of worry over his cold eyes and that flickering pain in the back of his black pupils.

   “You did the thing,” I say softly, “And I made the mistake of trying to touch you.”

  He frowns sharply, “What thing?”

 I mimic what he did, “That thing.”

  He frowns, “I do not recall causing you any harm.”

  “You shoved me, and I fell onto the fireplace,” I say, “I don't think you meant to-!”

  But, he is standing already his hands flying to his thinning hair, “I do not recall that, why am I not recalling that!”

   “M-Mycroft i-it's okay,” I start and push myself to my feet, “I-It doesn't hurt I-”

  He slumps into the chair, his hands embedded into his eyes, his forehead scrunched up into several play-doh worms.

  “Can I ask a question?” I manage as I sit back down across from him. He nods, but doesn't look up at me, “What is happening when you do that thing?”

  “My heart stops and then starts,” He says softly, losing his emotionless voice in an instance, “It makes my chest burn and an excruciating pain, much like the feeling of being stabbed.”

   I absently run at my left shoulder, “Is there anyway I can help you when it happens?”

 He looks up, his face shows all emotion and I realize that he isn't meaning it to. He's trying to control his emotions, but he can't, his defenses are down. If I wanted to pry, if Sherlock were here, he'd break in an instance. I take this and use it. I stand up and do the one thing I haven't even done to Sherlock.

  I hug him.

  Mycroft tenses up and his emotionless mask returns to its place. And yet, he still hugs me back.

=

=

=

      “Puppet!” Mouse shouts, her black hair nearly entirely gone on the right side of her head. She fights through the smoke, and I watch, a smile falling on my face. Her eyes widen when she sees me, “Oh, baby girl...no…”

  “Puppet? H-hey come on,” She says with the most gentleness I have ever seen come from a person, “I got here too late oh my god-”

  “Intruder!”

  Mouse’s squinty brown eyes fill with tears and then she's gone.

    “Mouse?” I manage, seemingly getting a hold of myself, “MOUSE!”

  But it isn't Mouse I see next. It isn't Mouse. Daddy drops to his knees with emotion other than menace on his face- guilt, pain, grief …

   “My child,” He lets out a loose sob, “Oh god...James, what did you do to her?”

   I scream, panic replacing the marrow of my bones. That isn't Daddy! He is evil, a menace, a monster that tears out the hearts of the living and ridicules the dead! And yet he was crying, acting as Mycroft did, and I can't see the lies in his eyes, I can't see that menace. It scares me enough….

  I wake up to find lucky I haven't been screaming, but by the way my heart is beating in my chest lets me know that the nightmare is what indeed woke me up. I shiver, suddenly cold and curl up under the covers, but it merely makes my skin itch. I glance out the window, and let out a groan. I've only slept for about three hours, it's around ten. Sherlock is still awake at this time.

   I tip-toe down stairs into the sitting room. Much to my surprise, it's empty, and upon further inspection, i come to find that Sherlock’s coat, scarf and shoes are gone as well. There is a faint creek on the floorboards and a gasp of surprise-

  “Oh! You must be Eliza!”

  I let out a squeak, not having been on guard, and turn around. I recognize her voice, having heard her and Sherlock talk before but I never met her, even with all the references to her Sherlock has made. Her face is kind and wrinkled, but in a nice way, unlike Headmaster Raske. Her hair is a carrot color, and her eyes are green, reflecting her kindness and age.

 I scurry back a bit, “H-Hello. D-does Sherlock know you're up here..?”

  “Mary went into labor,” Mrs. Hudson says kindly, “Sherlock asked me to come and get you ready to meet him at the Hospital.”

  “Into labor?” I squeak. Labor as in hard work or am I missing something here. Surely a pregnant woman shouldn't be back into the workforce, right?

  “She's going to have her baby!” Mrs. Hudson says excitedly, “Come on, we have to get you a bag of toys you can play with while in the waiting room.”

  I follow after her, “I-I prefer to be called Puppet if that’s okay.”

  She chuckles, “I’ll call you whatever you want me to call you dear. Now come on, I want to meet my Grandchild as soon as possible!”

  “Grandchild?” I ask as I pick up the journal Mycroft gave me out from under the bed, “But John nor Mary are your children, right?”

 Mrs.Hudson chuckles, “You speak so formally, no wonder Sherlock adores you so.” I feel the blood rise to my cheeks. “No, neither of them are my child, but I count both Sherlock and John as my boys, and John has already told me that he considers me a mother figure for him.”

  The cab ride takes around fifteen minutes, the sync of London’s lights with the ever ominous London Eye in the background as we head to the Hospital. Mrs. Hudson doesn’t give me a chance to scope out the area and add it to my mental library: instead she drags me on by the hand, rambling about whether the baby is going to be a girl or a boy, from what I got out of it at least.

  We enter the waiting room after being led by a nurse who seemed to be reading this novel about a cat in paris and the woman that falls in love with a man, and how her granddaughter is going to be a famous billionaire when she get’s older. Mrs. Hudson says that her granddaughter is more likely to end up down the same route she did, career wise.

   “Mrs.Hudson!” John exclaims as we walk in. He hugs her and upon releasing my hand, she hugs him back. He smiles at me, “Melody is a bit nervous, and just fell asleep about ten minutes ago, sorry love.”

  I smile and nod, glancing over at Sherlock, who paces back and forth, “What’s Sherlock doing?”

 John snorts, “I don’t think his scientific mind can take the fact that he is about to be the godfather of another child.”

 “Mr. Watson?” One of the nurses says with a small smile, “Mrs. Watson requests you, and I quote, ‘better get his sorry arse in here before I name our unborn child Hamish!’”

    John snorts and with a smile to Sherlock, he bustles past the nurse. The door shuts and Sherlock looks at me, “Nightmare?”

  I shrug, through the memory of Daddy sobbing doesn’t leave a good feeling in my belly. Mrs. Hudson takes a seat, as does Sherlock. I climb into the seat next to Sherlock and rest my head against his shoulder.

 “Excuse me,” Says the nurse the next time she peeks her head out the door, “Mr. Watson requests you come in, Mr. Holmes, and Mrs. Hudson and bring Miss Watson as well.”

 Sherlock nods and rouses Melody from her sleep. The three of them disappear behind the door. I look to my feet. The last time I’d seen a baby was when I was four years old in the CAN, and had to go on a mission with Mouse. It was actually the last mission we had together, and it was a tough one. Mouse had been the scariest person I had met up to that point, aside from Daddy and Uncle Sebastian. She looked nothing like the other CAN members, her hair on the right side of her head short cut, the hair on the other side, long, delicately brushed when we found hair brushes and bright, hot pink. Her eyes were squinty, and very dark brown like the color of spruce. Whiskey used to say how she trained in Japan and that Daddy saw a ton of power and strength come from her like the birth of a phoenix. She has two long scars down her back, something that Ivan liked to say were her “wings that she lost when she entered our hell, for a reason that she was putting her beliefs into Shinto and not Christianity”. I don’t understand it still, maybe I’ll ask Mycroft next Sunday about it.

   The mission looked like it was going to be bad; Mouse had argued fiercely with Ivan about letting me come, but Ivan told her something to convince her, because the next morning, she and I were leaving our current base in North Dakota to head to Montana to rob and kill a man that Daddy had an abhorrence for. The man had a family, and both his wife and child were home when we got there. The plan was for Mouse to poison the man in his sleep, but when we arrived, the man was awake and holding a silver pistol. He pointed it at me, but when he went to fire he fell over, eyes staring blankly with the gifted hole in his forehead. Mouse told me she had no regrets, but she didn't want the wife calling the police before she left. So, she killed her too, using the poison. That's when we heard the crying of the baby. I tiptoed over to the child, and I remember clearly the shock I felt, “ Mouse...there's a baby.”

  Mouse’s head had jerked up, “ What ?” She came over to where I was standing by the baby’s playpen, “ Oh god...Puppet, I...baby girl go on out in the back. ”

  Mouse had grabbed a pillow as I went to follow her orders. When she came out, she was crying.

  “Puppet?” I jerk a bit, and look up to see Sherlock peeking his head through those hospital doors, “Do you...want to see him?”

  I hesitate, “What if I hurt him?”

  Sherlock rolls his eyes, “You won't. Come on.”

     At the slight threat in his voice, I nod and hop off the chair. He holds the door open while I go in, and I stop almost immediately. The baby is so small- so much smaller than the baby Mouse and I had seen, so small that he fit perfectly in the crook of John’s arm.

   He has tuffs of sunshine sticking up from his head, and tonned skin like John’s. He looks like a baby John, really. John smiles, “Want to hold him?”

  I tense up, “I..I’d like to yes, but what if I hurt him?”

 “I don't think you will,” John says, “You're good with Mel.”

I nod slowly, and take his seat in the uncomfortable chair. John makes sure I know how to hold him correctly before gently lowering him into my arms.

 “Meet Puppet, she's basically your cousin.”

M

  Martin coos, and yawns. He's so tiny, so innocent. I slowly put my pointer finger by his face, and watch with astonishment as he grabs onto it for a moment, before letting go. How does such an innocent creature survive in this world of bad men and women?

 “Martin William Watson,” Mary says, “Off the top of your list, John.”

   Sherlock’s face turns white, “ William ?”

 Martin coos softly, and I can't help but whisper a promise to him, “I’ll protect you.”

Chapter Text

“How did you even get into this mess, L?”
“Kill her.”
“S-she’s my sister!”
“Do it.”
“You’ve already taken my Mom and Dad, leave my baby sis alone!”
“Do it!”
“P-please she’s all I have left…”
“Kill her, or I’ll do it myself. Trust me kid, you’ll be doing her a favor by doing the deed yourself.”
“...clack click clack-clack-clack..”
“It’s alright mate. There’s quite a few of us here who don’t want to talk about it. Heh, Mouse is one of em. Try asking her about Puppet, and you’ll lose a limb or two.”
“Click click click click..clack-clack-clack...click..clack-clack…...clack click click...clack-clack-clack…..clack click clack-clack….clack-clack-clack...click-click clack….clack click clack...clack click….clack-clack-clack...click clack-clack….clack click..click..click..click…...click clack clack click..click..clack-clack...click click…”
“Heh, right, well let’s just say I didn’t lose this tooth while eatin’ any of mah ma’s meatloaf. Mouse plucked it righ’ out.”

March comes to an end- the slush melts into puddles, the ugly pigeons return to terrorize tourists, and London becomes a sweaty, humid pot-roast of cultures. But, with the spring season comes spring break in the US.

Sherlock Holmes get’s at least ten missing person’s cases each day..and only a few end well. I actually tried to skip out on the last few, with thankfully school getting in the way I haven't had to got to quite a few of his cases. But now with the break for London being upon us, I have to join him on these cases.

The woods are woody and green, dark and musty like the ancient gods of Greek myth. I tug my cardigan tighter over my shoulders and put on my best ‘please don’t make me’ face on. It turns to a frown as Sherlock ignores me entirely.Our pace slows as the gravel road becomes a dirt driveway.

“Mr. Holmes! Pleasure to see you again.”

Sherlock comes to a stop, leaving me to smack into the back of his surprisingly rock hard legs. I rub my head slightly, and peek out behind him. A man dustier than his age stands with his thumbs in the loops of his jeans and a wicked smile in place. He winks at me and I bare my teeth in return. His face doesn’t change in expression but he takes a small step back.

“Where’s the body?” Sherlock says. I can practically see deduction taking place as his eyes flicker all around the man before us. I creep away from both Sherlock and the strange man. I look back once to see Sherlock smile slightly, as if he is a teenager talking to their grandparent.

I duck under the bushes’ low hanging branches and onto the porch. The sharp smell of smoke makes me cough rather hard, and I cover my mouth with a hand.

“What do you think you’re doing in here, lassy?”

I glance back, starting at the man who was outside before. I smile in a shy yet polite way and hope my mask is good enough to fool this man, “I need to go potty.”

I jerk back as the man’s laughter slaps me in the face, “Down the hall an’ to tthe left.”

I nod politely and scurry down the hall, but instead of going left, I go right, into the bedroom. The room smells of smoke still, but not as strong as it is on the porch and main hall. Thankfully, there is indeed a window, opened thankfully. I climb out and hop outside. My feet crunch leaves and twigs as I maneuver my way back to where Sherlock is waiting at the end of the driveway.

“Find anything?” He says coldly. He’s been doing that a lot lately, but I like to think it’s because he is so stressed and not that he is angry with me. After all, I haven’t been punished yet by him, and he certainly would have if he were cross with me.

“The entire house smells like smoke,” I say. My throat and lungs still burn with the cruelness of the carbon dioxide coming from the building, “But the bedroom to the right of the first hallway.”

Sherlock smirks, “Thank you, Puppet. You have indeed proven yourself useful to me in more ways than one.”

I blink at his praise, through inside it feels as if I were suddenly touched by an angel, “Thank you.”

He starts to walk off in the direction of the rented Jeep, leaving me to stumble on after him. I climb into the front with him and attempt to tug on the seatbelt; but as usual, I can’t get the buckle to go in, and give up with a huff. Sherlock turns the vehicle and we head into the direction of the Baskerville labs.

“Why do we have to go there again?” I say quietly, watching Sherlock as he drives back onto the main road. He doesn’t even look at me, but rather stares out onto the road.

“It would seem that there is another leech with in my brother’s ‘perfect’ laboratory. The murderer is in the building,” He looks over at me and then back to the road, “Why is it that you get so quiet when it is mentioned?”

I rub at my arm where one of the worst bite scars is hidden under my cardigan, “Bad memories. Baskerville is one of the words that sticks out to me.”

Sherlock pulls the vehicle to a stop and turns to look at me, “Puppet, what are you scared of?”

I tense up as if I were about to be struck, “I...what?”

“Don't play stupid with me. What are you scared of?”

What am I scared of? Why is he even asking me this?
I look to my hands and study the maze is scars on them, “I...I don't know.”

Sherlock huffs, "You do know."

I bite my lip and swing my feet, "I've never really thought about it before."

Sherlock sighs and slumps back against the seat, "Fine, I'll give you something more trivial. Where did those scars come from. No, not the little scratches, I mean the bite marks."

I rub my hand over some of the small scars on my palms, "Dad- Moriarty's hounds."

Sherlock looks over, "Did you try and hit them-?"

"No," I say bluntly, and I know that my pain is embedded in my voice, "I was being punished, either for disobeying orders or because he was angry."

I leave out the part that he only ever got angry when Sherlock foiled his plans.

Sherlock runs a hand through his hair and says very quietly, "That is...a bit not good."

I shrug, "It's been two years and a half since then."

Sherlock leans against the steering wheel, watching as night slowly falls upon the world. I look out as well, watching as the sky drains of light and fills with starry darkness; the only thing taking up space in the night is the labs of Baskerville beaming with security lights almost two miles away.

"When did you first come here?" Sherlock asks.

I look up in confusion, "What do you mean?"

He sits back again, "When did you first start living with me?"

"You don't remember?" I say, "But I thought you-"

"I deleted it," he says, "I didn't see it as important at the time."

I frown, "How is it important now?"

"Puppet," He says with a aurora of annoyance surrounding him, "Just answer the question."

"I was captured by Mycroft on December twenty-eighth. He pulled me from the interrogation on January second. I stayed at his home until January sixth-"

"Get to the point."

"Right sorry," I say, "I was dropped off by Mycroft's giant meatballs on the sixth of January. And it's March twelfth today. So about two months and six days."

Sherlock glances back, "Is it better living with me?"

I smile slightly, "Well, yeah. I mean, yeah I'd rather not come to Baskerville and hunt for killers and dead bodies; I don't think most things my age do. But, I come to make sure you're safe because well..."
I rub at my cheeks to try and stop the inflammation, "Well I like being with you and John and Lesie and Mycroft. You guys...I trust you guys."

Sherlock opens the Jeep door, "Thank you."

I keep rubbing at my cheeks as I open the car door and stumble out. Sherlock comes to my side of the vehicle and grabs me under the arms. He stares at me for a moment, and then places me on his hip.

"What are you...?" I question.

"You've walked enough today," Sherlock says. He starts to walk down the hill towards the lab. I rest my head on his shoulder, "Thanks, 'Lock."

"Puppet we're outside the fence, you have to wake up," The yellow Teletubbie says in Sherlock's voice. I sigh and put down my cup of tea. Turning to William the polar bear, I give him an apologetic smile, "Duty calls."

"Sorry," I mumble and wipe at my eyes, "Didn't mean to fall asleep."

Sherlock nods curtly, and I adjust my vest that is on under the t-shirt I borrowed from Melody (she's a least three sizes bigger than me, making it rather hard to tell I'm wearing a bulletproof vest, thankfully). He pulls a gun from his pocket, holds it at his side, "Mycroft warned me on the way here that the Lab is no longer being funded by the government."

"We still can't break in legally," I say quietly in return. At that he grins like a serial killer.

"I've got a warrant."

And the game is on. I scale the fence first and cut the electric wires with my (rubber handled) Kris, using my right arm just in case. I shove the no longer working circuit to the sides and drop down, tucking and rolling on the grass. Sherlock follows in suit. My right hand trembles I switch my Kris into my dominant left, and I have to force myself from turning and running back the way we came.

Sherlock's gun doesn't move the slightest at his side, but he is clearly prepared by the look of his grip and the determined gleam of his eyes. I swallow my fear and slow to allow him to lead. He nods as he goes past.

Our pace slows, both he and I sticking to the shadows as security paces around the fence. Our entry will be noticed soon, and I mouth to Sherlock my fears. He frowns, glancing back at the fence. He tucks his gun into his waistband, and goes to make a move towards the fence. I catch him and pull him back as a guard walks by. As quiet as I can get, I whisper, "I'm smaller and faster, I'll go put it back. You go on head."

Sherlock doesn't look as if he is going to agree, his head turning to look back at the fence line. I poke his thigh and twirl my Kris between my fingers. He stares at me for a moment.

"If they catch you, run. I'll get out on my own," He says.

And against every rule in the book, we split up.

I scale the fence again, and nudge both ends of the wire close to each other once again, and while they aren't connected, you can't tell that from the ground. I hop back to the grass and start heading back into the direction Sherlock was running in.

"Halt!"

"Shoot," I squeak to myself as I drop and roll out of the way of an incoming shot. I roll back onto my feet and sprint towards the hiding place Sherlock and I were at before, running alongside the ditch. Another shot goes off and my left arm bursts into a firework show of pain. My right hand clutches my left, my balance is lost in my panic and pain, and I'm tumbling into the ditch, my Kris lost from my left along the way. I scramble up as the footsteps that followed my grew closer. I pull off my cardigan and wrap it tightly around my left arm. My sweaty hands yank a small, three inch throwing knife from my red rubber boot and I fling it towards the guard quickly coming into view.
The musty yellow light gives me a front row view of the small knife hitting him directly in the nose. I turn away as red waterfalls begin to flow. The man shouts and collapses, hands clutching his face. I turn and run, stumbling and grabbing grass to help pull me out of the ditch.

My heart pounds as I duck into the open window, Sherlock's doing thankfully. He looks up at my from the file cabinet he is digging through. I collapse against the wall, and rest my face in my hands with my knees pulled up to my chest.

"What happened to your arm?" Sherlock asks. He isn't near me, it sounds as if he is across the room. The tapping of keys on a keyboard only confirm this.

"Bullet grazed me," I say quietly, "Guard kept coming. It wouldn't be bleeding this bad if I didn't throw my knife at him."

I uncover my face to see him look at me from across the room, "Where's your Kris?"

My heart drops, "I think it's still in the ditch."

Sherlock gets up and comes to crouch in front of me, "Let me see."
I jerk my arm away and shake my head," It's fine. Let's just finish what we came here to do."

Sherlock makes to grab for me, but I jerk away again, "Stop, it is fine!"

Sherlock glares, "It's bleeding through your sweater thing."

"It's a cardigan," I snap, "And leave it alone. It will be fine, trust me for once."

Sherlock stands up and starts to stomp off towards the door, "Fine. We have to go into the animal laboratory."

"Fine," I repeat just as angrily.

The animal laboratory is oddly silent. Not a shuffle or a squeak. Just quiet, still air. Sherlock puts the plastic keycard back in his pocket, "Check the cages for animals."

He walks off in the direction of the dissection tables, his phone out with the flashlight application shining. I glare at his back, and pull the keychain flashlight off the loop of my jeans. I don’t care if he wants to act like he is a child, I’ll be the mature one, I’ll make sure he doesn’t get killed. I huff and poke my head around the cages. Empty, empty..empty…

CRASH!

I whip around, hand reaching for my missing Kris. I jerk out of the way as something moist nudges my hand and swing my foot in a low kick.It makes contact and whatever touched me wails with pain. I shove the curtain of patchwork cloth off the top of the metal barred cage. I nearly drop my key chain on the floor in my hurry to yank open the cage door and throw myself inside.
“Puppet, shut whatever is making that noise up,” Sherlock snaps in a quiet whisper-shout. I ignore him, and the fact that the cage door shuts behind me as well. The poor creature that had taken the full blow of my kick is a small rabbit, now looking as if its ribs had caved in on it as it twitches and whimpers and squeaks.

I don’t have anymore weapons, I think as I check my vest pockets and boots. I look to my hands, realization coming over me in as rather disturbing thought falls over me. I look back to the withering creature, only mercy on my mind.

But someone else beats me to it. Gaping jaws lunge towards the rabbit's body just as I reach towards it, clipping my hand and making me scream from surprise. I can hear footsteps behind me, but don’t care. The jawed creature snarls, no longer focused on the rabbit. After all, what predator would just accept the smaller prey, when a bigger creature stands before it, shaking and cowering with fear? A stupid one, and miserably, this thing isn’t stupid.

It lunges towards me, teeth bared and green eyes glowing like nuclear waste. I duck and it sails over me, crashing into the barred door and sending it flying open. The creature tumbles out- sliding like a penguin-over the tiled floor. It gets up as I get out of the cage, and throws itself at me. I swing my leg again, but miss, my rustiness in combat is proven when the creature manages to snake it's way towards my face. I reflexively head butt it, and it flops onto the ground again, shaking it's head back and fourth wildly.

I can see Sherlock turn in he darkness and absentmindedly wonder where by keychain went. The creature still hasn't stopped shaking it's head wildly, but goes perfectly still when Sherlock's light lands upon it. I let out a screech of terror, petrified by the hungry look on the small York dog's face. It lunges again, but I don't move. I'm not allowed to after all.

"Puppet move-!"

The dog rams into me, my head hits the floor first. An odd man pries the dog off me, throws it to the floor and aims his gun. The echoing gunshot doesn't bother me, I'm too used to it. The man crouches down in front of me, and for the first time I can't read him. He moves quickly, and dials a number on his phone.

"Mycroft get over here quick. I'll explain when you get here with the damn ambulance!"

He throws Mycroft's nagging behind him, and reaches for my arm. I turn my head away from him. He never grabs my arm, but instead tries and moves my head so I face him again.

"Sorry," I say softly, and close my eyes. I squint at him when the blow doesn't come.

"You're an idiot," He says quietly. I stay still as he grabs my arm again, "Which arm is numb?"

"Neither," I say quickly. The man frowns and rests the back of his hand against my forehead.

"What's your name?"

"I don't have a name," I say.

The man tenses, "What is your code name and unit number?"

"Puppet, Unit One, General of the captains and all lower units," I say, "I...I can't seem to remember what I was doing my but I'm assuming you're my current employer."

"Puppet," He says, "My name is...David...David Hudson, and yes I am your current employer."

I move to stand, but slump back over, "My apologizes, sir but I'm afraid I can't remember my assignment."

"Puppet," He says, "How many fingers am I holding up?"

I look up with a frown, trying to remember what Ivan taught me. I've never had issues remembering things before. I try and guess, "Cat?"

"Cat?" The man says, "No, that's not even a number.."

I lower my gaze, "I'm confused."

"Puppet," The man says, "Where are we?"

"Nice, France," I say.

The man rubs his face with his hands, "You're having a flashback. Puppet, please just..."

He glances behind him, "The dog. What is with you and dogs?"

I try and stand again, I have to complete my assignment still, "Hounds are used to complete punishment. All those who fail their missions-"

I stare, "Mycroft?"

Confusion settles deep in my belly as Mycroft walks closer. He crouches down next to the other man, "I should have had her talk to me sooner. My apologizes, brother dear."

"She's having a flashback," the man says. I swear for a moment I see Sherlock Holmes, but no it's just my employer...David Hudson...?

"Mycroft," I say slowly, "I'm confused."

The man looks over to Mycroft as he speaks, "Puppet, you're not in France. You're in the Baskerville labs."

"Baskerville is off limits," I say slowly, "I'd be targeted first if I were in Baskerville."

"Targeted first?" Mycroft says.

I frown, "You're not supposed to be here Mycroft, you come in two....oh."

I shrink back as the dark wood floors shift the white tiles and the walls change to the sterile white. The entire room smells of blood,and the man, no- Sherlock- has blood on his hands.

"What happened?" I manage, "Why...why are...?" My gaze flickers to the blood on Sherlock's hands, "Are you okay?"

"You said the bullet only grazed you," Sherlock says slowly.

"It did," I say, and push myself up with my arms, closing my eyes when a wave of dizziness comes over me in a wave, "But why are you covered in blood?"

Mycroft frowns, "Sherlock, did the dog bite her?"

"Dog," I say instantly, "There was a dog."
I think over what Sherlock and his brother said, "Did I freak out?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, "You kept saying you were in France."

My stomach rolls, "Sorry."

Sherlock frowns further, "Mycroft, is the ambulance here?"

Mycroft nods, and picks me up and can't do anything but slump towards his chest, "D...didn't mean to blow the mission."

Mycroft ignores me and he and Sherlock leave the labs. My vision starts to blur and I glance over at Sherlock as the brothers pick up their pace, "I'm not...going to die...am I?"

"No," Sherlock says sharply, "You're not."

"Okay," I mumble, and shiver from the sudden cold. I close my eyes, and instantly go limp, as if I were a robot with an off switch

Chapter Text

“I'm sorry! Sorry sorry sorry-”

“Shut up! Just shut up!

“...”

“Stop your crying.”

“Mycroft, she's a kid.  Come here Puppet.”

“...did I kill him?”

“No, you didn't.”

“He stopped breathing.”

“He's in surgery now.”

“Mycroft, God damnit! You can't act like she murdered him. You know what he did.”

“...”

“He didn't leave a list.”

“He did, he just didn't write it down.”

“Can I see?”
“Move Lucy! Let me see!”
“Wow that's so cool!”
“Is your dad really that crazy detective?”

“He's not my dad,” I say, “He's my guardian, and he's not crazy.”

“My mummy says he's a bad man for letting you go with him to a dangerous place,” Lucy, a little ginger girl, says, “Did it hurt?”

I rub at the scar on my shoulder, and look away, “Yeah, it hurt a ton. But, Sherlock isn't a bad man, he just didn't know I was scared of dogs is all.”

Jimmy, a ugly blond boy, snorts crudely, “Oh look at me, I'm Puppet and I'm scared of little puppy dogs!”

I look to my feet, “Shut up.”

The other kids laugh along with him, like a pack of hyenas. I frown, and sigh, “I'm going to go find Mel.”

“You do that, puppy,” Jimmy snickers.

I clench my fists at my sides, and self-consciously untie my sweater from around my waist to put it on. The stupid scar kept getting attention now that I was back in school, and the kids wouldn't stop making fun of me as if they were the funniest people on earth.
The bullet that grazed my shoulder went deep enough that it needed stitches, but didn't get infected. Sherlock stopped taking me out on cases with him and stopped letting me help him at hom- the flat, but I guess that's okay. It's not like I wanted to anyway

Melody spots me from where she and Wes are on top of the monkey bars, “Hey Puppet.”

“Hi,” I say quietly. I climb the bars and Wes reaches down to pull me up with them.

“Are they bugging you again?” Wes asks, “I don't mind getting suspended again.”

I shake my head, “It's fine, really. In the end, I still know I could stop them with my pinky finger.”

Melody pokes my shoulder, “Dad wanted me to ask you if it stills hurts.”

I shrug, “Not really. It stopped hurting a few weeks ago.”

That isn't true, it stopped hurting last week, but I want John to stop worrying over it. He has Martin to look after. Speaking of Martin, he's a month old now, and with April here, he's only going to get older.

“There's our ride,” Wes says and nudges Melody. They both jump down, and Wes holds out his arms. I shake my head, “Thanks, but I'll come down later. I'm walking home today.”

Wes frowns, “I thought Mrs. Watson said you were coming with us this morning.”

“Wesley, come on,” Melody urges, “My mum is in a bad mood today, and I'd rather not get stuck with chores.”

“You're five, Mel,” Wes says, “What chores can she possibly give you?”

“She can make me sit with stupid again,” Melody grumbles, and drags him off. Wes looks back with a frown, and doesn't stop staring at me until he's in the car. I see Mary climb out of the car, and wave me over. I shake my head. Today...today it is better if I'm alone. Mary frowns, but gets back in the car. They don't drive off for a few more minutes.
Eventually, the school yard is empty, aside from one teacher. She's watching me with a frown, and honestly I'm getting kind of sick of the frowns. I fake a smile and wave at her as I dangle from the monkey bars. I let go and brace myself for a gentle landing onto the pebble-like foam. She comes over with my backpack, “Where is your guardian?”

“I'm walking to my uncles house today,” I lie, “He lives around the corner. I just wanted to play a little bit more before I left.”

She nods slowly and hands me my bag, “Alright….Have a good day, Puppet.”

I smile and wave. My heart drops as I start to walk towards 221B. The cars honking rude words towards each other make me flinch, and the bustle of people walking by forces me to make myself smaller. Once and a while, I get a questioning glance, and other times, I get a pitiful look. People are weird. They shout for equality and bash on white skinned people for being white skinned, but get mad if white skinned people even remotely suggest something about someone with colored skin. They shout for equality among gender, but claim one gender is better than the other. They say one religion is better than the other, when their religions are interconnected, and a majority of have the same core values, yet they still stay one is right and one is wrong, as if they were fighting over lilac or purple. They say that the children in other countries need help, but don't realize children in their own country need help. They’d rather stand separate than united. It's odd how the world works this way.

It's dark by the time I get to 221B. I don't have a key, but Mrs. Hudson left the door unlocked this morning (she was late for bingo), so I just walk in, and lock the door behind me. The stairs weren't a problem, and I drop my backpack by the door leading into the sitting room. The flat is dark, and I'm too short to reach the light switch, so I have to search around for a pen that I can use to hit the switch. Something ends up catching my foot and leaving me sprawled on the floor. Nothing is going right it seems. I huff, and untangle myself from what I think is a blanket.

I find a pen on the floor, and maneuver my way back to the light switch. I stand on my toes like a ballerina and use the pen to hit the switch. The lights flicker on. I sigh with relief, and slump back against the wall.

Melody’s birthday is next week. She has been telling me all about her Barbie themed party she’s going to have, and who's coming and who's not coming. I...I don't understand. I asked Mary what a birthday was, and she’d looked a little tired when she replied.

“It's the day of creation, but not like it was back at the CAN. They- we celebrate it as a gift rather than just an event that happens.The party usually has cake and presents, and you tell the person whose birthday it is ‘happy birthday’.”

I nibble lightly on my lower lip, and grab the remote off the coffee table.

“F is for friends who do stuff together, U is for you and me! N is for anywhere at any time at all, down here in the deep blue sea!”

I sit down on the rug, watch intently as Plankton clearly plans to betray SpongeBob.It has been a few hours since I've gotten home. As the sea sponge frolics among the flowers, I look away, towards the door as it swings open and hits the wall with almighty boom.

“Puppet!” He shouts, “Get- oh.”

I glance back at him, “Hi.”

He winces, “Don't use ‘hi’. Say hello or hey, or something other than that annoying,overused, single syllable word.”

I nod, “What happened with the case?”

Sherlock glances at the TV, “What happened at school?”

I frown, “I asked you first.”

“And I asked you second,” Sherlock replies.

He heads into the kitchen, and I flop down onto my back, “Nothing happened at school. What happened with the case?”

“Don't try and lie to me,” Sherlock says as he fiddles with the kettle, “You only ever watch reruns when you're upset, and the only place you've been to today is school. Also, you're wearing your jacket when you've been complaining about the raising temperatures for weeks now.”

I frown, “It was normal, a few kids wanted to know about the scar. I told Mel I shouldn't have worn short sleeves.”

“So why did you?” Sherlock says, grabbing two cups out of the cabinet.

“Your second point,” I sigh, “It's bloody boiling out.”

“You're only six,” Sherlock mutters as he places the tea bags into each cup, “Don't use such foul language.”

“Seven,” I correct. He pauses and slowly turns to look at me.

“When did you turn seven?”

I prop myself up on one elbow, and take the cup he hands me, “Today.”

He frowns, “Why didn't you tell me?”

I look down at my cup and take a cautious sip. Too much sugar, “You put too much sugar in it.”

“Puppet,” Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Stop avoiding the question, or I'll answer it myself.”

“I didn't think it mattered,” I say, “It never did before, so I don't see why it makes such a difference now. I don't have as many friends as Mel for a party, nor do I care for a party. I don't like big crowds.”

Sherlock puts his cup down on the side table, and leans forwards with his elbows on his thighs, “You don't have to have a party.”

“I'm confused,” I say slowly, “I thought that's what birthdays were.”

Sherlock grabs his phone out of his pocket, “I'm texting Mycroft. Surely there is something he-”

“You don't have to,” I say with a frown. his attitude is weird, he normally doesn't care about things like this, “Why are you acting so weird?”

“Normal children have birthday parties,” He says, “But sometimes they just go somewhere to celebrate instead.”

“But I'm not a normal child.”

“You're right, you're a somewhat interesting child.”

“Sherlock,” I say slowly, “I'm not a normal child, because I'm not a child.”

Sherlock huffs, and tosses his phone onto the side table, “You are a child.”

“No, I'm not,” I say. I'm having a hard time controlling my tone now, with him acting stupid like this, “I'm a machine. And if...you being nice to me is because you think I'm a child, you shouldn't do that. I'm meant to be used as a tool or weapon, not treated as if I'm Melody.”

I don't think I've ever seen Sherlock look as disgusted as he does now. Finally, he gets the point. Maybe things would be normal from here on out-

“I'm calling Mycroft.”

“What?” I groan, “Why? You're being ridiculous!”

“You need to...see someone about this issue,” Sherlock says. I can tell he's trying to hold something back, and it's only annoying me more.

“Sherlock, what are you even going on about? You're acting crazy,” I snap, “You've been acting so weird after Baskerville, and it's stupid. You’re stupid.”

Sherlock’s gaze turns icy, “Do not speak to me that way.”

Finally he's acting normal, until he decides to actually call Mycroft, “I'm not being kidnapped no- no John is fine- Mycroft- no she’s not on a murderous rampage- just let me speak!”

“Sherlock,” I groan, “You're being an idiot.”

“Shut up Puppet!” Sherlock snaps. I frown but keep quiet. I know he's not going punish me or anything like that, the idiot has been treating me like a porcelain doll since the whole Baskerville incident. I don't appreciate it one bit either, I'm a pretty damn good fighter and him babying me is rather offensive.

“She's seven,” Sherlock says into his phone, “Yes, Today. She didn't tell anyone until I asked about it.”

“Because it's stupid and doesn't matter!” I shout so Mycroft can hear me. Sherlock glares, but keeps on talking.

“The whole thing about her claiming not to be a child is because she thinks she's a machine, a weapon really. No, not her. Mycroft I'm saying that she isn't fit for public school-”

I turn off the telly, “Don't tell him that! I'm fine in school-!”

“Go to your room,” Sherlock snaps. I stomp my foot. He's being a stupid jerk face! I'm perfectly fine in school, I haven't hurt anyone, I haven't yelled or done anything bad!

“No!” I shout, “I don't want to go to my-”

Smack!

I blink. Then, I blink again. One more time, and then….

“Y...you hit me.”

Sherlock stares at his hand, moving his fingers and wincing, “I suppose I did.”

I slowly bring my own hand up to my cheek. It burned, but he still didn't hit me hard enough to really hurt. I rub at it anyway, frowning at him, “Well, I'm going up stairs.”

“Puppet-”

I ignore him and walk up stairs, my feet tapping against the wood while I rub at my burning cheek. He actually hit me. It didn't hurt but more of surprised me. I hadn't expected it. I'm getting too soft, I should have been able to stop him from even touching me. I open the bedroom door and shut it quietly behind me. I don't feel like playing with any of the toys that I have come to collect, nor do I wish to climb on my bed and sit there. Instead, I sit down on the floor and bring my knees to my chest. I can't stop trying to soothe the burning feeling on the side of my face.

I deserved it. I shouldn't have shouted at him, let alone acted like a child. I should have just listened to him, he's in charge, not me. I glance to the window. It's nearly midnight, and I highly doubt Sherlock will come up. Gingerly, I grab my Kris and my vest, and put them on the bed. I change into more formidable clothes then my school clothes- black leggings and a long sleeved navy blue shirt with SpongeBob and Patrick on it.

I switch my red rubber boots out for the white light up sneakers with Cinderella on the sides; while plain sneakers work better, but Anthea got what she got, and they were better than the uncomfortable black combat boots I wore when I was with the CAN. I pop my Kris into its brace and pull my bullet proof vest over my head.

The window popped open like popcorn, and I didn't close it. I would need it to get back in tonight. I glance down at the far fall, and jump. I hit the other building across the alley and use my feet to rebound back to 221B’s walls. I continued to do this until I hit the ground.

I stay in the shadows until I spot an opening in the crowd of citizens and casually walk with them.

It took a little less than an hour to get to our meeting place on foot. I'm not tired at all, but more of feeling rather reserved. While my cheek doesn't even burn in the slightest, I can't help but rub at it. I spot the faint fire light below the stone bridge I am coming upon, and pick up my pace. I slid down the grassy side and call out as I head under the bridge, “Link?”

Chapter Text

“Sherlock?”
“You were right.”
“I never thought I would hear you say that, brother of mine.”
“Mycroft.”
“Sherlock...where is Puppet?”
“Gone. Why do you think I called you and Lestrade?”
“I assumed you were doing something idiotic.”
“You weren't wrong.”
“What did you do?”
“...”
“Sherlock.”
“I hit her.”
“She will get over it-”
“Hard. My hand stung afterwards.”
“...why?”
“You heard the call.”
“Sherlock, she was acting her age.”
“I hit her.”
“Did you promise her that you would not?”
“No. Mycroft-”
“Sherlock, Puppet is a very literal person. You never explicitly said that you would never hurt her, and so she will not take that to offense. She grew up with worse then a petty slap-”
“Mycroft, she left.”
“What?”
“She's not here. Lestrade is out looking for her.”
“She is a murderous-”
“She never wanted to hurt anyone!”
“...Do not shout at me, Sherlock.”
“Sherlock? Mycroft?”
“John.”
“Dr. Watson.”
“Lestrade called me. What happened?”
“I hit her.”
“Pardon?”
“I hit Puppet.”
“....!”
“Dr. Watson! Restrain yourself!”
“You bastard! You bloody-”
“Wait, do you hear that?”
“Hear what?!”
“That…”
“Sherlock!”
“Puppet.”
“Hurry, I- she's going to kill Detective Inspector Lestrade. Dr. Watson, your gun-”
“I am not going to shoot a six year old-”
“Seven.”
“Not the point, Sherlock.”
“Fine.”
“Give me my damn gun back-!”
“I'll take care of this myself.”
“Sherlock-!”
“Puppet, no!”

But nobody came. I slowly make my way under the bridge. It's not normal for him to be gone, but then again, I'm not exactly scheduled in for today. I search around for the solar powered lamp, keeping one hand on the wall to keep myself located in the darkness.

Thump thump thump…

I almost say hello out loud, but I don't know who exactly could be under this bridge aside from myself. Cautiously, I fall still, focusing on the dripping of mildew-

My back hits the ground first, the weight on my chest knocking the window out of my lungs. I'm not shocked, instead I'm a flurry of snowflakes- razor edged snowflakes that is. I launch my fist at the outline of a jaw, sending the attackers head to the right. The light I had been searching for flickered to life, but the shadows cast by the elderly bricks keep me from seeing who is currently scratching my collar bone with their grip. They fling their own fist towards my face, but I manage to get my knees free. I force myself to put all my weight onto my shoulders and fling my attacker off my hips. They flip over, their embedded nails scratching further up my shoulder. I hop to my feet, and reach for my Kris, my hand grips the handle as I pull it out, my left arm in front of my shield- my right arm.

“Shit! No, Minnie staph! Yer gonna kill ‘er!”

Another light turns on behind me. I resist the urge to turn around. It has to be Link, no other human being speaks English like that in England. I trust my head over my instincts, “Link, who is this chick?”

“Minnie Mouse, this is my friend, ‘Uppet Mori-tea.”

“Hi,” I say bluntly. I refuse to lower my Kris. The shaded person snorts, a hefty yet dead sounding laugh.

“Don't even joke about that, Link. That's f- fluffed up.”

My Kris hits the ground harshly with a clank and I spin around to face him. I stare at the black skinned boy in front of me. My pirate pal steps towards me, stained white t-shirt and the red tie he loves to wear around his neck giving him a sense of class...well, somewhat. He had cut his shaggy black hair to a shorter, more common cut- London's humid weather would have made it impossible for him to get any work done.

“Link,” I choke out, “How could you not tell me that s-she is your girlfriend?”

“You can't be serious,” The other person who couldn't be here says in a strained voice, “Link, that can't be her.”

“I dern understan’,” Link says slowly, “You two know ea’ other?”

The girl slowly stood and shook her hair out, finally stepping out into the light like some Korean pop star.

I've heard a lot over the last few week’s worth of conversations about Link’s girlfriend, but never met her. Now, seeing the girl made my heart lurch.

She’s got a skin tone as light as one of those girls you see on the covers of quite a few DVDs based in China, and eyes in a shape that make her seem like she really needs a pair of sunglasses, with circles of black surrounding her pupils. Her hair is split down the middle, perfectly symmetrical. On the left side, it's black and shaved, but the other is its polar opposite: a bright hot pink that is long and thick, reaching her shoulder. She smirks, and trails her tongue along her cherry red lips. She's got a plain black tank-top on, and camo cargo pants, along with signature black combat boots. She's the definition of badass, and someone I thought I had betrayed in the form of her death.

“Mouse,” I say slowly, “I thought…”

“I was dead?” She says bluntly, “Yeah, so did I. Moran,” She spits, “Came in and held a gun to my head. I stabbed him through his nose, and made a run for it.”

“Through the nose?” I squeak, “Did you kill him?”

“No,” Mouse snorts, and brushes some of her hair from her face, “Through his nose, Z, not up his nose. I'm sure I made him have to get some nasty stitch work.”

I rub at my right shoulder, “I'm sorry I left...I had to.”

Mouse shrugs, “Rumor was that someone messed up the plan and Moran blamed you.”

I look at the floor, “Something like that.”

“So uh,” Link coughs, “As much as I luv deez conver-sat-ion, why are ya ‘ere, P?”

“I came to talk about the plan, actually,” I say and pick up my Kris from the floor, “I needed to change the date.”

“Huh?” Link asks with wide eyes, “We’re ‘ready on a deadline!”

“I'm sorry,” I blurt out, “But Melody has a party and she wants me to come-”

“Melody,” Mouse says slowly, “Puppet, what have you been doing since the CAN? Link told me about Ivan’s son, but nothing about what you've been doing since.”

I feel cornered, “I...I've been living a normal life.”

“A normal life,” Mouse repeats. She smiles, “That's good. But who adopted you? I'm sure they dubbed you a troubled child.”

I rub at the back of my neck, “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Who?” Mouse repeats, her smile shifting.

“Sherlock Holmes,” I say again. Her smile turns to a look resembling a child who you killed the pet of, “Funny, how you left the rest of us to die so you could go off with Sherlock bloody Holmes. You're a true leader, Puppet.”

“It's not like that!” I shout, “You don't know what happened on the roof top!”

“Yeah, well I know what happened after the rooftop,” Mouse says harshly, “You left us, you and Ivan both. You left me, you left Whiskey, you left Kitty-!”

“Shut up!” I shout. I can't afford to cry right now, I can't afford to show that she was hurting me on a level I had never known until I met Mycroft Holmes. I can't afford to care, “I'm done here. Link, we can discuss this when Mouse isn't here.”

“P!” Link shouts as I turn heel and run out from under the bridge.

=
=
=

I near Baker Street slowly, tears pooling under my eyes. I can't keep screwing up like this, someone is bound to punish me with more than just a slap. I rub my eyes and look up from the sidewalk. My eyes widen once I catch sight of the flashing red and blue. My shuffling morphed into a sprint.

Sherlock! Sherlock!

“Sherlock!” I cry as I duck under the police tape. Several officers turn, their eyes widen in what I presume is shock. I don't stop. What happened while I was gone? What if Sherlock was dead due to my stupidity?

I catch sight of white as I shove my way to the door and skid to a stop. The white was a wisp of the long coat the person wore, along with the ghost white fedora perched upon their head. They hold a gun in their hand, and march towards Lestrade with a reason.

I grab my Kris out of my boot and run towards Lestrade. Some officers shout, others fiddle with their guns in terror. I can't let the person in white get to Lestrade first.

“Lesie!” I shout. The silver haired detective turns around quickly, his eyes wide with surprise as I jump, Kris raised above his head.

“Puppet, no!”

The person in white raises their gun, I place my foot on Lestrade’s shoulder and push off. The person who dressed in the color of purity’s gun fell with a clatter on the pavement, their gloved hands find the new wound on his arm, soaking the dove like gloves with red. I pant, and turn around.

The impact throws me off my feet, and sends my Kris whirling to the right. The person in white makes a run for it down the alley to my left. I shakily reach a hand up to my chest. I'm getting really sick of getting shot at. My fingers find the bullet and with a wince, pry it out.

Mycroft stares at me with a blank expression from the door of Baker Street, a gun in hand. I slowly sit up, and watch in confusion as John and Sherlock come running towards me.

“Sherlock?” I say, “Why is the entire left side of your face a grape juice stain?”

“Where were you?” Sherlock snaps as he kneels down next to me.

John looks frantic, “Are you-” he snorts, “Oh God, I didn't think you would be wearing a bulletproof vest.”

“I wore one to go to your house,” I say dryly and flick the bullet at him, “I'm not an idiot.”

I glance back to Mycroft, who slowly is making his way over, “So uh why did he try and kill me?”

“He thought you were going to kill Lestrade,” John says bitterly. Lestrade blinks from his frozen position behind them.

“Lesie?” I say slowly, “You knew I wasn't going to hurt you, right?”

“No,” Lestrade admits after a moment of staring, “I thought you were going to kill me.”

I look back to my hands, “Sorry. I was trying to get the guy behind you, but he got away.”

“Guy behind him?” Sherlock asks.

“A person head to toe in white, like the one from the street a few weeks ago. The guy that knocked out my tooth,” I say. I find the area on the upper part of my mouth where my tooth had been.

“Jesus,” John says suddenly, “You really did hit her hard.”

“He didn't hit me hard,” I say, confusion making its way into my voice, “He hits like a baby.”

Sherlock frowns, “Puppet, I hit you hard. You have a mark on your face to prove it.”

I frown as well, “It didn't hurt all that much. Just stung a little.”

“Wait you hit her?” Lestrade blurts out.

“I lost control for a moment,” Sherlock admits, “I was trying to talk to Mycroft and she was making it difficult to stay calm.”

“Sorry,” I say.

John frowns, an angry hedgehog like expression on his face, “Don't appologize.”

“Sorry,” I say and then wince, “Sorry. No I mean-”

“We get it,” Lestrade says with a snort, “Come on, I've never seen Mycroft Holmes be wrong before. This should be interesting.”

Sherlock picks me up off the ground, which I'm completely fine with. Running four miles really sucks when you haven't been running more than one everyday. I rest the side of my face on his shoulder, and yawn.

“You know,” Leastrade says as we walk the short distance to where Mycroft still stood, “If I didn't know you, I'd think she really was your kid, Sherlock.”

Sherlock snorts, “I'm not a parent.”

“You say that now,” Lestrade says with a warm smile, “But trust me, I can see it and I'm sure John does too.”

“Lesie,” I say, “I'm not a child. And why does it look like your hair is glittery?”

Lestrade's face takes on a faint blush, “Doesn't matter. And you are a child.”

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft says quietly. He hands John back his gun. John places it back in his coat pocket with an unamused expression.

“Mycroft,” Lestrade says bluntly, “As much as I appreciate the effort to save my life, I don't appreciate you shooting a six-”

“Seven,” I mumble.

Lestrade raises a brow, “Seven year old, my apologizes.”

John snorts, “Right, well if all is good here now, Mary is getting rather pissed that I left in the middle of dinner.”

“Thank you, John,” I mumble. He grins and ruffles my hair. I roll my eyes, but don't bother to try and swat his hand away. I watch him as he walks to go and hail down a cab. He climbs in rather sloppily compared to Sherlock.

“Thank you...Lestrade,” Sherlock says, “I owe you.”

“Nah,” Lestrade says with a grin, “I did take a video of you while you were drugged up.”

“You what?”

“Alright! Clear the scene, we’re done here!”

“Lestrade!” Sherlock shouts, and turns to the side a little. I wake up a little at Mycroft’s intense stare. He is leaning heavily against the doorframe, his eyes narrowed as he using his own deduction skills to try and pry my secrets from me. I remember that Sherlock had a hard time trying to seduce me with out my shields, and decide to put them up. Mycroft looks startled for a split second before he falls emotionless once again.

“Bed,” Sherlock says suddenly. I can't keep back the yawn that forced its way up.

Mycroft stands up straighter and let's Sherlock and I pass. I can't help but feel a little stupid, but I haven't been getting much sleep lately, with both my meetings with Link and my other sleeping problems. So I let myself be portrayed a little like a child. It's easier now that I know that I'm allowed to act like a child...well at least I think I am. The coolness of 221B is rather inviting, and I can't help but smile as we pass the palm tree wall paper.

I nearly made a noise when suddenly I was on my bed with the side of my face pressed into the pillow, and my vest was pulled up over my shoulders. I was nearly away into dreamland when a quiet voice keeps me awake.

“You really care about her. Caring isn't an advantage-”

“You wanted me to break her.”

“...Yes.”

“I am not going to.”

“Sherlock, you're the only person who-”

“Breaking her isn't going to help.”

“Sherlock, Queen and Country-”

“...Mycroft.”

“Sherlock.”

“I will not do it. She…”

“Do you think of her has a daughter, Sherlock?”

“I think of her as highly as I think of John.”

“It's only been four months, Sherlock-”

“I cared for John within the first week. You know that.”

“She is murderous.”

“She is not.”

“Sherlock.”

“She is always worried about hurting others, she thinks she is a weapon. She has odd protective instincts for someone in her situation, and I do not believe it is because she used to have a sibling. She is a child, Mycroft, a child who is much like myself-”

“She is nothing like you-”

“She took a bullet for Melody the first week she was with me. She could have died.”

Silence. For a moment I think they may realize that I'm awake still.

“Do you care for her as if she is Redbeard?”

“Not the same way. I don't feel as if she is a pet of some kind.”

“Sherlock, do you wish that she were your daughter?”

“I suppose. She's not however-”

“She legally is. You adopted her-”

“Under your name-”

“Under the circumstances, I do not think she cares.”

“Mycroft-”

“You are right, she shouldn't be in public school. But, she wants to. For some unknown reason, she still wishes to try. If anything goes wrong, I will start home schooling her. For you.”

“...I…”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Chapter Text

“Mycroft?”

“That would be my name.”

“No need to give me your salty attitude.”

“Sorry.”

“Sigh...look, I get it. You’re all mighty and I’m a peasant. We established that with your control issues. But, when reality comes knocking at your door, Mycroft, it tells you that we’re equals.”

“Your repetition makes me pity you every session.”

“Oh, you want to bring up pity parties, Mr. ‘My insides are bleeding out’-”

“ We do not bring that up, Isabelle.”

“Right, right. You know, if you would talk to an actual therapist-”

“No. I will talk to you, and you only. You have proven to be able to keep secrets.”

“Mycroft, have you told him?”

“No.”

“No? Why not?”

“Do not shout at me, Isabelle.”

“Sorry, but you better give me answer. Sherlock deserves to know.”

“Because, he already knows my fate.”

“But you just said-”

“I have angered the wrong people, Isabelle. I made a promise which I did not keep, and I shall be paying the price.”

“...Are you telling me of plans of your assassination..?”

“I know you can keep a secret.”

===

“Sir?”

“It is almost time.”

“For what?”

“To get our assassin back.”

“No way.”

“What?”

“I refuse. Puppet is in there-”

“Puppet betrayed us!”

“She didn't! We don't know the story, Rabbit-!”

“Whisky, you moron she doesn't care about us anymore. She never has cared about us.”

“...You're lying.”

“ What?”

“I ain't going to kill Puppet. So what if she's his kid? She...she took all the hits for us. She...she gave us her rations on weeks when we gave away our own.”

“... sniff... We have to. Moran is angry, Whiskey. We...we have to….”

“Leave. We alone, only Moran knows of the mission. We assassinate Melody Watson instead.”

“With the risk of Puppet finding out?”

“If she does, I'll throw one of the rabbits at her. Let her know. Kitty came in with pig sayin’ that Ivan have her the message. She knows that some of us are on her side.”

“...let's do it.”

 “I am an assassin!” I shout.

 “You’re a bunny!” Melody screeches, her red hair flying into her face as she furiously throws her head side to side.

“Assassin!”

“Bunny!”

“ Waaaaaaah !”

     Melody turns mid argument with a growl. The rabbit she had been trying to force me to use is clenched tightly in her meaty hands, “Shut up!”

 “Mel,” I sigh, “He’s a baby. He barely knows that he’s breathing.”

  She rolls her eyes. For a six year old, she has quite the attitude. To be honest, I don’t know how she's surviving in a military household with her attitude flying about like this. Martin continues his wailing, his little face blotchy and red. He tends to scream, flail and sob all at the same time. Melody hates him and says he’s stupid, but to be honest, I think being able to do all three of those at once makes him pretty talented.

 “Why can’t you just go away?” Melody spits. Martin doesn’t stop his crying. Melody’s eye starts to twitch as I lean down to grab the infant's pacifier. John had shown me what to do when Martin did this sort of thing, and I honestly don’t get why Melody doesn’t use the solution as well- it works decently. His face loses some of it’s redness as he calms down, and he watches curiously as I turn to Melody.

 She crosses her arms, “...Thank you.”

 I smile, “I’m the assassin.”

=

=

=

  “Puppet?”

  I glance behind me at the black haired detective, where he stood tossing a handgun from one hand to another while starting at a smiley face on the wall,“Yes?”

    Sherlock looks oddly uncomfortable. I’ve never seen him act like this, not once in the months I’ve known him. I put down my crayon and turn around fully, “‘Lock?”

 “...Nevermind.”

 He looks as if he wants to say something still, however. I frown, but he turns around still and switched the handgun out for his cell phone, “We have a case.”

 “You have a case,” I correct, “I just tag along.”

 “Nonsense,” Sherlock says and turns with a flat looking expression, “You are not some kind of pet.”

  I shrug, “See it was you will.”

 Sherlock glares at his phone, “John wants to come along this time.”

 “Mary probably wants space,” I grab my crayon again, “I can stay with Mrs. Hudson if you’d like to go alone.”

“Stop speaking as if you’re an adult,” Sherlock snaps.

  I place my crayon on the floor again and frown, “Sherlock, that’s just how I speak.”

 “You’re supposed to be a child,” Sherlock growls, “And he took that from you.”

 I don’t feel like going over this again, “I never knew that, so it doesn’t really bother me.”

 “You said the other day that this was annoying,” Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes, “And now it doesn’t bother you?”

  “Yes,” I sigh, “It is annoying. But I can get over it.”

 “Puppet,” Sherlock says, “You don’t have to get over it.”

 “Sherlock,” I huff, “It's fine.”

  Sherlock steps over the coffee table, and decides to drop down beside me, and grabs a paper and indigo crayon. He frowns however, and puts the paper and crayon down on the coffee table. Then he leans back over and sniffs me. I shriek and smack him in the face with a hand, shoving his face away from me, “Bloody hell!”

 “Language,” Sherlock says with a look of disgust, “You smell like sewer.”

  I wince slightly and scoot away, “So?”

Sherlock’s bewildered expression nearly makes me giggle, “You smell like sewage. When was the last time you bathed?”

 I shrug and tug at the laces of my shoes, “I don’t know.”

 Sherlock frowns further, “You do know. Exact date?”

 I try and think back, “Day Mycroft took me out of the interrogation. I passed out and when I woke up I was less filthy then before.”

  “I knew your hair was starting to remind me of someone,” Sherlock says with an air of disgust, “Go shower.”

  What..what does he mean by that? I nibble on my lower lip slightly, look to my lap and frown. Shower wasn’t a good term with the CAN. It usually related to death, as one of our old roles much before I was born was in World War Two, when Hitler hired the CAN to try and pick out Jewish men, women and children. The CAN was still good at the time, this was long before Dad- Moriarty- came along and ruined the CAN with in a matter of two years, and revolted. They instead created a Underground railroad for the Jewish humans and helped many escape or stay hidden until they were safe.

 “Puppet?”

 I jerk slightly and stare up at him with wide eyes, “Sorry.”

 He blinks, “What were you thinking about?”

 I wince and rub at my arm, “I shouldn’t have been thinking.”

Sherlock frowns, “What were you thinking about?”

 I look away, “The CAN.”

 Sherlock sighs, surprising me, “I should have taught you sooner. Come on, you need to bathe and then I will teach you how to think straight without allowing your memories to run rampant.”

 “What do you mean?” I ask but he stands and grabs my hand, pulling me to my feet with questionable grace.

 “You will understand further when you have finished taking your bath,” Sherlock says. It doesn’t go past me that he said “bath” rather than “shower” this time. I look to the floor as we head down the hall by Sherlock’s room into the bathroom.

“Get in the tub, Puppet!”

“No way! You didn’t say water would be involved with this bath thing!”

“Puppet!”

“No! I refuse!”

“Get off the ceiling!”

“No!”

“ Puppet !”

 I don’t like baths. Never again am I bathing. The water was going to swallow me whole, and I can still feel the swirling of death around my toes. I shiver just thinking about it and glare as Sherlock shakes his head with a small smile. I refuse to admit it to Sherlock, but it does feel rather nice not to have blood under my nails.

 “Do you have a safe place, in your mind?” Sherlock asks. When I don’t say anything, he continues to talk, “I assumed since you had walls you-”

 “I have a place,” I mumble, “I call it my castle.”

 “What’s it like?” Sherlock asks quietly. I lean against the headboard of the bed.

“Big,” I mutter, “Tons of rooms, and guards.”

 “How many rooms?”

 “It’s a big number,” I mutter, thinking about the elevators I had created within it, “I can’t say the whole number.”

 “What digits?” Sherlock asks. I can see it clear now, oddly enough. I’ve never accessed my castle before without being terrified out of my mind or in so much pain that I go into shock. This is interesting.

 “One,four, six, nine,,” I say.

 “Why so many rooms?”

 “One room for each day of my life,” I say, my eyes flickering to the oddly numbered doors.

 “Which doors hold bad days?”

 “A lot,”I say and wince.

 “Keep your eyes shut,” Sherlock says quietly. When had I closed my eyes?

 “Okay,” I say just as quietly.

 “Go up to the first door you see that has bad memories.”

 I steadily walk up to door one-zero-nine-zero.

“What memories are in there?”

 The seeping image of hatred burning in the eyes of a hissing puppet master makes my hand tremble, “U-Uncle James...the day after the fire.”

  “I’m right next to you, do you see me?”

 I glance over and nearly jump back as I see Sherlock standing directly next to me, wings as white a swans folded against his black, the tops of them a good half a foot from the tops of his shoulders, “H-How?”

 He ignores my stuttered question, “Delete the door.”

“What?” I blurt out, “I-It’s not-”

“Imagine your castle as a digital castle,” Sherlock interrupts, “Delete it.”

“Digital castle?” I nearly cry. My head hurts, as if this simple task was going to break my castle like a bomb.

 “Puppet,” Sherlock says quieter, “Delete the door.”

I whimper, “How? I’ve only ever stored things.”

“Delete the door!” Sherlock shouts. His shout echos and I throw myself away from him, hitting the same door we were staring down with my shoulder. I screech as the door crumbles to ash just as I hit the floor. There is a blank room a head and I shiver.

“Sher-?”

 Sherlock isn't beside me anymore. Goosebumps trail up my arms and legs like ants and I'm unable to repress the shiver that slitters up my spine. I glance to the blank room. It's not dark like I would have thought but a rather startling white, like a cloud or a surface reflecting sunlight. Slowly, I push myself back to my feet. I place one foot into the room, my hands slowly taking on a sense of ice and unease, as if I may slip and skid at any moment.

  I look back to check for Sherlock, but he's still not there. I sniff and look to my feet. A feeling of falling comes over me for a moment. One foot, the one outside the room, is bare and clean, the roughed up pads cooled by the gray stone outside the door. The other foot, the one inside the room, is covered in soot and mud. It's red in some areas as if burned. I step in the room with my other foot, watching as the formerly bare foot comes in with a black combat boot.

  I step out of the room, my heart pounding as I step backwards until the back of my heel hits the adjacent door, one-zero-nine-one. Footsteps down the hall make me sigh in relief, until I hear exactly how light they are. My guards are covered head to toe in metal armor, like the ones in fairy tales. They aren't exactly stealthy. The foot steps come to a halt and I force myself to look away from the white room.

  Mycroft is frowning at me, “Puppet? What are you doing?”

 “S-Sherlock t-told me t-to delete it,” I breath, “I don't know how to. He left and know I'm lost.”

 “Hm,” Mycroft drones, “He always was the stupid one. Come, I will teach you.”

  “What about Sherlock?” I ask and start to trail after the formally dressed man.

 Mycroft shrugs, “I'm sure he will fend for himself just fine-”

  Mycroft stops. I tense up, “Mycroft?”

 He reaches a hand carefully up to his chest, his fingers slowly wrap around a pendent I hadn't noticed before that laid around his neck, much like a spider, “I'm afraid I must cut our time short.”

  “What?” I ask, “Mycroft are you-?”

 “You stopped breathing. Can't you feel someone shaking you?”

“Puppet! Get up! Get up you imbecile!”

“I can hear him,” I breathe, “Why did I stop breathing?”

 “I believe you had a panic attack without realizing it,” Mycroft says nonchalantly, “Do wake up before he calls me.”

  “Puppet!”

   I gasp, my eyes flutter open. Sherlock looks terrified . I don't think I've ever seen him look so scared before. He sits back as I sit up. Neither of us say anything for a moment, until Sherlock runs a hand through his hair and mutters under his breath, “ For God’s sake.”

“Let's go downstairs for a while,” he says louder and stands.

 “Okay,” I say slowly, “Did I….?”

 “Yes,” Sherlock says. It looks like he is having a hard time standing, “You did.”

 “I didn't mean to,” I say quietly as he reaches over to pick me up. I'm not to fond of being carried but my body isn't exactly as up to speed as my mind is.

 “Why do you care?”

 Sherlock’s neck must have cracked from the speed his head flew up from where he was staring into his cup of tea. He blinks, and almost looks lost for words after.

 “I mean,” I say quietly, “Before Da- Moriarty went and..you know, the rooftop thing, you were heartless, cold, unfeeling, deductive. Now you're all...caring, warm, careful and e-emp…”

“Empathetic,” Sherlock corrects, “And I never realized I changed.”

 I glanced  up. This man, who is so self aware that he can keep from feeling emotions just by telling himself to, is claiming that he never realized he changed. This is...this is insane.

 “You couldn't have just never realized that you went from deduction to empathy in a matter of a few months-”

 “I suppose,” Sherlock interrupts, “That the point in time that I realized that I...couldn't escape my feelings...for those I had grown...attached to, I...decided to change in an attempt to make amends. I...why does it matter to you?”

  His sudden sneer at the end startles me. I rub at my arm a little nervously, “I...Suppose I was curious. I grew up knowing you as the man without emotions, the man that was on the side of the light while my father stood on the side of darkness.”

  Sherlock’s face falls emotionless, “What happened to the CAN?”

 “I don't know,” I admit, “I was their General, my father was their sponsor, their...communist ruler.” My heart feels heavy, “But you're avoiding something. Sherlock, what-?”

 “Bed time,” Sherlock announces.

I raise a brow, “You cannot be serious.”

“Good night!”

“Sherlock!”

   When his bedroom door slams shut, I place my cup on the coffee table and cross my arms. So dramatic! And suddenly, a smile falls over my face, and I call out, “What about the case?”

 And just as sudden as his escape, Sherlock came out of his room in a flourish, “I hate you.”

 “No you don't,” I hum. I go to make my own way up the stairs to get sleep, but a spider like hand snatches the back of my shirt collar and pulls be back.

“You think I'm allowing you to sleep in peace?” Sherlock huffs, “John is still expecting us at the crime scene in ten minutes.”

 “You,” I huff as I jerk myself out of his grip. He tosses one of my light-up sneakers in my direction. I catch it and shove my feet inside, using my toes to inch further in like a worm. I pull on the straps as another is tossed at me along with my vest.

 I pull on my other sneaker and pull my vest on over my tank top. Sherlock adjusts the collar of his coat and ruffles his hair. I snort, “Trying to impress?”

 Sherlock has enough decency to blush slightly, but it could just be how the light is hitting him, “Come, Puppet.”

 I trail after him with a small smile and slip my Kris in its brace.

=

=

=

 “Sherlock,” Calls John as we walk up to the police tape. He frowns when he spots me, “Why is she here?”

“Told you he wanted you,” I say. To John, I frown, “I'm fully able to work a crime scene, thanks.”

 “You're six-”

 “Seven,” Sherlock and I correct. John rolls his eyes, but walks under the tape as Sherlock pulls it up. Sherlock surprisingly doesn't drop it before I walk under, and I mumble a thanks in response.

 “Lestrade!” A familiar voice screeches, “The bastard brought the kid to the crime scene again!”

  I glare at the dark skinned woman as she comes blundering over, and say quietly to Sherlock, “Let me teach her a lesson.”

 “No,” Sherlock mutters, placing and hand on my back and steering me towards Lestrade and away from Donovan, “That would give Lestrade more paperwork.”

 “So considerate,” I spit, still glaring threateningly in Donovan’s direction. The woman makes eye contact with me and seems startled, her furious pace stuttering mid step. I bare my teeth at her as we make our way through the prim polished doorway and into the entryway of the posh flat.

Sherlock twacks the back of my head slightly and I turn to look at him, “What?”

 “You are not an animal,” Sherlock says coldly. I pout, but don't turn back to look at the squid like woman until we turn the corner into a royal looking dining room.

 “Again with the kid?” Come a nasally voice. I look up in surprise.

  I remember this man from the first time Sherlock brought me on a crime scene, but for some reason he resembles another person in my memory. His face is pointed like a dog's, with greasy black hair that reminds me of a tragic endings. His eyes are cat like and narrowed, but his mouth is in a flat line. It's his pointed witch like nose that makes me realize who he makes me think of. He resembles Wes in nearly every aspect, aside from his skinny looking weakness. Wes is strong, big and short, while this man is tall, weak and tiny.

  “Anderson, move before she turns into as much as an idiot as you are,” Sherlock says in a monotone voice. I, on the other hand, tilt my head and give the man a smile.

  “What?” He spits at me. I feel Sherlock’s hand tense up on my back.

 “You're my friends Dad,” I say cheerfully, “I'm Puppet.”

 “I-I am no such thing,” Anderson denies. Sherlock looks mildly surprised, but doesn't say anything as I continue.

 “Wes is really nice. He's a good friend,” I say. I continue to smile at Anderson, unwaveringly.

 “...He has friends?” Anderson asks quietly. John comes up behind us, a look of confusion on his face.

 “Mhm,” I hum, “Melody is his best friend, through I suppose he could be considered hers as well.”

  “Wes?” John pipes up. He looks to Anderson with a raised brow, “He's your son?”

  Anderson stared at me, “Yes….He is.”

 “Anyway,” Sherlock says quite loudly, “Where is the body?”

  Lestrade comes up behind him with a grimace on his face, “...Look up.”

  “ Jesus ,” John mutters under his breath as I look up.

   Stuck to the ceiling, separated from the rest of their body, is the husk of a human being. They don't have eyes, but instead deep pits of wallowing and self pity, which I suppose they deserve. By the angle of which their jaw is directionally dangling, blood stained teeth making me gag, it would seem they were alive as they were strung to the ceiling. Their arms are crooked, turned so that the back of their hands are touching their shoulders. Not only are their hands turned to a wrong, nails on a chalkboard sounding angle, but their legs are only halfway off- as if someone had walked in on the killer midway through.

 I look away so quickly that my bangs fall into my eyes- I am unable to force myself to study the scene any longer. I glance through my hair, however, at Sherlock. His jaw is clenched in a way that must be uncomfortable, if not painful. He spins on his heel, nearly sending me flying to the floor, had I not been quick on my feet.

  “Your killer is abnormally tall, approximately six foot five,” Sherlock spits out and goes to continue.

 “No,” I interject. Sherlock blinks, his face showing his change from emotionless, surprise and fury like a ripple of water. I take a step back and look up, but continue, “The angle that his legs are cut at signify that they were sitting on something to make those cuts.”

 Sherlock whirls back around, his eyes narrowed. The feeling of eyes on my face makes me look down again, and I nibble on my lower lip. I didn't mean to interrupt, but he wasn't going on correct information, and that would throw back the whole investigation.

 “She's right,” John suddenly says. I look to him in surprise. He walks up determinedly to Sherlock, his shoulders tight in a way that pronounces confidence, “The arms too.”

  Sherlock nods slowly, “The arms are tied close to the cut. This man was strone up first while he was fully intact and alive. You're not looking for one killer, but two .”

Chapter Text

“SERPENT is in action.”

“How long till the next move, sir?”

“The threat on Gregory Lestrade needs to be made tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

   “Two killers,” Lestrade repeats. Sherlock nods slightly.

  “Most likely a male, at least five foot nine. His partner is oddly short...perhaps a child,” Sherlock says slowly. I don't miss his glance in my direction. I need a closer view to search for a CAN signature, but I have a feeling that it isn't appropriate to ask to be put on someone's shoulders to get a better look.

“A child,” Anderson drawls, “You think a kid is capable of this?”

Sherlock ignores him, much to my surprise. No snarky comment, or insult. He just continues his deduction, “The incisions are oddly clean, seeing as the victim was alive and awake while this was done to him. Text me if any drugs were found in his bloodstream. Puppet, John.”

  I look to John as we leave the crime scene. His face is taut with worry-lines, a look of worry on his face. He forcefully has a smile in place, however, once his eyes land on mine, “It'll be alright.”

  I nod a little jerkily, watching Sherlock's coat flutter behind him. I tug at my shirt collar, feeling as if I'm going to melt into a puddle. How Sherlock can wear that coat in this heat I'll never know.

  “Sherlock,” John calls out. Sherlock doesn't stop, instead turning the corner into an ally. John has a frown on his face and picks up his pace. I follow in suit, the disturbed feeling in my tummy fluttering up in surprise. Sherlock leans against the brick building next to the alley, breathing heavily. John grimaces as I gag.

 “Christ. What the hell- Sherlock?” John manages after a second. Sherlock shakes his head slightly.

 “Bad memories. Had to...get out of there,” Sherlock pants. He winces and pushes himself back to his feet, “We’ll wait for the more information...from the morgue report.”

I look to John as he steps forwards and hoists Sherlock up. He helps the detective steady himself and looks to me with a small smile, “Mind hailing a cab?”

 I raise a brow, “I can try, but I'm not exactly tall.”

 John rolls his eyes, “Melody is a bad influence on you.”

I giggle and bound out towards the street's edge. A man and a woman are about to get into a cab as I bound over- a lucky break for us, “Excuse me!”

 The woman turns around with a surprised expression, soft brown eyes relaxing slowly, “Lux, wait darling.”

  The man, Lux, turns with a kind expression, “Of course- oh.”  

  I smile, “My…” I glance back at John, “...uncle is sick, and his...boyfriend is trying to get us home. He's helping him up, and we need a cab, but I'm a bit short, and I was wondering if we could use this one? Please?” I give them my best pitiful expression, and watch as the woman falls for my lie.

“Of course. Lux, dear, that's alright with you as well?”

 “Of course,” Lux replies. I thank them both, and hold the cab door open as John shuffles over with a barely masked look of embarrassment on his face. Sherlock is redder than fire, although I can't tell if that's from throwing up or blushing. Who knew Sherlock Holmes could blush anyway? And a rather pressing question, is why would he even blush anyway?

 The cab starts to move. John turns with a glare, “How many times do I have to tell people this, let alone a seven year old child, that I am not gay?!”

  I giggle, “Look at that sweater John. What straight man would wear a sweater like that?”

 John groans, “You sound like Mrs. Hudson.”

=

=

=

  “Right,” I mutter. The door is just as intimidating as looking a wolf in the eye, and growling. It's the same room as last time, just with the door back in place. I've been waiting quietly for a little while, waiting to see if Mycroft would appear. He does, of course, moments after I start pacing. The tapping of the metal point of Mycroft’s umbrella makes me look up, “You came.”

 “My brother?” Mycroft questions. Even Mind-Mycroft is straight into business.

 “He's down stairs with John,” I hum, “Now, the door?”

 Mycroft steps forwards, “You should tell me about this you know. Life me, not Mind me that is.”

  “That would make me give away the fact that Moriarty is my dad,” I say dryly.

 Mycroft raises a brow, “While it is true that I am a creation from the depths of your mind, I would recommend telling me about that sometime.”

“Yeah,” I say and roll my eyes, “That will end well for me, wouldn't it? A nice bullet between my eyes. No thanks. Now, how do I get rid of this thing?”

“First,” Mycroft says dryly, “You have to go to the first memory. Did Sherlock not tell you anything?”

 But...this is the first door. I quietly tell him this, glancing towards the door. He frowns, “This is door is in the one thousands. There has to be another door. You have a photographic memory, Puppet.”

 “Well,” I say, “How do I remove the memory?”

 “Puppet, you need to find the first memory,” Mycroft says, this time with a frown. Mind-Mycroft is very expressive, seemingly.

 “Mycroft,” I groan, “Stop being so mysterious and just tell me how to delete the door!”

 “I'm not being mysterious,” Mycroft snaps, “And to delete the memory, you have to find the core. The core is the first memory, Puppet. This isn't the core.”

 “Oh you're not helping at all!” I snap. He's being useless, only making this harder than it has to be. There is another way, there always is! “Just bug off!”

 I turn towards the door and fling it open. The same sight lies before me, the burnt building. This time, with only anger and fury, I take three confident steps into the ashed room. I turn around to wave Mycroft in, but the doors gone . I stare, my heartbeat picking up in a rapid drum race, “Mycroft?” I take a step back, bumping into something. I turn quickly, starting to panic as I nearly tumble over the pile of bricks.

“Mycroft!” I cry out, fear trembling over me. I look back and forth, up and down, but there is no sign of the arrogant politician, “Mycroft!”

 At this point, my crying is useless and I know it. Have I stopped breathing? Mycroft warned me last time, but who's going to warn me this time?

 “Eliza?”

 I turn, frantically scrambling away. His matching icy blue eyes soften, “My child, oh my sweet child…”

  “Get away from me,” I breath, a shiver running down the base of my spine; I step back from Jim Moriarty, my heart slamming against my ribs. He’s wearing a soft grey suit with a periwinkle tie. His hands are covered in white gloves, covered in soot and…blood? He reaches forwards, and I prepare myself to be touched mentally, but my body moves on its own accord, scrambling backwards. My mouth doesn't move, but I hear myself scream at him to get away. I watch as Jim Moriarty flinches, “E-Eliza? Please...my ch-child, my only child-”

 I reach my arm out then, wanting to see if this is real. My hand is translucent, making me retract it and look at it closer. I wiggle my fingers, watching as the ghost like appendages flutter softly, a faint glow coming from the ghostly limb.  I step forwards this time, and turn. Jim Moriarty isn't looking at me, but at...me. A younger me, one that looks scared and terrified. She shouts at him to get away again, sounding more like an animal than a human being. She doesn't have a scar on her cheek yet, or one above her left eye. This version of myself has only one scar on her face- a patch of burned flesh on her chin. The same scar that rests hidden by new skin on my own chin.

  The Jim Moriarty before me has kind eyes, ones that show emotion, something the Jim Moriarty that had been in my dreams. It scares me less than it had before, although I suppose that's due to the fact that this is a repetition, rather than the first time I had seen this...kindness act before. Actually, I'm not too sure that it's actually an act, but more of a former memory. But why? Why...why is he so kind? My former self, the scared child that is backing herself further into the charred remains of what I think is a building, looks to be around two, maybe three. Her eyes are terrified rather than hidden, and her hands tremble at her sides. By the way she's reacting, you'd think Jim would be holding a rabid dog in his arms.

 Jim looks utterly heartbroken, his arms drop to his sides, “Eliza…?”

 “Get away!” She screeches. I glance back to Jim, watching as he goes from heartbroken to determined quicker than an airbag.

 “I'm sorry, Eliza. For what he...he did to you,” Jim looks to the side, “If I had known earlier, that things would go like this….” His hands clench at his aides, “I would have made sure James never did this to you.”

  The I reach my hand out slightly, oddly wanting to comfort him. I retract it quickly when Jim starts to walk away. The entire room slowly grows dark, like a stage switching scenes. Except when the room lights up again, it's just an empty white room with dark hardwood floors. I look back at my hands, watching as the sparkly transparentness takes back on my realistic, full skin tone. I flex my fingers and look up. Mycroft hums to himself across from me, “Do you understand yet?”

 “Understand what?” I ask slowly.

 Mycroft sighs, glancing up at the ceiling, “Let's start something easier. Why were you made general in the CAN?”

 “I was Jim Moriarty's right hand tool,” I say quietly, “but what does that have to do with anything-?”

 “Puppet,” Mycroft says, “Focus. Who lives here in this-” he waves his hand slightly, “castle?”

 “You, Sherlock, Irene Adler, John Watson and Ivan,” I say with a huff.

 “Now, what do we stand for?” Mycroft asks. I frown. What do they stand for? I never thought about it that way.

 “I think..” I say slowly, “That you stand for Logic and Self awareness. You're keeping me from asking more unnecessary questions and keeping me on track. Irene Adler stood for hope and relief, but stands for… betrayal and...hurt now. John stands for healing and understanding, Ivan stands for focus and determination. Sherlock…” I frown, “I don't know what he stands for.”

 “You don't know,” Mycroft says dryly, “I think we both know that you do know, but you're not allowing yourself to access the information. Puppet, don't admit that you don't know. Ask yourself why you don't know instead.”

I stare at the door across from us, “I really don’t know. He just sort of exists.” I turn back and let my shoulders drop, “I haven’t seen Sherlock in ages anyway.”

 “‘Dat is a tad bit weird, aye?”

 I jump slightly, watching as the pale skinned man leans against the wall. His eyes twinkle with amusement, and his long black hair swishes slightly above his shoulders. I take a shaky breath, “I haven’t seen you in a while either, Ivan.”

 Ivan shrugs, “I suppose I’m here to give you a warning.”

  “A warning?” I repeat slowly, “Why a warning?”

 He rubs the heel of his boot onto the soft white rug. I glance around, that rug wasn’t here before. The white room had slowly morphed into my own room at 221B. Ivan takes a step forwards, the place where his boot was leaves a red stain on the carpet, “This case, Puppet, the one with the stung up men. You need to keep Sherlock Holmes from completing it.”

“What? Why?” I blurt out, “Their families deserve justice, Ivan!”

 “Since when were you rooting for justice?” Ivan asks coldly.

 “That doesn’t matter and you know it,” I snap, my heart beginning to pound in my chest. Where is Mycroft? “What is wrong with you?”

 “What is wrong with me?” Ivan says harshly, “You greet me with a ‘I haven’t seen you in a while’, while I’ve been getting my ass kicked trying to get to you.”

 I stare at him, realization dawning on me, “We’re not in my mind.”

 “No,” Ivan snaps, “Why the hell would you think we were?”

I barely get my next breath into my lungs, suddenly feeling as if I am underwater, “Why are you here?”

 Ivan stares, no longer making an effort to get closer. I slowly reach behind me, searching for my Kris behind me. Ivan sighs, “Puppet, trust me and stay away from the case.”

 “No,” I say slowly, “I’d need a good reason to keep Sherlock away from it.”

 Ivan looks away, “Then perhaps you need a more physical warning. Loser, you know what to do.”

  I jerk up, grasping my Kris’ handle and stand unsteadily on the mattress of my bed, “Loser? Who’s Loser?”

 Ivan turns and walks out my bedroom door, his footsteps disappearing as soon as he’s no longer visible. Two glowing red dots grow bright from the other end of the room. I take another step back, only to bump into the closed window, “Stay back.”

 There’s a quiet clicking as the red lights get closer, one tap of a foot at a time. My hands tremble, “Stay back!”

  Those lights don’t even blink, they just draw closer, tilting from side to side every once and awhile. They’re spaced out like eyes, but no one has glowing red eyes like that. Nobody does, nobody does, no one does-

 I scream, and the pair of red dots jump before disappearing entirely. I press myself entirely against the window, and call out for Sherlock this time. My hands grasp at the curtains as I try desperately to get a grip. The lights flicker on and I can't help but let out another wail, trembling as i sink back down onto my pillows. Sherlock’s still dressed as he was yesterday, his dress shirt only wrinkled in the slightest. Still he comes forwards, slowly with a expression of worry on his face, “Puppet?”

 “H-He was here,” I sob, “Ivan was here he-he was…”

 Sherlock sits down slowly next to me on the bed. I curl in on myself, “He was here, he was here. Red eyes, why red eyes?”

 How did he even get here? How did he get in, if Sherlock was so obviously awake? My heart flutters still, remembering the look of emptiness in Ivan’s eyes when he realized I didn’t trust him, when he sent Loser, whatever that thing is, closer to me, to give me a physical warning. My head hurts, a pulsating band tightens around the top of my skull. I take yet another shaky breath, “He was here Sherlock, he was here.”

 “He wasn’t,” Sherlock says quietly. He reaches out and puts a hand on my back, drawing me towards him.

 “He was here,” I mutter again, “He put blood on the carpet.”

 I feel Sherlock shift, “There’s nothing on the carpet. Do you want to see?”

 I nod slowly. He stands, carrying me over to the white carpet. He puts me down, watching with careful deductiveness. I reach my hand out to where the blood had been, where it’s now perfectly white. I brush my hands through the soft fur-like carpet, brushing my fingers through it. Nothing, not even stiffness or dampness from cleaner.

 “Are you sure he wasn’t here?” I whisper, “It seemed so real.”

 “That’s one of the side effect of the method of Loci,” Sherlock says quietly, “I should have told you.”

 “I...It’s fine,” I breathe.

I still don’t believe him.

 “Let’s go downstairs?” Sherlock suggests. I nod slowly, but don’t let him pick me up this time.  I stare at the corner where the red dots had been. Sherlock puts a hand on my shoulder and steers me towards the stairs. The walk down is stiff, and once in the sitting room, I curl up on the corner of the couch.

“Sherlock,” I ask slowly, “What is it like for you?”

Sherlock doesn’t look back from where he’s fiddling with the tele, “Organized.”

 “Mine has doors,” I say softly, “But…” I decide not to tell him about Mind Mycroft, “The numbers aren’t right. One-zero-nine-zero is the first door.”

 Sherlock manages to the the start screen for Lilo and Stitch to pop up. He sits down on the other side of the couch, “One thousand ninety. That’s the door it starts at. Nothing behind it?”

 I nod. He peers at me from the other side of the couch, “It would seem you’re missing some memories.”

“I can’t be,” I say softly, “My memories are permanent.”

“We can talk more about this later,” Sherlock says quietly, “You’re still trembling. Watch the movie." 

Chapter Text

“Lestrade wasn’t home sir. We sent someone to his current location-”

“You idiots!”

“...”

“They know that we’re after them now. Idiots! Idiots idiots idiots!”

“Sir..”

“You’re lucky I’m not slitting your useless throat for this, so shut the f-”

“Mycroft Holmes shot Puppet Moriarty.”

“...he what?”

“The error spotted K-04 as he went up to Lestrade and went beserk. Lept over top of him and towards K-04, and Mycroft Holmes shot it.”

“....You know, you’re moronic stunt may have be proven usefull, K-07.”

“...”

“Puppet Moriarty isn’t trusted by the British Crown.”

 Even within the midst of a Disney movie marathon, Sherlock doesn’t stop deducing and shredding the story line...while getting every deduction wrong . I’m nearly off the sofa from the amount of hysterical giggles bouncing around and out of my rib cage, making it rather hard to breath. Sherlock throws his hands up in the air with a furious shout, “It’s the damn snowman!”

  “Olaf just want’s to make it to s-summer!” I giggle, squeezing my eyes shut as my laughter begins to cramp up my stomach.

 “Exactly! It’s the perfect cover!”

 “Sherlock, Olaf isn’t a murderer,” I manage. The snowman in question gets impaled.

   I cackle as Sherlock stares dumbstruck at the solemn snowman. Then, very, very softly, Sherlock whispers…

“He’s immortal .”

  I fall off the sofa with a loud thump, laughing so hard that I’m merely wheezing on the floor, "O-Oh my God, Sherlock!"

 Sherlock dramatically throws an arm over his eyes, "We're done for."

 "H-He's just a snowman," I giggle, "He's not gonna kill us."

  Sherlock turns his head in my direction, "Are you even watching this anymore?"

 I sit up slightly, my grin not faltering, "I haven't been watching it since we finished The Lion King. You're funnier than the movie."

 Sherlock rolls his eyes, "Such attitude."

  "Oh, you're one to talk about attitude, Sherlock," I scoff. He raises a brow and I barely conceal my giggles.

  A feeling of something small scurries up my spine. Everything seems to slow, our happy moment lost. Senses perked, shoulders tensed, eyes trained on the windows: I remain entirely frozen. Faintly, I hear Sherlock saying my name. I block it out. The scurrying continues, and I push myself to my feet. I can hear my heart thumping in my chest.

  Mrs. Hudson screams from downstairs, time seems to speed up. Sherlock bounds past me, the thumps of his feet on the stairs echoing as the time slows yet again.

The door to my right swings shut. My breath shudders.

 "It's only me, Sersta."

=
=
=

   Back when I was five years old, I met a man named Issac Williams. He was a tall man, so skinny that it would seem that the wind would toss him away. His eyes were cold and hard, not even an ounce of childhood behind his eyes. I was scared, and alone, having lost Diego in the mass of crowded Russians in Saint Petersburg. I was scared and alone, having just gotten into an argument with my brat before I got swept into the crowd. I was scared and no longer alone when Issac Williams swept his gaze on me. His skeletal like hands grasped my shoulder, and he steered me into a darker passage way, light fading as we stepped into the roofed passage. He gently pushed me against the wall- my heart caught in my throat.

  His breath smelled thick of spearmint, "Are you alone?"

 "No," I whispered. His grasp tightened.

  "Who's with you?" He asked. I reached my own hand up to try and loosen his grip. Temptation to break this man's kneecap burned through me, warning bells ring in my head. And ever slowly, I answer.

 "You."

 He loosens his grip, "Diego Minch, he left you?"

 I shook my head, "I don't know who he is."

 Lie. lie. lie. lie. LIE.

 "Don't lie," Issac Williams whispered. He let go of my shoulder, "You're Eliza Moriarty."
 
 I whimpered. His cold eyes loosen, "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to offer you a true life. "

"A true life?" I whispered. The thought of true life had sparked something then, something that got me thinking later when I was captured and abused by the British government after Diego's death. What was it exactly, I still don't know.

 "I can take you away from the jobs and pain," Issac Williams had said, "You can be a child."

 "I'm... How?" I whispered. A faint spark of hope hovered over my heart.

 "You can come with me," He said simply.

 "I don't know who you are," I said softly.

 "I am Issac Williams, and I am your friend," Issac Williams had said, "And I will come and help when you're in danger, when you're at risk. And I will kill anyone who tries to stop me."

 My heart thuds and I turn and run. Hope stabs me, an attack rather than an asset. I couldn't. I couldn't, he called me Eliza Moriarty. Eliza. Moriarty.

 My name is Eliza Moriarty. Does that mean Puppet is fake? Or did he find the wrong Moriarty?

 I know now who Issac Williams is. I think I'm going to ask him why he came to me...and why he didn't kill me then, while he had the chance.

=
=
=

 "Mouse," I bark and swing around to stare at the samurai, "What did you do think you're doing here?"

 "Stopping your old lady down stairs from being murdered?" Mouse asks, and shakes the steel blade that tests between her pointer and middle finger. I drop back down onto the floor. Mouse raises a brow, "Want to know what happened? I saw you tense up through the window."

 "How did you even get in here?" I growl, "Mycroft has this place on lockdown since the man in white tried to put a bullet in Lestrade's head."

 "Let me tell you what happened first, damn busy-body," Mouse snorts, "Link and I were scouting the place out from across the street, trying to make the changes in the original plan. We were actually about to leave when I spotted the sniper. We checked out where the guy was aiming, right towards the old women. By the time we got to the roof, he was about to take the shot." Mouse moves the massive lock of hot pink hair out of her face, shifting it behind her ear. "Link kicked he gun as he shot, I tackled the sniper. I spotted you standing up as I got the jack in the heart. We headed over here quickly, through the you're open window in your room." Mouse looks rather amused, "You're really a kid now, huh?"

 "You have to go," I manage, "Take Link and make it across the Thames. Bloody idiots, the lot of you."

  "Right right," Mouse sighs dramatically, "I'm going. Meet us at the bridge tomorrow."

 "Can't," I deny, "I've got Mel's Birthday party."

  Mouse huffs, "Fine, on Sunday."

 "Meeting with Mycroft, remember? I really can't miss those," I say.

 Mouse runs a hand through her hot pink hair, "Right. Tuesday?"
 "Okay," I say, and rub at my eyes with my balled up hands. Sersta, she had called me sersta. I glance up again, ready to ask why, but she was gone. I frown.

=
=
=

 "Happy Birthday to yoooou!"

  The cheers that explode from the group of classmates and friends alike make both Wes and myself to jerk slightly in our seats. We both glance at each other, confused frown on my face and a blank one on his. I found out when Sherlock and I came early to find Wes and Melody in a rather loud argument, that Wes had never been to a birthday party before- much like myself. Now, we both sit feeling awkward and confused the the celebration continues.

 "I don't get it," I mumble. Melody giggles, beaming and looking so utterly joyful, her lips pulled so tightly into a smile that it looks almost painful.

 "Me neither," Wes hums, "But she's smiling so I suppose that's good."

 "I kinda just wanna go somewhere quiet," I admit, "Do you think she'll notice?"

  Wes shakes his head, "Not with Mandy hovering around her like that. She probably wouldn't notice if someone came in with a gun."

 "Roof?" I suggest. Wes sighs, his facial expression not changing in the slightest.

 "Yeah."


  I hum, and swing my legs. The cold rail of the roof edge doesn't bother me like the day time humidity does, nor does the three story fall that would await me if I were to fall. Wes messes with the roof rocks beside me, his face still.

 "My dad said I wasn't allowed to hang out with you," Wes says, "He said your dad is insane."

 "He's not my dad," I say as I turn back away from the edge, watching as Wes picks up and tosses a rock, "and he's not insane."

 "I know," Wes replies simply, "That's why I'm still talking to you. Dad lets his jealousy and hate get to him."

 "Why don't you hate him? Sherlock, I mean. Since, you know, your Dad hates him," I ask. Wes looks over to me with that blank expression he always seems to wear. It confuses me.

 "I don't understand what you mean," Wes states after a moment. "Oh wait," He says again, just as blankly, "You don't know huh?"

 "Know what?" I ask, tilting my head to the side.

 "Schizoid disorder," Wes says. He studies my face for a moment, "Still confused. Right, well I don't feel anything. No hate, no anger, no love, no comfort, no nothing."

  "Nothing?"

 "Nothing," Wes says, "I can read other people because of the books Detective Lestrade brings me."

 "Lesie brings you books too?" Lestrade had started to bring me stories to try and read. Quite a few were about this big red dog, and a few others about the Teletubbies or Spongebob.

 "Lesie," Wes says. It's kind of odd really, how he doesn't snort or raise a brow like Sherlock or Mycroft, "That's an odd nickname."

 "I was calling him Mr. Silver for a while," I giggle, "But I thought Lesie would be easier for Sherlock."

 "That's a joke," Wes mutters under his breath. He shakes his head slightly, "Mel doesn't try and make jokes. Why do you? From what I can tell, you're some sort of warrior."

 "General," I correct. I frown, "Who told you I was a warrior?"

 "You got a lot of scars," Wes says, "You fought. I don't know what, but you fought and you're here now."

  I think over his words for a moment, before my lips part and I go to ask him what he means by that. But, he seems to already know what I'm about to ask.

 "What ever was hurting you. Dad, mum, aunt, uncle, guardian, sibling, or any other person, or thing really," He looks over, something a keen to confusion in his eyes, "You jump a lot, and aren't bothered by pain. You got the scars on the outside, but anyone who looks closely can see that you've got scars inside too."

 "For the boy who can't feel anything," I try and say without my voice wavering, "You sure do know how to dig your nails into the past."

 "You use big words and phrases too," Wes says, "I'm almost twelve and don't talk like that, you know?"

 "I guess," I mutter.

 "I didn't mean to pry," Wes says. His voice is so cold, so empty. I think that it's not only because of his disorder thing.

"Puppet? Wes?"

  We both look up to see John standing at the entrance to the roof with a curious expression, "What are you two doing up here?"

 "It got too loud," I say truthfully.

 John's face softens, "The other children are going home now. Mel's looking for you two."  

  Wes and I look to each other before hopping off the roof edge and walking towards the roof entrance.

  

  "Sorry," Melody says sometime later, crayon in hand. I glance up, my previously spinning between my fingers pencil falling still. She huffs.

 "I'm sorry I didn't realize you two weren't having fun, okay?"

 "What do you mean?" I ask, shifting up from lying on my belly to resting on my legs, "We had fun." Wes nods in agreement, some of his black hair falling into his face.

 "Then why'd you guys leave?" Melody asks with a pout.

 "It got loud," Wes says simply, "We just needed a breather."

 Melody fiddles with her long, ginger colored braid. I frown, "Mel?"

 She shakes her head, "It's stupid."

 "Doubt it," Wes says under his breath, switching his red crayon for a dark pink one.

 Melody glares, "I was worried you guys left okay? Everyone's been ignoring me since Martin the Fart came along and it's not fair."

 I nibble on my lower lip, "Mel, Martin's a baby."

 “So?” she huffs, “I’m a kid. What’s the difference?”

  “He’s… dependent,” I try, “And you’re independent. I think, John and Mary are worried that Martin is going to get hurt.”

 “Well, that’s bubblegum dumb dumb and so is Martin,” Melody spits, “I’m going to bed so be quiet.”

 Wes stares after her as she throws herself onto her bed, “Good job, Puppet.”

 I let my shoulders drop, “Sorry.”

 Melody doesn’t say anything, but she does roll over so she’s looking at us. I look back down to my own paper. Over the last forty-five minutes, I had only managed to draw two circles. Two, dark red circles, with black surrounding them. Loser. It wasn’t a normal CAN choice, it was more..personal. Like he was dragged through hell and back, then forced to fight the same thing he fought before, over and over. The red eyes, the glowing red eyes: were they really just my imagination or were they really there, in my room, trying to take me back?

Maybe I should stop Sherlock from taking the case.

=

=

=

 “How are your nightmares?” Mycroft asks Sunday morning.

 “Normal,” I lie. I hear him place his cuppa back down on the side table.

 “Do not lie to me, Puppet,” He says calmly. However, as I look up I can tell it’s not calm, but rather him just trying to manipulate me; his eyes are blank, his jaw twitches slightly and his knuckles are white from where they dig into his thigh as he leans over.

“I don’t want to talk about them,” I say slowly, “But I…”

“You what?” Mycroft pushes.

 “I think I’m crazy,” I say softly. Mycroft seemingly wasn’t expecting that, as he leans back with an odd sort of confused expression. It’s gone as quick as it came, gone blank yet again.

“Why?” Mycroft presses.

“I..a CAN trainer came to me last night...left a stain on the carpet before letting someone come to give me a physical warning,” I whisper, “But when I screamed and Sherlock came up, there was no stain on the carpet. The carpet is white, Mycroft,” I look to the one that is below us, the larger version of the persian rug in my room, “Like that one. Blood would never come out of that so quickly...the spot was dry too.”

“I will up the security of 221B if it comforts you,” Mycroft says, “Dr. Watson is worried for your health, and I cannot say you are fine when you have got dark circles under your eyes.”

 “Mycroft,” I say slowly, “You knew who I was the day you saw me with Diego.”

 “No, I did not,” He lies, “What are you talking about?”

 My attempt to tell him I know is hard. He’ll know for sure who I am the second I say the name. I don’t know why it took me so long to realize he was the man in the alley. Perhaps Sherlock is right, maybe I am missing some memories.

 “Issac Williams,” I say in the strongest and most unwavering voice I can muster, “You’re Issac Willaims.”

 Mycroft stares, “You’re Puppet Moriarty.”

 “And you knew that,” I choke, “And you still let me go with your brother.”

 “You could have killed me,” We both say at the same time. I look away. Mycroft leans back into his chair.

 “If I did, what use would that be?” Mycroft says softly. So utterly softly. I look back at him, watching as he stares at the fireplace, “You were a four year old child, lost, alone and so conflicted. Why would I kill you? Because you have the last name of my brother’s enemy? Because your father was a mass murderer who had a taste for my brother’s blood? You didn’t have a taste for blood. You broke every damn study on earth about child soldiers- you were different from every other CAN child we found. You cared Puppet, you took caring and made it into an advantage . The one thing I told Sherlock from the time he was seven years old, that caring was never an advantage and you. Proved. Me. Wrong . You cared about your soldiers, you cared about Diego, you cared about innocent lives, you cared ! ”

  I stare at him, watching as he dropped his head between his knees and took heavy breaths. I cared…? That’s why he didn’t kill me? Because I cared?

“Because I cared,” I say slowly, “I didn’t kill you, because it would be a waste. A waste of someone who could take down the CAN once and for all. That’s why I didn’t kill you, because it would benefit me. You didn’t kill me because you felt it would be a sin.”

  “You are a saint, Puppet,” Mycroft chuckled, sitting up with a sort of repressed grin, “Sometimes I regret giving you to Sherlock.”

 And with that, Mycroft’s grave hand clutches his chest and he drops from his chair. 

Chapter Text

2 Years, 7 Months, 3 Days

“Pick up the damn phone!”

….

“Get up get up!”

…

“Please! Someone!”

..

“Get away! Get away!”

.

..

.

“Puppet Moriarty has been spotted. Going in for the pick up.”

   “Mycroft!”

 Nothing at all, the British government had no reaction to my flurry of snow like panic. Any cool I had melted between my fingers, leaving drops of panic bleeding down the sides of my finger’s middle phalanx. Breathing heavily, I scramble to get off the floor, nearly tripping over Mycroft’s legs middle struggle. I snatch the silver cell off the side table, reflexively putting in Sherlock’s number into the emergency call. The phone rings out, once, twice, three times before going to voicemail. I call him again, breath fluttering as the first ring calls out.

“Pick up the damn phone!” I cry. The third ring ends and I drop down next to Mycroft, this time dialing John’s number. Once, twice, three times, and voicemail. I shake Mycroft as hard as I can, “Get up get up!”

 He doesn’t move at all. I lift one of his eye lids. His eyes are still and not forced blank. A sharp whimper forces itself from the back of my throat. Lestrade. Once, twice, three times, and voicemail. The guards?

 “Please! Someone!” I holler, “Someone, anyone! Help!”

 Nothing. Where are the guards?

 “Puppet.” My head shoots up. Then down. Then up again.

“Mycroft?”

 “Have you thought as to why there’s no guards?” Mycroft asks. I look back down to where Mycroft is unmoving below my hands.

 “No,” I say slowly, “This is planned.”

 “Your Kris,” Mycroft says, slowly pacing around me, “Why would Mycroft’s guards take it from you this time? They never have before.”

 “I..I thought they just didn’t trust me anymore,” I say, “You did shoot me after all.”

 “You’re going to get yourself killed,” Mind-Mycroft snaps, “And myself as well. Go into the kitchen and grab a knife, idiot.”

 I look to real Mycroft before getting up and running into the kitchen. Knife, knife, knife, where’s the knife? My heart nearly stops. There are no knives . I swirl around looking for- there! A porcelain vase, dark obsidian in color. I run and leap, hitting the counter with my thighs as I grab onto the smooth coolness of the vase. I fall back down hard, the vase crashing to the ground as I duck my head to keep from hitting the ground head first. The polished, ice white tile floors are suddenly covered in black, sharp edged feathers. I carefully grasp the largest, most jagged feather-sharp, wincing as my hand is slit slightly by the cold cematrics. The weight feels heavier than it should.

Back at Mycroft’s side, I loosen and take off his tie, using it to create a handle around the glass shard. Gently, I press my fingers to his neck again. His pulse is there, but dim. I try calling Sherlock again. Once, twice… “What is it that you want Mycroft?”

“Sherlock,” I whisper, my heart rate slowing slightly, “Mycroft won’t wake up.”

“Puppet,” He says. His voice wavers slightly as it goes from annoyed to cold in an instance. However, what he says next is a contradiction of his tone,  “Are you alright?”

“It’s a trap,” I say. I hear footsteps down the hall outside the door. I glance to Mycroft, “Someone’s coming.”

“Hide,” Sherlock demands instantly. Mycroft’s ghastly pale face stops me from following a direct order. I can’t leave him. Mycroft was wrong.

“Puppet?” Sherlock says. I whimper and press “End Call”. The phone rings as the door handle slowly moves downward.

Once.

My fingers tighten around the makeshift blade as the door opens with a slow creeeeeaak….

Twice.

Dressed head to toe in white, black sunglasses hiding the man’s true identity, he steps into the room.

Three times…

He points his gun. I crawl over Mycroft to come to my feet in separation between him and the gun.

And voicemail…

The gun shot made my ears ring. My heart thunders as the man in white crumbles to the ground, white rolling pink then gorey red as he hits the floor with a thump. I look backwards, then downwards. Laying on his side, Mycroft looks up at me, silver pistol in hand. The silent warning. AS I step to give the gaunt man space to stand, I wonder if that warning was never a warning for me. Perhaps I had gotten the wrong impression about the warning. It never was for me. It was for anyone who crossed paths with Mycroft Holmes. For a moment, I imagine him as a black cat, an omen of bad luck.

Mycroft’s hand trembled, his eyes were screwed shut, “For...further reference... if Lestrade, Dr. Watson and my brother don't answer... call 999.”

“999? I question. Mycroft winces, rubbing one hand against his face.

“The police,” He explains, “Their number is 999.”

He stands slowly and carefully, leaning heavily against his chair, his dull eyes scan me was if he were some sort of AI, “What happened to your hand?”

Reflexively, I open my left hand, letting the obsidian colored blade hit the persian rug. My entire hand was coated in red, and as the adrenaline fades, the sharp pain intensifies , “I broke a vase.”

Mycroft reaches one hand out to mine, his nimble fingers holding my hand up and still as he studies it, “You’ll need stitches.”

I nod, “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Mycroft replies simply. The thumping of feet in the hallway makes me jump. Mycroft rolls his eyes as the door is flung open further; John and Sherlock stand in the hall, with Sherlock looking terrified out of his wits until his gaze lands on Mycroft. Instantly, his jaw goes tight, his eyes stoney as he steps into the room, with John following somewhat dazed.

“Your drill couldn’t have waited till she was back with me?” Sherlock snaps. Mycroft’s face goes from ill looking to a sharp grimace. He drops my hand as his pain his hidden far behind his emotionless mask. He steps towards Sherlock threateningly, “This was not a drill, William . I would not endanger her life with some silly drill! ”

My mouth feels dry all of a sudden as Mycroft takes another step towards his brother, “ This ,” Mycroft shouts, his metaphorical mask dropping to the Earth’s core, “Was your fault, Sherlock!”

Sherlock stares at his brother unwaveringly for a moment , “John, get Puppet... please.”

John looks at Sherlock for a moment, his feelings clearly conflicted. For a moment, I thought John Watson was going to tell Sherlock no, but he doesn’t. Rather, Dr. John H. Watson makes a compromise, coming to take a knew next to me. His hands are larger in width than Mycroft’s, not as nimble. John’s hands are rough and calloused, and yet his are more gentle than Mycroft’s.

“She needs stitches,” Mycroft says roughly, his gaze not leaving Sherlock, “There is a medical kit in the kitchen.”

John stands, touching my shoulder lightly as he walks by. Mycroft stares Sherlock down, “You told me they were taken care of, Sherlock. You let me believe Puppet was safe.”

“Take care of who?” I ask softly. Mycroft’s shoulders drop.

“Serpent,” He says, “Do you know who they are?”

“No,” I mumble, “I don’t.”

“And you don’t need to know,” Sherlock says coldly before Mycroft can say anything else.

“Clearly I do ,” I snap at him. Frustration pooled in my veins, “Mycroft could have died, Sherlock! He could have died, you could have, John, Mel, Martin, Mary, Lestrade, all of you! I- I’m not a child . I don’t understand why you insist on treating me like one. Just tell me what’s going on!”

Sherlock looks away, “Serpent is after you, Puppet. There is a two million pound bounty on your head.”

I didn’t...I didn’t know that. I nibble on my lower lip, “You should have told me.”

Neither brother says anything in reply. John comes back out with the first aid kit. I watch a little numbly as Sherlock looks over his brother. John presses an alcohol wipe onto my hand- I wince. Sherlock huffs, then steers his brother back into his chair, “John, I’ve got her. He’s nearly had a heart attack.”

John stands as Mycroft glowers at his brother. Sherlock frowns as he looks over my hand, “Glass?”

I nod, “Broke a vase.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says sharply. His interruption nearly scares me, had I not looked at his face first. The British government wore a worried expression, “She should stay with me until this has a proper solution.”

“No,” Sherlock says quietly, calmly, “She stays with me.”

“Sherlock-”

“This is not up for discussion, Mycroft,” Sherlock says coldly, “Do not argue with me.”

I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out as Sherlock starts to stitch up my hand. Serpent is after me. Everyone I know is in danger.

“At least,” Mycroft asks, “Allow me to find her a homeschool teacher.”

“...Puppet,” Sherlock says quietly, “I’d prefer if you’d start homeschooling as well.”

I do not want to be homeschooled. I couldn’t be- Sherlock would have his eye on me twenty-four seven. I wouldn’t be able to complete the plan. The plan! The plan was ruined. Mouse, Link and I’s hard work and time is a complete waste. No one is safe as long as I am around. We’ll need something new.

“I want to stay at school,” I say between my teeth as Sherlock cleans the blood away from his stitch work. He doesn’t argue, much to my surprise.

=

=

=

Mycroft rode with Sherlock, John and I on the way back to 221B. The cab ride- Sherlock insisted they take a cab- was jittery, tense and quiet. John had been texting Mary for the last ten minutes now, his brow crunched with worry. Sherlock’s foot tapped and Mycroft glanced back regularly from the front. I had my knees pulled up to my chest, and rested against the door.

I was wrong. So completely wrong. Mouse was right, this entire time she had been right. I frown, nibbling gently On my lower lip. original plan to protect Mycroft not only had failed but was unnecessary our plan the one where we were to destroy the traitors within Mycroft’s group failed when they killed themselves first I had believe someone else killed them Sherlock but I was wrong.

On our way out of Mycroft’s flat, I had taken the man in white’s cold, long since dead arm and rolled up the sleeve. Serpent was burned into the ghastly flesh there, like some sort of Harry Potter dark mark. I was a fool.

As we pull up to Baker Street, and the calf with Mycroft and John still inside pulls away, Sherlock turns to me. The street light cast a shadow onto his face.

“Where have you been going?” He asks quietly. I can't form any words in response, and stare at him helplessly. Surely he doesn't know...

“Do you take me for an idiot?” Sherlock growls, leaning down close to my face,”Did you truly believe I wouldn't notice? The first night you left, I nearly called Mycroft. My six-year-old child was gone from her bed in the middle of the night.”

I blink; his six year old child?

“The only reason why I didn't call was because you left the window unlocked and held open by a damn Teletubby! I waited until I heard a thump from upstairs. It was like you never left and even the next few months , every other night you are gone from your bed. So tell me, where are you going?”

Sherlock left both pain and furious. The combination leaves me feeling unsettled.

“Can we talk about this inside?” I mumble. I look away as his teeth clenched and he straightens. The door is unlocked, but not without a new chip in the door from where Sherlock missed the keyhole. He makes me walk upstairs first. I glance behind myself and look away upon spotting my guardian’s stony expression. When I sit down on the floor, I hear Sherlock sigh. He sits down next to me, Criss-Cross, mimicking me. His lanky legs make him look silly sitting that way. He looks at me expectantly. I stare down into my lap hard, ”When I leave, I go to that bridge the one by the Thames. My friend, Link, lives down below it.”

“Who is Link?” Sherlock asked. He's staring at me, I can feel it. But, oddly enough, I don't think he's deducing me, not even a little.

“I met him about four years ago,” I say, “In Somalia. Ivan, Mouse and I were there for a job…”

=

=

=

Four Years Ago,

Some shipping dock, Somalia

“Cargo ain’t gonna load e’ self boys!”

Mouse tosses me a granola bar, the chocolate chip kind. She raises her binoculars, watching as Ivan makes stock with one of the ship's crew members. I rub absently at the long gash up the side of my arm. There's soot under my nails. It was hard to breathe with my vest on, due to both the heat and the heavyweight. Mouse is officially thirteen today, but Ivan didn't give us time to celebrate (Mouse likes to do that. It's quite odd, no one else in the CAN does it, just her).  I look to my head-captain, my second-hand. She saved my life a few weeks ago. I can't remember much- just a terrified sensation when I try to think about it.

“Puppet,” Mouse says quietly, “quit staring.”

I almost tell her that I can't help but stare- one side of her head is littered and scars, few chunks of her hair remain. The other side was missing a few chunks, but otherwise fine. the tips of her hair, however, were singed and blackened.

“Puppet, she says, this time harshly, “Quit staring.”

I look away. Puppet . It doesn't come off the tongue right. It doesn't feel right. Guess that's how names are though. After all, Mouse's name doesn't sound right either.

“Let’s go,” Mouse says quietly.

I know to follow after her, getting behind crates of cargo as we make our way to words to ship. Mouth signals to me, left, as we crouch and sneak our way onto the boat. There is a makeshift window open on the side, Ivan's doing, I'd assume. Mouse pauses outside it and puts her hands low ready to boost me up. I put one foot down and with a huff, Mouse brings me up high enough for me to pull myself through the window- Mouse hops in after me.

“Aye, looks like I got me some living ones!”

Mouse swirls in the direction of the voice, her Katana flying from sheath only to be pointed directly to the tip of a black skin boy and rags. His eyes widened, “Woh. My lady, there's no need to point such a thing in my face.”

Mouse stares and down without saying a word. I tilt my head to the side, watching with mild curiosity is the boy continues,”Der ah, busy. I ain't gonna to sell you out either. So, ya lower the weapon, yeah?”

He looks nervous, almost sweaty. Mouse still doesn't lower her Katana.

“Me name be Link,” He tries.  I look to Mouse, who slowly lowers her Katana .

“Mouse,” she says with finality to her tone. Her shoulders slump and she doesn't make eye contact with link as she sheathes her sword. She looks like a personified version of defeat. Her expression resembled one that Daddy makes when he looks at me-it’s almost exactly the same as Daddy, real.

“She’s Puppet,” Mouse mutters, jerking her thumb in my direction. I stare at him.

“We pals den?” Link asks.

Mouse glares at him, “No.”

“Mouse!”

“Ivan,” Mouse shouts in response. She sprints away, and I follow shortly after, glancing back at the smirking lad on the way up.

=

=

=

“A Somalian pirate,” Sherlock says drily, “At least tell me when you have to leave.”

I can't help but look at him in surprise, “You're just going to let me leave?”

“Well”, Sherlock says with an almost amused expression, “If I told you that you couldn't, you would still go. I'd rather know where you are.”

I can’t believe this. He’s actually fine with this. Giddiness wells up in the pit of my belly, and I have to force it back down, along with the smile that formed across my face. “Thanks, ‘Lock.”

“In your story,” Sherlock says slowly, as if he is hesitating to form his sentence, “You mentioned Ivan. Is this the same Ivan you were talking about a few weeks ago?”

“It was,” I say quietly, “I really don’t want to talk about it though.”

Sherlock looked frustrated for a brief moment, and I can’t help but wonder if he is about to force me to tell him anyway. Then it’s gone, replaced by a soft smile, and knowing eyes, “And you don’t have to, not until you’re ready.”

I don’t believe him.

Chapter Text

“He’s down, sir.”

“What?”

“Mycroft Holmes shot him between the eyes.”

“...”

“Sir?”

“If he wishes to play dirty, then so shall we.”

There are many things that I will never have the hope of understanding. I will never understand why people like fireworks or the heat. I will never understand that I am different from the other children, and that none of them will ever understand me. Never will I understand that sometimes...that sometimes I need to trust the people around me. I will never understand that I should not interfere.

I will never understand why Sherlock Holmes cares about me.

Walking down the stairs in black leggings, t-shirt and sneakers, my vest on over top my shirt and my Kris in the brace on my arm, I glance over at Sherlock. He’s standing tall, cradling his violin, bow perched along the strings. He doesn’t stir as I check once more that my brace is secure.

“I’m going out,” I say softly. I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He doesn’t turn to look at me.

“Where?” He asks.

“Builder's Yard & Waste Ground.” I answer. He nods and says nothing more. I take that as my leave, and cross the last few feet to the door. He says nothing as I start to make my way down stairs.

London is quiet tonight. The stars aren’t visible, hidden by ancient pollution surrounding the city. Cars pass by as I walk, sending sloshes of water up as they go. Gentle drops roll down my arms as I turn into a side alley. A few shady men look up as I pass. I keep my gaze steady and forwards. London grows darker as I continue to make my way steadily towards the darker and torn areas. The abandoned factory I was to meet Mouse in was still a good. It’s around two hours later that I finally arrive. My feet ache from the walk, and I wince as I scrape my hands against the ugly bricks of the building.

Standing dead center is Mouse, her pink hair braided down the side of her head, almost reaching her shoulders. Across from her is Link, and to her left is-

“Red?” I shout. “Whiskey?”

Both boys turn, eyes widening, “Puppet!”

Whiskey was out of his seat first, greasy blond hair whirling in a storm around his face. He grinned at me, his missing front tooth a black hole in his galaxy smile. He was older than me by two years, and still acted younger to this day. I burst out laughing as he picked me up and swung me around. “You’re still smaller than me, runt!”

Red stood from the crate he was sitting on, tilting his head to the side and squinting. He smiled. His dark brown hair was still short, just as he kept it before. He was older than me by one year, but acted like he was older by five. Whiskey set me down, and I lunged forwards, hugging Red. He hugged me back, a smile on his face, “You’re alive. I can’t believe it.”

“Well, I told you she was alive and I’m no liar,” Mouse spat, “Put some god be damned trust into me for once.”

Red let go and I turn to Mouse, smiling widely, “You didn’t tell me they were alive.”

Mouse turns away, a scowl on her face, “Felt like you’d like some good news for once.”

I smile at Red and Whiskey, then look back to Mouse. Good news. My smile falters, “I wish I could return the favor.”

Mouse frowns, looking back to me, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I look away from her. It was always hard to keep eye contact with her, “Serpent was never after Mycroft Holmes. They’re after me.”

“No shit Sherlock, ” Mouse snaps, “I told you this.”

“Yeah, well I learned the hard way a week ago that they’re after me,” I snap.

“What happened?” Mouse asks. Her scowl softened slightly.

“I was at my meeting with Mycroft,” I say, “They attacked. Mycroft killed him.”

Mouse frowns at the ground deeply. I imagine, if she had a tail, it would be swishing slowly across the dusty ground. Link leans back against his crate, “Minnie, suppose we kill Serpent? We can take ‘em, can we?”

“We shouldn’t have to,” Mouse finally snaps, “If she hadn’t gone and made friends with Sherlock fucking Holmes we wouldn’t have any problems!”

“Where are you going with this?” Red asks quietly. He crosses his arms and looks at Mouse with a hard expression. Before, at the CAN, Red was my go to over Mouse. He was more willing to look for a way out over yelling furiously at me for hours on end. Mouse glares at him, but doesn’t say another word. One thing about our unit was that age doesn’t matter. Mouse stalks off to the other side of the building. Link watches her with a sad expression.

“Sorry,” I repeat, “I really should have listened. She has the right to be angry.”

“We don’t live long enough to be ‘ngry, P,” Whiskey whistles, “She ‘ust gotta let go.”

“Let go,” I mumble. “What if I let go?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Red says.

“What if I faked my death?” I ask. Everyone in the room seems to freeze up. Mouse slowly turns to face me, her eyes narrowed.

“Puppet, Serpent is an agency of grown men. Faking your death is going to be a lot harder than it was at the CAN.”

“I didn’t take my death at the CAN, Mouse. I just left,” I mumble.

“Not before you killed Moriarty, though,” Mouse says. She looked hurt for a split second, “In cold blood.”

“I did what I thought was best, Mouse,” I say, “He was going to kill so many more people-”

“But at least he’d be alive,” Mouse snaps. Red and Whiskey stare wide eyed at her.

“You wanted him alive?” Red manages. He is as white as snow, and teary eyed.

Mouse ignores him, “How do you propose we fake your death?”

“Well,” I say quietly, “I could jump.”

“Jump?” Red yelps, “Are you insane? How are we supposed to fake that ?”

“Jet pack,” Whiskey says instantly. Everyone turns to look at him. He cracks a wide old grin, “I’ll have one made when we meet again, a week from now.”

“This is starting to sound like some fantasy story gone wrong,” Mouse mutters lowly. No one looks at her.

=

=

=

“Who’d you meet with?” Sherlock asks. He’s sitting in his chair when I walk in, tired and sore from the walk.

“Mouse, Link, Red and Whiskey,” I say quietly, tugging my vest off and discarding the kris and brace. I collapse onto the sofa, I hear him move, and turn my head away from the couch cushion. I don’t see Sherlock at first, and sit up, only to find the weight shifting on the couch. I glance up at Sherlock, whom frowns at me with deductive eyes.

“Tell me about Red and Whiskey,” He says slowly, “You’ve never mentioned them before.”

“Red and Whiskey were in my unit, in the CAN,” I say. I sit up properly, and stare at the skull on the mantle, “Red was a locator, he would track our jobs and was who we reported to during mission check-ins. He made sure Mouse and I were always on the same case too.” I glance at my lap and mutter, “Till the last one.”

“The roof top,” Sherlock states. I nod.

“Whiskey is an inventor. He can create basically anything. He made lots of jokes about going to Yale.”

“The American school?” Sherlock questions, seemingly thrown off guard, “I had assumed you were based in London.”

“We’re based in America,” I tell him, “In California. Under a...a gambling ring.”

Flashes of red-eyed men make me close my eyes for a moment, refocusing on the explaination, “It..was bad. Moriarty moved us, later, to Michigan. He hated the heat.”

“So Whiskey and Red...do you know their real names?” Sherlock asks. He’s watching me with this sort of, worried look in his eye. I almost tell him I do, but why would I do that? I don’t know they’re born names…

“Puppet, I found…”

“No,” I spit, heart picking up a few paces, “I don’t.”

“When you’re dreaming,” Sherlock says slowly, “On those nights when you’re plauged with nightmares, you call out for names I’ve never heard. Red and Whiskey were two of them, but there’s another.”

I look up at him then, only to see that Sherlock isn’t looking at me. He’s looking past me.

“Sherlock,” John says slowly, “You better not.”

“John,” Sherlock says quietly. He won’t look at me.

“What’s going on?” I say, shoulders tensing.

“Puppet,” John says, “Go upstairs.”

I look to Sherlock instantly, “What's the other name?”

“Sherlock,” John says warningly.

“It’s not important, Puppet,” Sherlock still won’t look at me. I grab his wrist, and he’s forced to look at me, “What name?”

“Sherlock!” John barks.

I flinch, “Sherlock?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says. He’s lying. I can hear it in his words, “You always call for Mycroft. Please...go to bed.”

I glance between John and Sherlock, anger boiling up in the pit of my belly, “Fine. Lie to me.”

Neither of them say anything as I make my way upstairs. If they want to lie to me, why should I tell them what I have to do? I can play this game too.

=

=

=

“Sherlock?” I call out, “Mycroft?”

There’s no sound in the white room, just emptiness. It’s as if I’m waiting, but I don’t know what for. I leave it, closing the formerly charred door behind me. Something's wrong, I know it.

“Eliza?”

I whirl around, fear falling over me in a tidal wave, “Moriarty.”

Moriarty isn’t looking at me though, he’s staring at someone else. I realize then that I never left the white room. I was still in it, playing its games. The other person Moriarty stared at was black haired, and of asian descent. Her eyes were black too, and something inside of me was torn to pieces upon seeing her.  She was a child, no older than thirteen. She wore a white dress shirt and black dress pants, along with a worried smile.

“Nope,” She said softly, “Just me.”

Something about her is off, like I am missing key information. I swear I know her, I just can’t remember…

“Kiara,” Moriarty breathes. All the air is smothered out of my lungs in that moment. I see the girls face flash before my eyes in a rapid flash of lights. I collapse onto the white tile floor, watching as Moriarty turns and looks at me. My hands are much smaller, and his eyes grow wide. My hands aren’t a glowy transparency. They’re solid, but not my own either. They’re chubby and flailing. Moriarty stands in front of me again, and I scream, “Get away! Get away!”

Pain shoots through my skull. My cry of pain is muffled, and I get a grasp on my Kris from under the pillow. I roll over onto my back, and swing the blade. There’s a loud grunt, and the weight on my bed is gone instantly.

“Sherlock!” I shout. Ivan’s standing in the corner, watching me. Hatred and pain lies within his eyes.

“Sherlock!” I scream, watching as Ivan tilts his head. His hands are covered in blood. I throw my knife, watching as it impales his skull. He just cants his to the side, watching with this sad expression. Then he disappears. I stand breathing heavily, watching as my room fades to white. Sherlock stands across from me, his eyes narrowed and a questions posed on his lips.

“What is wrong?” He asks simply, walking around me with his huge, white wings relaxed against his back. I step away from him, breathing unevenly.

“What was that?” I manage after a few moments, shooting him an unguarded look of fear. He shrugs.

“How should I know? It was your vision.”

“I must be drugged,” I say, a faint laugh clawing its way out of my throat,”Where’s Mycroft?”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock hummed, “Somewhere. Why don’t you wake up and go ask?”

I almost do, wake up I mean, but something stops me. Slowly, I turn to look at Sherlock. He isn’t facing me. I bring my hands up to my face, turning them ever so carefully. They’re transparent. My heart nearly stops as I look at Sherlock Holmes, wondering for the first time if everything I’ve learned about him was a lie.

The room stops being white, color slowly taking place as more and more pieces of my memories come to life.

“Surely he’ll help?” I glance to my left, watching as Moriarty appears. He’s got emotions in his eyes, not carefully made feelings. Jim.

“I doubt it,” Sherlock drawled. He looked younger, not like he did originally. He wasn’t wearing the coat, just a mangled hoodie stained with greens and whites. A lot of white.

“Mr. Holmes, please,” Jim begged, “You must help me. If...if you don’t I’m afraid James is going to kill her.”

“Please, Mr. Holmes?” I turn to my right, watching as Kiara, hair gone on one side of her head, the other torn and still natural black in color. She trembles, “Please save my sister.”

“No,” Sherlock says with a cocky smile, “Now go.”

I want to hit him then, to scream at him, to yell at him, to just tell him the mistake he was making. But I can’t move.

“ Puppet?”

I can’t move, why can’t I move? My eyes burst open, and I wince against the bright light.

“Jesus,” John says quietly. The hands pinning me down relax and release. I sit up, watching both the detective and his doctor have a silent, eye to eye conversation.

“What happened?” I say slowly, “Did I have another attack?”

“No,” Sherlock says quietly.

“Sherlock?” I reach out to him, grabbing his shirt sleeve and tugging on it.

“Puppet,” John says slowly, “You were having a nightmare, but that’s not why...why we’re here.”

Unreasonable fear makes its way up my tummy, “What? What is it?”

“You’re going to have to go stay with Lestrade for a while,” John said quietly.

“Why?” I ask as Sherlock stands and leaves the room. I try to get up, to go follow him and see what's wrong when John places a hand on my shoulder and holds me back.

“Sherlock made a mistake, Puppet,” John says, voice hardening slightly, “And now he can’t see you. I’m sorry.”

“S-so why can’t I stay with you ?” I turn to him, vision blurring as my face grew hot and my head grew dizzy.

“Because,” John says softly, “Mycroft won’t let you.”

=

=

=

Within the hour, I had two bags, my school bag and a week's worth of clothes packed, at my side. Sherlock had gone to his room, leaving John and I to sit on the stairs to wait. I hugged William to my chest. Was it my fault that I had to leave? Was it the night time plans I had made with Mouse, Red, Link and Whiskey? Did Sherlock get in trouble because of me? I don’t want to leave him, I want to stay. I don’t want to leave.

John didn’t say anything to me as Lestrade’s police car rolled up to the curb. He stepped out as John opened the backdoor, and put my bags in. I stood stalk still as Lestrade began to talk in hushed tones to John. I couldn’t hear them over the roar of the road. It was the dead of the night, and while my world was being thrown out of control, reality continued to move on without me.

I eventually got in the car, and five minutes into Lestrade and I’s drive, I managed to find my voice, “Why can’t I see Sherlock?”

“Will you be able to handle me telling you?” Lestrade asked, looking into the rearview mirror.

I don’t say yes right away, but eventually, I do. I had to know.

“Mycroft asked John to give him a random drug test,” Lestrade said quietly, “He failed it.”

Chapter Text

“Mmmm it’s been done.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, went and picked up P. You think she’ll be okay?”

“From the stories you’ve told me about her, I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

“She trusted him, Bell. I could see it all over her face when I told her. I think I broke her damn heart.”

“You didn’t break her heart, Greg. Sherlock did.”

Staring at the ceiling, mentally looking for the signs, I found that there were none. Sherlock Holmes is a very private person. He is good at keeping secrets. He is good at betrayal. I should have seen it coming. I press my lips together, vision blurring. I should have known better.

But at the same time, I can’t help but wonder why. Why did he go back to the drugs? I try and remember everything I had seen that day. Sherlock had been so calm when I had returned from my meeting with Mouse….did I trigger the relapse? Is...Is it my fault? My lungs shake with contained tears, and I roll over onto my side. I travel into my mind, throwing my castle door open. The white halls were passed, numbed doors passed again and again. I keep walking, further than I had ever traveled before. Sherlock Holmes took my trust, and shoved it into the gutter! He betrayed me, he betrayed John, he betrayed everything he stood for! I hate him! I hate him!

But maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I deserved this betrayal. I’m not a person, I’m a tool. I don’t deserve loyalty. But he told me I was a person! He told me I deserved to be treated like a person! He told me I was a child, not a machine! Was that a lie too? Was that all a false act while he waited to get his next hit? I turn and start sprinting down the white hall of my mind castle, I run blindly. Because maybe if I go far enough in, I won’t get out. My heart burns, my head is suffocating. I slow down, tears dripping down my cheeks. I drop down against the wall, and place my head on my knees. I don’t know what to believe anymore. I need a reason to get up. I need to know who I am, for the first time in my life, I want to know who I was. I saw the visions, the corrupted memories of my mind. I know there is someone else within me, someone wanting to get out. I wipe my eyes and look up. My heart nearly stops.

The door was chained, burned, locked shut and guarded by a stone statue. I slowly stand, walking towards the statue timidly. It moved easily, considering it was made of stone. The chain gave away at my touch, as if it’s rust had weakened it beyond repair. I turn the doors knob, and push the door open with ease.

I walk into the room, stepping slowly to where Eliza sat on the floor, watching a fuzzy, buzzing telly screen with dead eyes. I cautiously lower myself down to sit next to her on the wood floor. The cabin was bare aside from the telly. I looked to the window, spotting the oddly shaped tree, with it’s twirling branches and soaring leaves. It’s the most recognizable source of where this place is exactly. Footsteps throw me out of my visual study and I turn and watch as Jim Moriarty walks in, a VHS tape in hand. It’s labeled “pledged to God”. Jim crouches in front of Eliza, tears staining his cheeks. He starts to speak softly and affectionately to her, “I know you don’t understand now. You..don’t understand much these days.” Jim let out a shaky and teary laugh, “Considering recent events however, I suppose it’s understandable.” He pauses, “We will do anything to fix this, my child. Kiara and I are going to do whatever we can to stop James, and then we can be a family again, with or without Irene.”

Eliza said nothing in return. I watched Jim as he moved to the wood paneled walls, and peeled a panel back. He placed the tape back there and pushed the board back in place. He pulled a pocket knife from his pocket and gently carved a small P into the wood. He glanced back at Eliza, “Just incase you don’t remember your name, I put your code name’s initial. Okay?” His hands shook and he let out a broken sob, “We’ll fix this, I promise my daughter, I swear on my life, I’ll fix this. You’ll be happy again. Just...find the tape, and I’ll explain it there, okay?” Jim’s hands shook, “I love you, my daughter.”

I sat up breathing more heavily than I ever have in my life.

=

=

=

“So you’re looking for a tape?” Wes repeats quietly at recess on Monday. I nod, watching as he gives Melody a funny look.  Melody starts to giggle.

“What?” I huff, “What’s so funny?”

“You,” Melody giggles. I frown. What could possibly be so funny about me?

“She doesn’t get it,” Wes deadpans. I stand up, throwing my arms into the air.

“Oh hardy har! Laugh at the assassin, brilliant idea!” I shout. Some kids in the playground look our way as Melody bursts out into hysterical laughter. Wes watches her with blank expression, his head tilted to the side. For a moment, it looks like he’s going to attempt and laugh, but he stops himself. I can sort of understand where he is coming from, wanting to be normal. But, being normal, while it makes life easier, would change who he was. So, normality must be a wish pushed aside for fairytales.

“So the tape,” Wes says. Melody calms down slightly, still grinning like a fool.

“I don’t know where it is at exactly,” I say, pulling out the small sketch I had drawn of the tree from my dream, “Ever seen this anywhere before?”

Melody takes the drawing first, squinting at it for about five seconds before shrugging and handing it to Wes, “Nada.”

Wes looks it over. He squints real hard at it, watching it with his blank expression, “I think I’ve seen this before. In my dad’s scene photos. It’s in a frame.”

“Really?” That couldn’t be a coincidence. It was too specific. The memory was of Jim, but perhaps James had gotten to it. After all Jim was dead.

Melody flicks me in the nose, and I jump slightly, “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“Wes thinks he can get you the photo, if you want,” Melody says, “Do you?”

“Oh!” I say, surprised, “That would be brilliant, thank you Wes!”

Wes just shrugs. I give him a smile regardless. I think he looks a little surprised at that.

=

=

=

I wait. And I wait. Eventually, I start to walk, giving up on Lestrade. He clearly wasn’t coming to pick me up. That’s okay.

But even Sherlock picked me up when it was raining.

My red rubber boots were meant for this sort of weather though, and I have to admit, jumping in puddles did give me a small satisfaction. Cabs and people passed by, very few of them giving me odd looks. I stop outside of Baker Street, looking up at the door through my soaked hair. I’m tempted to knock and go inside with Sherlock, get some cocoa and wait for Lestrade to remember me. However, my worry for getting Sherlock stops me. I stare at my feet for a long moment. Then, I turn and keep walking. After all, Lestrade’s house is only another six miles from here.

“Puppet.”

I turn, looking into the open window, watching as Mycroft frowns heavily at me, “Oh...hi?”

“What are you doing here?” He looks over me, adding with his eyes, ‘In the rain.’

“Walking to Lestrade's,” I say, “Would Sherlock get in trouble if I went to talk to him?”

Mycroft stares for a moment, “No, but you would.”

“I can take that,” I say simply. I turn and attempt to open the door. It’s locked. I fiddle around in my pocket, pulling the spare key. Mycroft makes a noise behind me, and I turn slightly to look at him, “What?”

“He gave you a key?” Mycroft asks slowly, “Why?”

“So I wouldn’t have to sit outside?” I say slowly, confused as to why Mycroft would ask such a stupid question.

“..Get in the car, Puppet,” Mycroft says quietly. I put the key back in my pocket, getting into the car and sitting next to him. My drenched socks, dress, sweater and hair make it slightly uncomfortable in the chilled car. The car starts to drive, and I look to Mycroft.

“When will I get to see Sherlock?” I ask slowly, watching for Mycroft’s reaction.

“Most likely not for a long time,” Mycroft answers, “He is not reliable.”

“He cared though,” I mumble. Mycroft looks to me this time, watching me with narrowed eyes. I know I’ve made him question his actions. I don’t give him a chance to try and defend them, getting out of the car as we pull up in front of Lestrade’s house. I open the door, happy to find it unlocked. I don’t look back at Mycroft as I walk in.

“Oh! Puppet, I hear you come in.” I’m startled beyond wit, my head jerking up towards the voice. Black haired and dark eyed is a woman with an enchanting voice, and what I’d imagine to be a nasty bullet wound in her leg. She limps forwards, a small smile on her face, “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Isabelle, Lestrade’s girlfriend.”

I stare at her, then take a step back. She shot Diego, I shot her. There, in the leg, the one she limps so heavily on. Does Lestrade know who she is, what she is, what she does? I take another step back. Isabelle’s smile fades, “Puppet?”

“You’re using Lestrade to get to me,” I say softly. She flinches, her smile becoming angry within seconds.

“I am not using him,” She spits, “You go to your room right now.”

“I’m not a child,” I snarl, “Don’t treat me as if I am one.”

Isabelle clearly doesn’t have a good control on her emotions. She takes a step forwards, I take a step back. My stomach rolls with fear. I reach for my Kris, slowly. I try and warn her. She throws the first hit, not me. I hit the door sharply, and grunt.

“Mycroft can’t hide it from me,” She spits, “I know what you are.”

“Yeah,” I lick my lips, “You should I know I’m retired.”

“You’ve been conspiring with the CAN again,” Isabelle snarls. I look up in fear at that, jumping with a barely muffled cry as I dodge her next blow. I’m able to get a hold of my Kris this time.

“So what if I am?” Probably not my best response. This has all escalated too fast. I can’t wrap my mind around my mouth fast enough. We move away from the doorway, into the kitchen. She grabs a knife, I twirl mine into a better position. I step backwards, looking for an escape. I had to do this right, I can’t come back from a kill. If she was there with Mycroft, and allowed to spy on me, she was trusted. This fight here could be a test. I look to the ceiling- nothing to help me there. She swipes with the blade at me, nearly catching my wrist as I used my Kris to block her. I turn and sprint away from her, up the stairs, to the room I was staying in. I manage to get in there, towards the window, only to find it completely closed with iron bars.

Drilled down with bolts and held more securely with steel rods.

With a smiley face sticker stuck to it.

I turn to the approaching footsteps watching as Isabelle gives me an apologetic smile, “Orders are orders. Sorry.” She closed the door and locked it. It was all so simple, all so obvious. Mycroft didn’t trust me. He called Isabelle when I started to walk away from the school.

Mycroft’s playing dirty.

Chapter Text

“Click click click...click click...click…”

“You’re welcome. You’re sure this isn’t going to hurt her, right? Melody would be really hurt if I let anything happen to her friend.”

“Click click...click...click….click click click.”

“Right. Yeah, okay. Can I know why she even needs these yet?”

“Click..Click-click.”

“Okay then. I’m just gonna go home. My dad is gonna be ticked. He gets all theoriz-y on me if I don’t get home on time.”

“Click click-click click?”

“For someone who can’t talk, you sure do talk a lot. He’s a Holmes wanna-be.”

===

“Mycroft, I-”

“You said there was a attack on the store across the street. Show me.”

…

“Yeah, uh here’s what we found, but I don’t believe it’s connected-”

“A rock written on with crayon across the street from your house that just happened to hold Puppet? Really , Lestrade, even you are smarter than this.”

Cutting the hole in the ceiling was the easy part. Getting in the vent was harder- I’m not as little as I was a few years ago. I got stuck a few times, and after some semi-frantic shimmying, I manage to squeeze myself out the vent and onto the roof. From there, it’s just pulling my backpack up through the vent using the rope made of shoelaces from the box of shoes in the closet. Apparently, Lestrade is one for hoarding all his old shoes. With a few more tugs, my bag is out of the vent. I untie it from the shoelace rope, and put the rope in my bag. I look about the roof, picking the biggest rock off the roof and writing a jagged ‘P’ on it with a crayon. I stand, heave the rock with all my strength, and throw it across the street below. I wince as it crashes through a store’s window. I pull my hoodie over my head, and run.

The first jump wasn’t bad. Neither was the second, or third, or seventh. It was around the twentieth that I nearly fell. It was a harsh scramble for purchase as dug my nails into the concrete side of the building. I barely get my legs up, breathing heavily, adrenaline pumps through my blood rapidly. I take the fire escape down to the ground, keeping my head bowed as I head towards the Thames.

“Puppet.” I have my Kris in hand instantly and whirl to face the speaker. Wes doesn’t even flinch, he just pushes the blade tip away casually, his long and greasy black hair swaying as he does so “I have the photo.”

I stare at him. He’s an idiot and at the same time fearless. It’s funny actually. I grin, “Thanks Wes.”

“Good luck,” Wes says, “I won’t tell anyone I saw you.”

“Thank you,” I repeat. He shrugs, turning and walking away. He disappears into London’s crowd without another word.

I only realize after I’ve made it another two miles away that he knew where I’d be even when I didn’t tell him or anybody for that matter that I was going to leave. For a moment, all I feel is fear.  Was Wes talking with someone who was spying on me? I try and think of a motive for Wes to turn on me, but I simply can’t. He doesn’t seem like the type to turn on someone, especially someone that could slit his throat while he slept. He isn’t an idiot. He would never do that.

I push those thoughts away, trusting my judge of character. Instead, I take a look at the photo. The tree is in front of a sign I recognize all too well. Baskerville.

=

=

=

The man at the counter one hour away from Baker Street gave me odd looks when I entered his store. He is an older man, with white-gray hair, and he had a wrinkled face with an honest complexion.  He watched as I searched the racks for a map, and eventually spoke up after around ten minutes of me shuffling around in frustration, “Ah...sweetheart...where are your parents?”

“Mmmm they’re not here,” I say, flipping through a map, “It’s fine though, trust me. I’m older than I look.” Since everyone thinks I’m six, I may as well make it clear now. The man looks embarrassed.

“Sorry, ma’am,” He says simply. I look up at him, looking to him with mild confusion. I shake it off.

“Do you know if anyone is leaving for Haytor, Dartmoor anytime soon?” I ask, placing the map back and walking to stand on my tip toes at the counter.

“Yes, actually,” The man answers. A man walks into the store, tall with a country tan. He looks over to the counter man, and raises a brow.

“Ken, you do this lovely lady a favor and take her down to Haytor with you?” The counter man said. Ken took a good look at me, before nodding. I follow him out to his truck, and as soon as he has the key in the ignition, he’s driving.

The drive was quiet, with just the hum of the car breaking the silence. I watch as the landscape files by in the blur of green, blues, and tans. I wonder for a long time as we drive: how far Mycroft is to catching up with me, is my judgement correct, does Lestrade know about Isabelle, will the tape have any answers like Jim had said? I try and answer them myself a few times, calculating how long it will take for Mycroft to get the alarm from Isabelle, how long it would take to find out where I’m going. There’s no cams out here, hasn’t been for about two hours. He’d have a hard time tracing me from there. I trust my own judgment, I truly do. It’s grown and evolved since living with Sherlock, from my new understanding of Mycroft. I don’t believe Lestrade knew of Isabelle’s plans, but perhaps knows her background of working for Mycroft.

As for the tape, I’ll find out momentarily. Ken pulls to a stop, “Here you are.”

“Thank you,” I say, hoping out.

“I know that Michael thinks you’re just a small woman, but he’s an old man. I’ve been with small women- you’re a child.”

I don’t say anything in response.

He frowns at me, but doesn’t say anything more as I head towards the tree. I stand next to it, looking around. I see it then, the cabin. My belly rolls with anticipation. I take off sprinting down the hill, away from the tree and towards the cabin. It looks lived in, but by the looks of it, it’s owner hasn’t been here for at least a month. I climb in through the back window, landing inside. It’s just as empty as it was in my memory. I shakily check to see if there is power being supplied to the cabin. The lights flickered on and off easily. I force myself to move quickly, using my Kris to pry the wood panel on the wall, the one with the P carved into it. It comes away after a few hard tugs, and I reach my hand in, pulling out the dusty and web ridden tape. I clean it off quickly, tracing the label slightly with my thumb- Eliza. It’s been a long time since I’ve willingly accepted that name to be my own. My heartbeat picks up as I turn on both the telly and the VCR. I put the tape in, watching as it is tugged forwards, and disappeared into the VCR. The screen lights up, showing a camera view of Jim Moriarty setting up a camera, checking to make sure it was working before scurrying back to the very same coffee table I’m sitting on now. He smiled and looked around nervously about the same room I sit in now.

“I...don’t know if you’ll ever see this,” He admitted, glancing to his lap before looking back up at the camera, “I hope you do though. It’s more of an explanation this..” he waved his hand around a bit, “..video message. I just had to let you see me face to face.” He looks uncomfortable for a long moment. “So that you’d hopefully remember more than the tape itself, and perhaps what our life had been like before James scheme.”

Jim studies his hands for a long moment, “Eliza...none of this was supposed to happen...I….I suppose I should start from the beginning.”

I find myself nodding and quickly stop- he’s not actually here, I shot him on the roof top.”

“I’m recording this the day before your birthday,” Jim chuckled, tearing up, “This is the fourth one of these I’ve made, always just before your birthday. Perhaps when this is all over, I can show you the other three.”

He rubbed at his eyes. They were red when he faced the camera once again, “Tomorrow, Sherlock Holmes will fall. James game will finally be over. I...I don’t think our parts in his game will be though….”

I watch as he rubs his wrist gently, his thumb tracing over a small mark, barely noticeable, but anyone trained to identify would notice it. James and Jim Moriarty were twins, identical all up until you met them. James was cruel and seductive, Jim was kind and naive. When I was with the CAN, they were both cruel and seductive, making it nearly impossible to tell them apart.

“I haven’t told Kiara, but…” Jim smiles, almost widely for a moment, and I lean forwards, focusing on his next words, “James is going to be the one pulling the trigger. Not me. He’s too cocky, he’d never let me get his final kill.” Jim chuckled, tears forming in his eyes, “Ivan keeps telling me not to get my hopes up, but after seeing my brothers true face for the last four years, I know him. I know he wouldn’t let a stupid little pawn get his rewarding checkmate kill.”

I fall off the coffee table then, watching him in the telly screen real close. Jim sniffed, “Mouse will get to be Kiara again, and you will be Eliza. No longer will you be forced under those names. You’ll be children again. I’ll do whatever I can to make you happy children again, no matter the cost.”

“I love you, Eliza,” Jim says softly. He reached towards the camera, and the screen goes black. I stare at it, tears blurring my vision as I start to cry. I rewind the tape, and take it back out. I clutch it to my chest for a long time, listening as the wind outside picks up, as the helicopter comes down for a landing. Pain burns my chest as I drop the tape, and smash it. Over and over, bringing my foot down again and again until nothing remains of the tape. I pick up the film, and rip it. I destroy any and all evidence of the tape. The plan is once again changing, but this time I’d be doing it entirely alone.

I’m going to have to trick the Holmes Brothers.

The cabin door is thrown open with such force that it cracks and collapses upon itself after the doorknob leaves a dent in the wall. Mycroft steps in, his umbrella holding him up as he takes a look around the room. When his eyes finally land on me, the flicker to the tape.

“Explain,” he says shortly.

I nod slowly, watching as he closes the mangled door with his foot.

“I was attacked once I entered Lestrade’s home,” I say quietly, “Isabelle.”

“Yes, she’s one of my..allies,” Mycroft says. He’s deducing me as I speak. I nod.

“I remembered her. She killed Diego,” I say.

“So you threatened her,” Mycroft says. I shake my head.

“She attacked me out of nowhere,” I say, “I ran up to the room I was staying in. It was a trap.”

“So you broke out.”

“Yes,” I look to the tape at my feet, “I came here, it was a place of safety for me in my CAN days. I had a tape stored here that was con-confi- secret .”

“And so you destroyed it.”

“Stop stating the obvious,” I huff, “Yes I destroyed it.”

Mycroft stares at me for a few moments. I frown at my feet for a second, before looking at him, “Can I go back with Sherlock? I can make sure he doesn’t end up with drugs again. I won’t leave anymore, okay?”

“Yes well,” Mycroft looked pained for just a split second, but it was enough. I step towards him.

“Please?”

“We need to talk about where you have been going, before I make any decisions,” Mycroft says simply. He walks over and takes a seat on the coffee table. I sit down next to him.

“You have been meeting with CAN agent's Mouse, Red, Whiskey and the outsider, Link,” Mycroft states, “And I have allowed this, seeing as you five haven’t done anything and that I believe that you can be trusted. However, Sherlock is not to know this, understand?”

“Of course,” I say, watching as he leans his umbrella up against the coffee table.

“In the case that I allow Sherlock to retain his custody of you, I need you to make me a promise,” Mycroft looks open for a moment, his emotions on the surface, “I need you to lead Sherlock to Serpent. He will be able to take them down with your and Doctor Watson’s help.”

“I can do that,” I say, “Why couldn’t you just tell me this earlier?”

“That would be con-confi- secret ,” Mycroft says.

Chapter Text

“Mycroft Holmes is planning to raid us.”

“He’s going to have a hard time with that, without Sherlock. That was good thinking, forging the lab results.”

“Watson’s face was incredibly funny.”

“You don’t think Puppet is going to put two and two together, do you?”

“Oh quit being a baby, Kitty. Puppet is living a domestic life now, you heard what Adler said. She and Holmes are playing bloody house!”

“But...Hound...we can’t risk going after them. You’re going to end us all. Kitty is right, once Puppet figures it out, we’re dead.”

“Not if we get her first.”

“Our last pick-ups have failed, Hound! The only thing you’re doing right now is risking our lives. We should swap bases now, head back to the United States.”

“Rubbish. I say we lure her in, and kill her once and for all.”

“And how do you suppose we do that?”

“We get the girl.”

“Melody Watson? You want us to go after John Watson’s eldest child? Also, the Melody? We can’t go after her. That’s a bigger risk than going after John Watson himself.”

“Fine. Baby Watson then.”

“I’m telling you, Hound. We can’t go after the Watson family.”

“Kitty can take care of the baby. You and I can kill Puppet.”

“No! We can’t kill Puppet! She’s our friend!”

“She betrayed us for Sherlock Holmes, Kitty . We should rip her apart, limb. By. Limb!”

“No!”

“Hound please, this..this is unnecessary. We can just leave.”

“No, and if you tell me this is unnecessary one more time, I will slit your throat.”

“We shouldn’t do this.”

“No! Oh no no no no…”

“That takes care of Whiskey then. Kitty, clean up this mess.”

“Whiskey...no…”

……

“Did it work?”

“You were stupid to do that. You could have really died, Whiskey.”

“It’ll be fine, Kit. I’ll take care of us. I just have to tell Puppet what Serpent really is.”

“Whiskey, we are six hours away from Baker Street, we won’t make it in time.”

“Kitty, ya gotta trust me one day, okay? Gimme a two of dem twenty pence coins you got there.”

“How many times is that thing gonna ring?”

“Shh….Mouse? Yeah, this is Whiskey. Look, I may have discovered some new information about Serpents whereabouts. They’re going after the baby Watson to lure Puppet and Sherlock in to their lair.”

“Whiskey, I know the truth.”

“Mouse please, I’m telling you the truth.”

“You’ve been telling me lies for months. You’ve betrayed us all, including Puppet. Don’t pretend to care now. If you want to live, don’t show your face ever again.”

“Mouse!”

…

“She hung up…”

“Whiskey? What are we going to do?”

“...I don’t know.”

I fell asleep on the drive back to London. It had been tiring, traveling four hours out on my own to get to Dartmoor. I don’t regret it in the slightest, however. I woke up to being carried inside Baker Street, by Mycroft nonetheless. He notices rather quickly that I’m awake and places me on my feet almost immediately.

“Sherlock does not know that you are coming back yet,” Mycroft says drily.  

I grin, excitement bounding about inside of me, “So it’ll be a surprise then?”

“I suppose,” Mycroft says. He leads the way upstairs. I trail up after him, barely able to keep myself from running up there screaming for Sherlock at the top of my lungs. And then beat him to a pulp for going back to those dirty habits, but for now I’m just happy to see him.

Walking past the palm tree wallpaper, I finally lose the last of my restraint, and push past Mycroft in a hurry, bolting into the flat, my heart pounding, “Sherlock!”

The flat was trashed to say the least. There were shards of glass (broken cuppa by the looks of the nasty stain on the wall above it) littered on the floor, the wallpaper was torn in some places, the smiley face had multiple new bullet holes. What Sherlock referenced as John’s chair is tipped over on it’s side. Billy is on the floor by the door with a nasty looking crack in his skull. Books and papers are tossed hazardly around the room, however none of that matters to me.

Sherlock was sitting in a tight ball, curled into his chair with red rimmed eyes when I bound into the flat. He nearly falls out of his chair getting up, catching me as I leap into the chair and wrap my arms around his neck. I was home.

Sherlock went stony faced as Mycroft entered the room, “What happened?”

“Isabelle took out her annoyance with her injury on Puppet,” Mycroft leans against the doorframe, watching Sherlock idly. I let go of Sherlock, frowning heavily as Mycroft continues, “It’s been taken care of, but I do believe you can be trusted not to repeat your mistakes, brother mine.”

“I told you,” Sherlock spits, “I wasn’t on anything.”

“The test did not lie, brother,” Mycroft said smoothly.

“Puppet?”

I turn to Sherlock, and give him a small smile, “We got a case to complete, so let's get to it.” I make a nod to the mangled state of the flat, “After we clean up this mess.”

Sherlock lets out a small chuckle, and we set to work.

=

=

=

“Last sighting of any of the men in white was last Thursday, an armed robbery in Liverpool,” Sherlock says, placing another pin on the map. I flip through the scene images Lestrade had brought while Sherlock goes through the video footage from Mycroft on his laptop. I find the image that Wes gave me but… the painting isn’t there. I freeze up all over, but manage to push it aside.

“Last sighting from us was when they tried to kill Lestrade,” I say, reaching to hand him a sheet with lab results. He pauses, musing over it, before reaching for his phone.

“Who’re you messaging?” I ask, standing on my tiptoes to attempt to read his phone as he types.

“A friend,” Sherlock says simply. He grabs his coat from the couch and pulls it on, “Come on, we’ve got no time to waste.”

“Wait, where are we going?” I ask, checking for my Kris as I hurry to follow him downstairs and out the door. He hails a taxi and replies simply, “To see a friend.”

As we climb into the taxi and it takes off down the road, I ask, “The same one you were messaging?”

“Correct,” Sherlock gave me a wicked smile, “The game is on, Puppet, and it is rather difficult to play right without Molly Hooper’s loving guidance.”

=

=

=

“Molly,” Sherlock calls cheerfully as we enter the morgue. I can’t help but feel I’m meeting this Molly a little late, but Sherlock must have had his reasons. A petite woman jumps, her lab coat twirling with her as she turns around. Her small jaw drops, and she nearly catches her dusty brown hair in her mouth.

“Sherlock,” she says in a surprised but polite tone.  

“I need you to search for these blood samples in your system,” He says simply, handing her the vial. She nods hurriedly, and scurries off to do as Sherlock asked. Sherlock helps me up onto the counter, and I watch as he pulls the crime scene photos from inside his coat.

We look them over, waiting patiently for Molly, who does come back over with her report.

“I think your brother was searching for an age range,” Molly said softly, “I searched the entire data base. I only came up with one match.” She slides a paper over, which in turn Sherlock passes to me. I pick it up, surprise stabbing me in the gut. Matthew Moress. I didn’t know that was his name.

“That’s Whiskey,” I say slowly, “But he...he wouldn’t betray me. There’s no way.”

“The test didn’t lie, Puppet,” Sherlock said slowly, “We need to go to your meeting spot.”

=

=

=

The drive to the meeting spot left me feeling shaky and terrified. As we get out of the cab, I feel goosebumps riddle their way up my arms. I look to Sherlock as the cab drives away, “Let me go in first. Mouse will lose her mind if she sees you first.”

“Alright,” Sherlock agrees after a few seconds. I can feel his gaze boring into my back as I head inside the building.

Red looks up, confusion settled on his face, “Hey P, something wrong?”

“I need to talk to Mouse,” I say simply, straightening my shoulders. A puff of dust from the floor startles me as Mouse lands crouching with one hand to the ground. She stands easily, one hand on one of her two Katanas.

“What’s up?” She asks, watching me with an almost knowing expression.

“Whiskey,” I say quietly. Mouse’s shoulders go rigid, and her semi-calm expression shifts to one of anger.

“So you know then,” Mouse states. I nod and she lets go of her Katana, choosing to place a hand on her hip instead, “So that’s why you brought Holmes with you.”

“I found out when I was with him,” I answer, “He, of course, wouldn’t go without me.”

“So you didn’t tell him not to,” Mouse says with a roll of her stone back eyes, “Good going.”

“It’s not like he’s going to tell,” I huff, “Where’s Link?”

“Busy setting up for your thing,” Mouse says lowly, “Red was helping him, but without Whiskey I don’t think it’s going to work.”

“Well, thanks to Whiskey, I think I got an idea of who Serpent will go after next,” I say calmly, “I’m going to take Sherlock and ambush them.”

“Well,” Mouse says, placing a hand on my shoulder, “I had Red track the call, so if that ambush doesn’t work out,” She places a small piece of paper into my hand, and closes my fingers around it, “Head there. Take Holmes with you, and probably Watson too. And call that number when you’re done, got it?”

I nod, and she gives me a rather harsh push towards the door of the building. I head back out to where Sherlock stood looking over his phone, “Got a location on Serpent.”

“Too late,” Sherlock says harshly. He tosses me his phone, which I barely manage to catch.

John: KINGS BRIDGE

“Kings..?” I breathe, looking up at Sherlock who’s running his hands through his hair.

“Martian’s gone,” Sherlock snaps, looking at me like I’m the scum of the earth. I drop his phone instantly, turning and running back into the building.

Mouse looks to me in surprise as I come back in, sending dirt and dust into the air, “Puppet-?”

“I need your help,” I beg, “This is bigger than I thought.”

Something changed in Mouse’s expression, “I’ve got you. Red stay here with Link.”

Mouse followed after me as I run back out. Sherlock looks Mouse up and down instantly deducing her, “You’re Mouse.”

“That I am, Holmes ,” She spits, “I’m here for Puppet .”

“I know,” and with that, the cab that had dropped them off had come back and we left without any time to spare. 

Chapter Text

“Melody go get your brother.”

“Okay.”

…

“Dad!”

“Mel, where’s-”

“ He’s not there!”

“What- Martian!”

“Mom!”

“Melody, what’s- John-”

“Get my phone Melody.”

“Dad-”

“ Get my phone!”

“John, dear, it’ll be fine-”

“He’s gone, he’s gone.”

====

“Oh my god...Hound what have you done?”

“Nothing yet. Take him.”

“Bwah...!”

“Oh my...I...hello there…”

“Take him to the cage.”

“Hound, he’s just a baby…”

“ Now, Kitty.”

The three of us trample up the stairs the second we enter John’s flat. Sherlock enters first, with Mouse and I on his tail. I look to Mouse and can’t help but feel like a liar as she stands tall and fierce. I can only imagine that she feels the same.

John spots Mouse almost immediately, “Who is she?”

“Mouse, formerly the second hand to Puppet in the Child Assassin Nexus,” Mouse grunts. John doesn’t relax in the slightly until she spits, “I’m here to help.”

“Right,” John says, running a hand through his hair.

“I’ve got a location on Serpent,” Mouse starts, moving her massive lock of hot pink hair from her face, “We start there.”

“Who says we start there?” Mary accuses. She’s got a hand on Melody’s shoulder, shielding her slightly.

“Let’s just say I got some inside info,” Mouse snarls, “And if you don’t remember, it’s your son on the line, so let’s get to it, shall we?”

Mary’s jaw snaps shut, but she glares hatefully at Mouse.

“Momma bear, you stay here with Melody,” Mouse orders, “Watson, Holmes, you two are with Puppet and I. Let’s go.”

Sherlock frowns heavily, as does John, but they don’t argue as we follow Mouse out. I look to Mouse, assessing once more as she takes on the leadership role. I want to ask her, but force myself to remain silent. I can’t, not now. The truth can wait.

It’s a six hour drive to Serpents location. Mouse points to everyone individually as we stand just a few yards away from it, “Holmes, backdoor, Watson you’re with him. Puppet and I got the roof.”

Sherlock and John look to each other, before both take off at a jog to the building. Once out of sight, Mouse turns to me and places her hands on my shoulders, “I have to go, but you can take the roof yourself, right?”