Sophia Holmes and the Speckled Blonde (Sherlock's Daughter Fanfic) *Completed*

Prologue

Recap

When I get up the next day, I see John is already awake and in the living room, typing up our case. Dad comes up behind me as I move over towards the sofa, and he looks at the screen.

"'Geek Interpreter,'" dad reads aloud. "What's that?"

"It's the title," John replies shortly.

"What does it need a title for?" He questions, and I look up to see John smile tightly.

"Um, John," I say, quickly slipping an arm out of my shirt leaving my shoulder exposed. "My stitching, it's opened up."

"Oh shit," he says, slamming his laptop shut and coming over to look. Dad follows him over to watch as John inspects it.

"Must have been the strain from yesterdays fight," dad tells me, and I roll my eyes.

"No shit Sherlock," I reply through a clenched jaw as John pokes around at it.

"Oi, language," John says sternly and I grimace slightly.

"Well, it is quite obvious," I tell him. I open my mouth to say some more, but he stands back up.

"I'm just going to go out and get some supplies to stitch you back up, but until then ..." he pauses for a moment as he moves into the kitchen for the first aid kit, "... you're going to have to hold this on. I won't be long. Sherlock, get her some painkillers. Don't let her fall asleep." John leaves, and I hear dad in the kitchen, knocking boxes of medicine aside to find the painkillers. We seem to be all out.

"Mrs H will have some," I tell him softly, and he nods, sprinting down the stairs. He isn't thinking straight. I'm his weakness. I'm also very tired. I hear Mrs Hudson's door open downstairs as my eyes flutter closed, and my hand falls from my shoulder.

Prologue

I wake up for the second time in one week in a hospital bed plugged into a machine. My vision is hazy, but I can make out a figure by my bedside. It's not dad, the figure is too short for him, and it can't be John because only family members are allowed in here. So who is it? I try and pick up the energy to ask, but my throat is too dry and no sound comes out. I see the door open and then close, and they're gone. I try and remember what she looked like: they were female, dressed in dark, skinny jeans and a white top. Their hair was long and black, and all piled into a neat updo. But who was she? I'm sure that if I wasn't hooked up to this, I would recognise her immediately.

Not long after she leaves, dad comes into the room, holding two polystyrene cups of hot chocolate. He looks worried, and his gaze falls to my shoulder. I look down at it myself. It's been stitched back up while I was asleep, but I'm guessing due to my apparent blood loss I had to spend the night here, in St Barts. How convenient.

"Are you alright?" he asks me, handing me one of the cups. I breath in the smells of the mint chocolate liquid and I nod. I want to tell him about the woman, but before I can even begin to try, he starts speaking again. "Lestrade's outside, wanted to make sure you were alright." Silence. "He thinks he has a case for us." I look up at him questionly as I blow softly and take a cautious sip. "Woman in the morgue downstairs, died yesterday. No obvious cause of death, he wants us to take a look."

"Has Molly autopsied her yet?" I question, my voice feeling rough against the back of my throat.

"Next on her list," he tells me. "The doctor says you're able to leave when you're ready, but to take it easy. Did you want to come down?" I nod.