"What can you tell me about him?"

It had been two weeks since our walk, and Papa and I were sitting on the front steps watching the people going up and down Baker Street. He had begun to teach me his methods of observation and deduction, and even though I caught on surprisingly well, I still struggled, and that frustrated me.

We had been outside since that morning, and now it was nearly lunchtime. The midday heat, combined with the beginning of fatigue, were starting to make things difficult for me, and just as we were about to take a break, a gentleman across the street had caught my father's attention.

"Um, he's, um..." I rubbed my eyes and tried to look closer at the bearded fellow standing at the small street stand. He was chatting with the stall owner while he browsed through her wares, completely unaware he was being watched by a five year old and her eccentric father.

"Er, he's buying a book, and..." I stopped as my vision went blurry. I squeezed my eyes shut and then reopened them, hoping that would help.

No such luck. The man only appeared blurrier.

I blinked as he walked off, taking his book and my chance of deducing him with him. Papa gave me a small look of disappointment.

I scowled. My exhaustion was starting to get the better of me. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't see him clearly enough. We're too far away." I rubbed at my eyes again, angry with them for letting me down.

"I didn't said it was going to be easy," my father muttered irritably.

"Yes, I know, but you've been doing it longer than I have. You can't expect me to learn everything overnight."

We glared at each other, annoyed with our lack of progress and the heat and the people whizzing by and our tiredness. We would have gone back at it too, if we hadn't been interrupted.

"Do you want to know how long you two have been out here?"

We turned to see Watson standing behind us, one hand in his pant pocket and the other resting on his cane. He looked back at us, his expression one of concern and partial annoyance.

"Oh, hello, Watson," Papa said, giving him a smile. "Come to join us?"

"How long?" I asked, ignoring my father. I wanted to know the answer, but at the same time I didn't want to know the answer.

Watson sighed. "Take a guess."

I frowned. It couldn't have been all that long, could it? Then again, time had the strange ability to fly by when one was doing something productive.

"Two hours?" I suggested.

"How about almost three?" Watson stepped toward Papa and poked him lightly with his cane. "Move, Holmes. I want to sit down."

My father grumbled a little as he scooted over to make room for him. Once my friend was settled, I answered his question with, "It's been that long?"

"Yes."

We fell into silence after that. Three hours? Really? No wonder Papa and I had been ready to start a civil war with each other. If Watson hadn't appeared when he did, things would have gotten much worse.

After a moment or two, he spoke up again, breaking the silence. "Please tell me you're coming inside soon. I'd very much like someone to talk to, and I know for a fact that Mrs. Hudson and Gladstone aren't the only people living in this building."

Papa placed a hand on his chest. "I'm touched by your concern for me, Watson-"

"I was talking to Maria."

I laughed at the hurt look on my father's face and then quickly tried to turn it into a cough when he looked at me. "I think so. We've had enough for one day, haven't we, Papa?"

He sent me a frown before surrendering. "Fine."

I jumped up from my spot and instantly regretted doing so, feeling every sore part of my body shriek in protest at being moved after such a long period of time. I quietly groaned, rolling my shoulders to release the stiffness there.

Papa stood up too, and I saw him wince and rub the back of his neck. "How were we sitting for so long?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I have no idea."

Watson watched us for a moment before standing up himself. "Well, I'll be inside when you're done," he muttered, and he left us on the steps still stretching.

"There wasn't much improvement today," I said, feeling somewhat guilty. All this time spent trying to teach me something I understood, but had trouble putting into practice. It was rather disappointing.

My father sighed. "Well, you're not so bad. I apologize, Maria, for pushing you. We're both trying our best at doing things we aren't used to doing."

I nodded and glanced down at my feet. "I know. I'm sorry I snapped at you."

He chuckled. "It's alright. That's not the first time I've been yelled at." He reached down and took my hand as we began walking back inside. "Now, I suppose we'll go and listen to Watson, seeing that he was desperate enough for our company to come fetch us."

✦✦✦✦

As life at Baker Street went on, I fell into a comfortable pattern. Mornings would include lessons with Papa and after breakfast, I would help Mrs. Hudson with her market shopping. He never told me, but I knew my father worried about me whenever I went out somewhere. He was afraid I would get lost, or worse. Mrs. Hudson promised she would keep a close eye on me, and she never broke that promise.

There was something I found fascinating about poking into the different stands to see what kind of things each one was offering, whether it be vegetables, fruit, fabrics, or other items. However, I never strayed too far from Mrs. Hudson. I always looked at the stalls closest to her, so she could watch me while she did her shopping. Often we returned home with various produce, and always she returned with the little girl named Maria.

I discovered Inspector Lestrade was a friend of Papa's, and even though, like our poor landlady, my father annoyed the man, they were on good terms with each other. I learned to appreciate his company when he was around from time to time, and we became good friends.

The nights at Baker Street became a special time for me. When the sun had set, we would gather in Mrs. Hudson's apartment, and on the piano I would play either a piece I had recently learned or whatever came to mind. It was soothing to tap at the wooden keys and listen to the music they provided.

One day, I was alone in the apartment, working on some free hand playing. I was so wrapped up in the music that I was deaf to the outside world until I heard the sound of soft clapping coming from behind me.

"Bravo. Quite wonderful, Maria."

I spun my stool around, alarmed by the presence of another person in the room. My father sat in a chair, watching me calmly as he puffed on his pipe. He was wearing one of his shabby robes, one item of his wardrobe I always wondered how it stayed intact for so long.

"How long have you been there?"

"Oh, not long." He shifted in his chair. "I must say your playing brings on a most calming effect. I was about to doze off, quite content to sit here and listen to your music."

"Um, thank you." The sudden praise made me feel self-conscious, and I quickly turned back to the piano.

"But don't mind me," he said. "Continue on."

I raised my hands over the keys, ready to resume my practicing. " Do you have any requests?"

Papa didn't answer. When I turned to see why, I found him leaning back in his chair, his eyes closed and a smile on his face. A sense of pleasure filled me as I returned to tapping at the piano keys. If this could allow him some peace, even if it was for a small while, then I would keep playing.

Time passed. I got better at observing and deducing people, even though I still tripped up on occasion. Walks with my father became more frequent, and sometimes Watson tagged along, to my delight, so it would be the three of us strolling through the park or down the street. It was during these small excursions that my bond with the two men grew stronger. We didn't care where we went; we'd just be enjoying one another's company. Every so often, they would bicker about the simplest things, and I would try not to smile at the way they made faces as they yelled at each other.

It was after one of our walks when something happened, something that made my father's lessons take a more serious turn.

✦✦✦✦

The year was 1880. We were returning to Baker Street after a long day of exploring the park, or should I say, trying to return. The hour at which we left the park was most unfortunate, as people were beginning to leave their various work areas. The streets were soon crowded, so much so that we let our cab drop us off a few blocks away in favor of walking the rest of the way.

I was holding on to Papa's hand as we stepped through the mass of people invading the sidewalk, listening with half an ear to the current argument he had struck up with Watson. He had his riding crop tucked under his other arm, a weapon he could use quite well, as I was to discover. When their quarrel reached its peak, I began to notice the stream of people was getting thicker. This made walking harder, and I had to rely on my father to clear a path. I was about to step through a group of women when someone bumped into me. I tripped, and in doing so I lost my grip on his hand.

I was surrounded almost instantly by the many different colors of clothing rushing past, and through the blur I saw my father's black coat. "Wait!" I cried, hurrying forward, "Wait! Wait for me! Papa!"

He didn't hear me, and I watched in horror as his coat disappeared from sight. Oh, no. No, no, no. This wasn't happening. Panic seized me as the stream of people pushed me along, carrying me farther and farther away from my companions. I tried yelling for my father, but my voice was drowned out by the general chaotic noise. Someone shoved me to one side and I stumbled, almost falling face first onto the sidewalk.

I had to get away.

With some difficulty, I managed to slip myself into a nearby alleyway, my chest heaving as I struggled to breathe. I was lost. Separated. On my own. I didn't know what to do, what to think, what to-

"Ms. Holmes?"

I whirled in the direction of the voice. A man stood at the entrance of the alleyway, looking at me with a mixture of surprise and something else I couldn't quite place. He wore a brown jacket, brown pants, and scuffed shoes that suggested he did a great deal of running or walking through crowded places. I noticed he was fiddling with something in his jacket pocket. Sharp gray eyes and sleek brown hair greeted me as I raised my eyes to study the man's face. His expression was not threatening, but something about it made me feel uneasy. Something...shifty.

I took a few steps back, preparing myself to run if needed. "Do I know you?"

The man shook his head and smiled. "You don't know me, but I know you, or should I say, know of you, Ms. Holmes."

"How?" I asked, now wary. Outside of my little family, not many people knew I was the daughter of Sherlock Holmes, and for my own safety, I was to use a different name when I went out in public. Papa said it was because he didn't want me to be in danger, but from what or who he didn't tell me.

The mysterious man stepped forward. "I have my ways," he replied.I watched as he drew out a small notebook and pen from the his jacket pocket. "Ms. Holmes, my name is Leopold Wheeler, and I'm a writer for-"

"Excuse me." I slipped past him and re-entered the stream of people, relieved to be away from the man. Something told me he had been going to ask me questions. Questions that I didn't want and would not have liked to answer. I continued in the same direction where I had last seen my father, hoping he might have stopped to wait for me somewhere.

"Ms. Holmes! Wait a moment!"

I turned and saw Mr. Wheeler. He was now in the crowd and was hurrying towards me, which could only mean one thing.

I spun and ran, pushing my way through the crowded sidewalk. I kept moving forward, trying to put some distant between the man and myself. Suddenly I spotted a gap in the swarm big enough for me to slip through. I scrambled onward, the gap getting closer and closer. I was going to make it, I was going to-

A hand grabbed me by the shoulder and roughly spun me around. A burly man glared down at me. Rough stubble decorated the area around his mouth, and a thin scar ran through one of his eyebrows. His clothes and shoes were slightly worn down, but they appeared to be of good quality. This man wasn't rich, but he wasn't poor either. Obviously someone paid him, but who?

"Ah! Good, Finley! You got her."

My eyes widened in horror as Mr. Wheeler finally caught up with me, panting a little. He smiled at the burly man. "Thank you, Finley. What would I do without you?"

Finley smiled back in response to such praise. He still had his hand on my shoulder, and it was getting rather uncomfortable.

"What do you want from me?" I demanded. "I have nothing of value to give you." I should have felt terrified, but all I could feel was anger. I wasn't going to respond to any of his stupid questions, and that was final.

Both men looked down at me, Finley with a confused expression, Mr. Wheeler with a frown. "Now, Ms. Holmes, all I want is answers." He whipped out his notebook again. "Now, please be a cooperative little girl or this situation might have to become rather unpleasant."

"For who?" I snapped, my anger taking over. "You or me?" I had no intention of being a "cooperative little girl." Not for this man, anyway.

Mr. Wheeler flashed me a pained smile. "Let's just start, shall we?" He opened his notebook. "How long have you been living with your father?"

"That's none of your concern."

Another pained smile. "What was the reason behind you staying with him?"

I glared at the man, wondering how he could make a living out of asking irritating questions. "That is also none of your concern."

Finley shook his head slightly, as if he was warning me about something. He dropped his hand from my shoulder, and in an instant, I was off, squeezing through the gap I had seen before either man could blink.

Desperation made me run faster as I was once again swallowed by the seemingly never-ending blur of colors. Footsteps pounded behind me, and I knew they weren't far behind. "Papa! Papa!" I yelled, but my voice was drowned out again by the hum of so many voices. The panic returned, stronger this time. It was too much for me. I wasn't going home. Not today, not ever.

I spotted Finley behind me, reaching out one hand as if he could catch me from where he stood. Mr. Wheeler pushed past him and sprang forward, grabbing me by the collar of my dress.

"Now listen here, you little rascal," he hissed, his eyes narrowed. "Your father has been causing me a great deal of trouble for a while. He has ever so cleverly been avoiding my many attempts of getting answers from him-"

"I don't blame him," I said, giving him a little smirk despite my present situation. "You are very annoying, even for a person."

He growled. "You think you're so smart, little girl? I told you this would happen. Perhaps now I can finally get the answers I want. From you."

I stomped as hard as I could on his foot, trying to make him let me go. Mr. Wheeler's hand released me, and as I started to run again, he seized my collar once more. There was a wild look in his eyes I didn't like. Finley had disappeared, most likely because he hadn't enjoyed being apart of this whole business.

"Papa! " I screamed for my father one last time, praying for an answer.

And this time, there was.

My ears picked up the sound of a familiar voice yelling out words, far enough to sound distant, but close enough to be heard. "Maria! Where are you? Where's my daughter? Maria!"

I gasped, tears of joy pricking my eyes. He had found me. He was coming. "Papa! Watson! Here, here!"

Mr. Wheeler clapped a hand over my mouth before I could get anything else out. "Quiet!" he snapped.

In response, I stepped on his foot again.

He yelped and released my dress. I darted forward in the direction of Papa's voice, and suddenly I slammed into a pair of dark pant-covered legs.

"Maria!" a voice exclaimed, and I nearly cried in relief, "There you are! Where did you go?"

My father and Watson gazed down at me, both wearing worried expressions. I sniffed and wrapped my arms around one of Papa's legs. Now that they were here, everything was going to be okay, but even so, I had to warn them.

"He's after me, Papa! He wanted me to answer some questions he had about us, but I refused to do it, and-and now he's after me!"

"Who's after you, Maria?" Watson asked gently. 

As if almost on cue, Mr. Wheeler approached us, now looking thoroughly upset. I quickly hid myself behind my father's leg, and I felt him stiffen as the man glared at me.

"Well, look who it is. The great Sherlock Holmes. Fancy seeing you here," Mr. Wheeler sneered. "Thank you for making sure my source of information doesn't escape me again. She was being rather unhelpful in my search to obtain a few much-needed responses for several questions I have concerning you."

I looked to my father, wondering how he was going to react to such a statement. It was like a shadow had passed over him. His face darkened instantly. His mouth twisted into an angry scowl, and his eyes burned with a rage I had never seen before from him. I felt him place a hand on my head in a protective gesture, and I knew he and Watson wouldn't let Mr. Wheeler hurt me.

Papa's voice was full of barely restrained anger as he addressed the crazy newspaper writer. "By 'obtain' you mean attempting to accost and demand answers from my daughter? I think not. I always knew you were mad, I just didn't how mad until today." He looked the man straight in the eyes. "If you try to speak or touch my child again for any reason, it will not end well for you. Do you understand?"

"Are you threatening me, Holmes?" Mr. Wheeler growled, stepping closer to my father. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Watson taking up a defensive stance. "I'll have you know that I have some powerful friends. I want answers, and if your little brat is the only way to get them, then-"

Something flashed across Mr. Wheeler's face with a sharp slapping noise, and I realized in horror that my father had smacked the man with his riding crop. 

"Easy, Holmes," Watson said, placing a hand on his shoulder. I could see he was as equally upset as my father was.

Mr. Wheeler raised a hand to his face and touched the spot where the whip had hit him. "Did you just-"

"Refer to her as that again, and I will give you more than a simple lash," Papa snarled in a low voice. "If you have an issue with me, I'll come to you, but leave my daughter out of this."

A tense silence followed as he and Watson glared at the man. With a few mutters, Mr. Wheeler finally left us alone, still holding his face.

When we could no longer see him, Papa bent down to check on me. "Are you alright?" he asked, gently cupping his hand around one side of my face. "Did he hurt you?"

"N-no," I said, "but he was very talkative, and demanding, and he did...grab me by the collar." My voice went soft on the last part.

Papa turned his gaze from me to Watson, and a peculiar look passed between them.

"What? What's wrong?" I asked. 

"She's too young," Watson muttered suddenly.

"Too young for what?" I demanded. Being left out of the conversation wasn't much fun, especially when I had no idea what they were talking about.

"I have no choice," my father replied, standing up. "What if this were to happen again? She would have no way of protecting herself, no way of fighting back. I wouldn't be able to let her leave without knowing that she was at least capable of defending herself."

"Capable of defending myself from who?" I was nearing the point of screaming for recognition. "Can someone please talk to me?"

They froze and looked down at me, finally acknowledging my presense. I nodded my head. "There we go. Now, what are you talking about? Who will I be protecting myself from? What must I learn? What am I too young for?"

Instead of answering my questions, Papa sighed and turned back to Watson. "I'll be thinking about teaching her, and if something comes from this, which no doubt will happen, then I must do it," he muttered. I felt him take my hand, and we continue on our way back to Baker Street, each of us thinking our own thoughts. I was rather shaken up by my encounter with Mr. Wheeler, and I deeply hoped I would never see him again.

But our meeting did not come without consequences.

The next morning, I was up in my father's room, inspecting the many interesting things he had in there. He watched me cautiously from his chair, ready to step in if I touched the wrong item. A little telescope caught my attention, and I discovered that by holding it up to my eye I could make Papa appear very big or, by turning it around, very small.

"Please be careful with that, Maria," he said as I turned the telescope over in my hands. "I need it intact. I bring it with me on some of my cases, and it won't do me any good if it's broken."

Oh. I quickly put the important object back down. It was then Mrs. Hudson walked in with a tea tray and that morning's newspaper. She set the tray down on the wooden table. I smiled and waved at her as she left the room with the previous tea tray from a few days ago.

Papa reached for the newspaper and snapped it open. There was something written on the front page. I couldn't see the heading very clearly from where I was, but it looked important.

"Papa, what's on the front?"

"Hm?" He turned the newspaper to face him, and as he did so, his face morphed into the same dark expression from yesterday, only this time his eyebrows lowered until they were right above his eyes. I stared at him, suddenly worried.

"Papa, is something wrong?"

I wasn't sure what he had read, but suddenly he stood up and took the front page of the newspaper in his hands before he violently crumpled it into a ball. His feet thudded against the floor carpet as he began to pace, all the while muttering furiously under his breath. It was rather distressing to watch.

I reached for the paper ball lying on the floor, somewhat curious to know what was on the page that caused him to act this way. I started to straighten it out warily.

"No, Maria," Papa called. "Don't unfold it. Don't..." He stopped and ran trembling fingers through his hair. "That despicable, lying, wretched man," he seethed quietly to himself. "He'll be asking for his words back when I'm done with him."

I looked at the paper ball with new eyes, feeling a sense of dread. Something told me Mr. Wheeler had written an article on that front page, and the subject of that article was about me. I quickly scrunched the paper back up.

"Thank you." My father plucked the ball from my hands and threw it into the fireplace. "At least now it will serve a greater purpose in providing heat."

He turned and retrieved his coat from the back of his chair. "Come, Maria." We left the room and made our way to the busy street below. I followed after my father as he moved at a brisk pace to the left and disappeared into a alleyway running along the side of our building.

It was dirtier back here than out there. The walls were covered in soot and dust, and I soon learned why as Papa led me through a wooden gate and down a metal staircase.

Two sheds stood in a small area hidden from view, one bigger than the other. The smaller one seemed to hold the building's coal supply, hence the sooty walls. But besides the two sheds, there was nothing else in the space.

So why would my father bring me here?

"Look at me, Maria."

I turned and found him in a odd position. He was standing with his feet spread evenly apart, his arms held out in front of him and his hands clenched into fists.

"Replicate this stance, child, and raise your fists," he said. "Repeat any movements you see me make."

I did what he asked, although I was confused. Raise my fists? Why?

The answer was revealed not a second later.

As soon as I placed myself in the correct pose, Papa punched the air in front of him with his left hand. I copied the motion with a bit of uncertainty. He did the same thing with his right hand. I copied that motion too.

We went on like this for a few minutes before it occurred to me what he was trying to do.

He was teaching me how to fight.

"Papa, why are you doing this?" I asked when we took a small break. "Why are you teaching me how to fight? Is it because of what happened yesterday?"

He stopped and gazed at me, and in that instant I knew it was. He bent down so that we were eye to eye. "Yes, Maria," he said softly, "it is. What happened yesterday, when I discovered you were gone, or should I say, when Watson discovered you were gone..." he breathed in for a moment, "I was scared, even more than when you decided to take off through the park.

"We started searching for you. If you hadn't called out when you did, we might not have found you. For some time now, I've been debating whether or not to teach you how to defend yourself against people like-"

"Like Mr. Wheeler?" I cut in.

Papa nodded. "Yes. People like him. When I brought up the subject to Watson, he objected and claimed you were too young, but now, I'm left with no choice."

I swallowed hard. There was something I wanted to know. "What did the paper say?" I asked, glancing away from my father as I did so.

His gaze remained on me, but I noticed his jaw clenched at the mention of the newspaper. "He made some...interesting comments about us," was all he said. I suspected there was more to the story, but I didn't persist. There had been enough questions for one day.

We continued on training for a while, and during that time, he taught me how to block and dodge incoming attacks and how to attack in return. Watson eventually found us out by spotting us from the stairwell window. Once he had come down to where we were, he and Papa argued about if my learning hand-to-hand combat was acceptable, but in the end he agreed it was rather necessary. 

Like most things at Baker Street, I came to enjoy the strange thrill these new lessons brought, and I believe Papa enjoyed teaching them to me. I was happy. I had found a place where I finally felt like I belonged. But like all things, happiness must come to an end at some point, and my happiness was to end sooner than I had imagined.  

  ✦✦✦✦ 

Yay! I made it to Chapter 4! I apologize for the time skip, but it was necessary. The next chapter will include a major time skip, as something important happens during a certain point in Maria's life. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Anyway, we had more fluff and some intense moments. Maria's really having some adventures with Sherlock and Watson, and what did you think about Mr. Wheeler? Creepy, right? It's not the last we'll see of him. Oh, oh, and Sherlock teaching her hand-to-hand combat! What did you think of that?

Chapter 5 is starting soon, so in the meantime, give me your thoughts on this chapter!