{Baker Street, 1886, London, England}

I was thirteen when it happened.

It was foolish of me to think it would never end, but it did. Only I hadn't thought it would end like this.

Never like this.

The day had started normally enough. I had had my morning lessons with Papa and then left for the market with Mrs. Hudson. We were returning home with our shopping, and as we were walking down Baker Street, I noticed the black police carriage waiting in front of our building.

This didn't worry me. The police carriage came whenever Scotland Yard needed my father, and often that meant that Lestrade had come along with it. We were close enough to the building that I could run ahead inside. My feet pounded up the stairs as I hurried to Papa's room, excitement coursing through me at the thought of seeing my friend again.

My excitement stopped when I got to the door.

It was slightly ajar, like it had been the day when I first entered the room. The sound of voices leaked out through the crack. I crept up to the door and listened, trying to make out the words.

"...Lestrade, what brings you here?" came Papa's voice. "Do you require my assistance?"

"No, Mr. Holmes. We've come with something to tell you," Lestrade said. There was the sound of squeaking floorboard, and then a second voice began to speak, one I recognized to be Constable Clark's, another police officer I was good friends with. 

"Two days ago, there was a carriage accident on Weathers Street, Mr. Holmes, a bad one too. From what we can tell, there must have been some sort of collision."

"Were there any passengers in the carriage?" Watson asked in concern, and I couldn't help but desperately wonder the same thing. But why? Why was I so desperate to know?

"Two. An older gentleman and a woman. The gentleman was already dead by the time we arrived."

"And the woman?" Papa questioned.

"The woman was alive, though barely conscious," Lestrade spoke back up. "She had sustained several serious injuries. We managed to get her to the hospital." There was a moment of silence before he continued. "Mr. Holmes, the lady...she was someone we recognized. It was Eliza."

For a moment, time stopped around me. I couldn't feel myself breathe, nor could I hear anything. No. That wasn't right. Mama was safe back at Grandfather's house. Lestrade was lying. He had to be.

"Is she alive?"

Papa's question was straight to the point, and his voice was calm, but beneath the calm lay a complex mixture of emotions, worry making itself known the best.

The floorboards creaked again, one after the other; it sounded like someone was shifting their feet.

"Answer the question, Inspector," my father demanded, the quiet intensity of his voice making me nervous. "Is my wife alright?"

The next few moments of silence were nerve-wracking. Please, I thought, someone say anything, anything at all.

I wouldn't have wished for that if I had known what was to be said next.

"No, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade murmured sadly. "Her injuries were too severe. She died in her sleep yesterday. I'm sorry."

Too severe. Too severe. Died in her sleep. Died in her sleep. Died. Died.

I stumbled away from the door, tears in my eyes and shock numbing my body. No, no. This couldn't be possible. Mama couldn't be dead.

"No!" I found myself yelling, "No! You're wrong! You're lying!"

I spun and fled back down the short flights of stairs, the sounds of scuffling feet coming from the room behind me. I sped past Mrs. Hudson, who called out my name in alarm, but I didn't reply. I don't think I could have. 

I bolted out the door and down the street. The people on the sidewalk blurred around me as I pushed past them. I didn't care where I was going. All I wanted right now was for everyone to get out of my way and give me a clear path to just run and run and run until I was as far away from Baker Street as I possibly could.

Through the crowd, I spotted an opening to an alleyway, and with absolutely no regard for my personal safety, I turned inside it and skidded to a stop.

My chest heaved with every breath I took. My throat burned and tears began to drip down my face as I collapsed onto the cold ground, fighting to keep myself from crying out.

N-no. No.

M-Mama's not dead. She's not dead.

Those three words tramped through my mind on repeat.

She's not dead. She's not dead. She's not dead.

But in my heart I truly knew the answer, and the words changed.

She's dead.

She's dead.

She's never coming back.

She's never coming back for me.

The pent-up screams inside of me finally came spilling out of my mouth. My hands covered my ears as I rocked back and forth, in too much pain to care if anyone heard. I screamed and screamed until my nose was runny and my throat felt hoarse.

When I was finally done, I brought my hands away from my ears. The silence was horrible. Everything sounded muffled and slow, like I was underwater. Through the muffleness I was suddenly aware of the sound of voices and the touch of a hand on my shoulder.

I spun around to defend myself as the hand gripped my arm. "Let me go! Let me go!" I shrieked. Somehow I had found the energy to yell again. I thrashed violently, trying to escape the person's grip.

"Maria! Maria, stop!" a sharp voice demanded, frightened by my struggling.

"No!" I continued to cry out, "No! Let me go! Please, just let me go!"

Another hand grabbed my shoulder and held me in place. I found myself faced with Watson and Papa. There was pity and pain in their eyes as they looked down at me. It was obvious they were distressed by my behavior.

My strength left me at that moment, and I leaned forward and collapsed against my father, burying my face into his shirt. A hand rubbed against my back soothingly as I sobbed.

"It's okay," Watson murmured. "It's going to be okay, Maria."

"No," I murmured back, "it's not going to be okay. It's never going to be okay."

At my words, Papa knelt down and hugged me tightly. I put my head on his shoulder as he began to rock me gently, whispering reassurances in my ear. Watson stood by, offering silent support as we quietly grieved for the loss of my mother.

✦✦✦✦

There was no mourning procession for us to walk in, no funeral to attend. There was simply...nothing.

Over the next few days, we tried our best to bring life back to its normal pace, but even our best wasn't enough. Papa stopped giving me lessons and he often went walking by himself with his head bowed and his hands behind his back. Sometimes he wouldn't come home until late into the night. I'd hear his footsteps on the stairs, and out of worry for his well-being, crack open my door a little to see into the hallway. He'd stumble past me into his room, looking exhausted and unkempt, and close the door softly behind him. Other times he would stay in his room for days, much like he had when I first arrived, until someone, either Mrs. Hudson or Watson, would convince him to come out. I didn't bother him as much as I used to; I knew he needed the space. The news of Mama's death had hit us hard. We all needed time to recover.

When a week of watching Papa's distressing behavior had gone by, I began to think that maybe now things would get better, that maybe we could continue our lessons, that he would start spending time with me and Watson again.

I should have known better.

I began to notice that whenever I was around him, my father's eyes would grow sad and his face would become forlorn. If he caught me watching him, he would put on a neutral expression and deny anything if I asked him about it.

I couldn't understand why he became so unhappy when he saw me. Had I done something wrong? Had I made him upset in some way? I hadn't yet known that it wasn't my actions, but rather my presence that was to blame for his sadness, and that grief was the real reason he had been avoiding me.

Things didn't get much better after that. In fact, they got so much worse, in the form of a man I hadn't seen in a long time.

✦✦✦✦

I think Papa knew he would come for me eventually, but we didn't think it would be this soon, and certainly not now.

But he came all the same, and that was what mattered.

I was upstairs when he arrived, sorting through the things in my carpetbag. Watson was out for the day, so it was only Papa, Mrs. Hudson, and I at Baker Street. I had laid everything out neatly on my bed and was starting to put the items back inside when I heard a banging on the door downstairs.

I rushed to the hallway railing in time to hear Mrs. Hudson protesting loudly, and above her protesting an all-too familiar voice was shouting, echoing through the foyer.

"Holmes! Where are you?! Come out here, I demand to speak with you!"

It was Grandfather.

I stumbled back into the wall, my heart pounding. No, no. It couldn't be him. He wasn't supposed to be here! He wasn't supposed to know I was here!

But somehow he had found out.

He always found out in the end.

"Don't play with me, Holmes," Grandfather continued. "I know you have my granddaughter in your possession."

My breath came out in small quick gasps, and my trembling hands rose to cover my ears. Block out his voice. He's not here. He's not really here.

The sudden sound of a soft voice calling my name broke through my frantic thoughts, and like the presence of a comforting shadow, Papa appeared beside me, placing his hand lightly on my shoulder.

In that moment, all of the past lonely weeks without him faded away as I turned and hugged him, glad that he was back, at least for now. "Why is he here?" I whispered furiously. "Papa, why did he come back?"

"I'm...I'm not sure, Maria."

His reply was filled with confusion and uncertainty, and that scared me.

"Tell me, did she really think the child would be safe here?" Grandfather continued to mock my father from downstairs. "And with you, of all people? Did you truly think you hide her from me?"

Papa scowled darkly, angered by his words as much as I was. He knelt down to my eye level and gripped my shoulders gently. "Maria, look at me," he commanded.

Slowly I brought my gaze to his face. His brown eyes reflected the seriousness of his voice as he said, "Whatever happens next, child, I need you to be brave."

I looked at him before nodding, Mama's words replaying in my mind as we started down the stairs. Be brave, I reminded myself. Be brave.

Yes, I would be brave. For him. For us.

We must have made quite a sight when we stopped at the landing looking down into the foyer: Papa grim-faced in his black corduroy jacket, and me trying to appear just as stoic. We gazed down at the scene before us, and it took all of my willpower not to duck behind him.

Grandfather was there with one of his valets, looking the way he normally did: black jacket, velvet vest, brown pants, a cane, and no hat. However, something was wrong. His shoes and pant cuffs were splattered in mud, his jacket seemed torn, and his graying hair, always kept so neatly combed when I was staying at his house, was out of sorts. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was swaying slightly from side to side, as if he couldn't stay on his feet. 

Mrs. Hudson was nowhere to be seen.

"There you are, Holmes," he said, his words coming out in a slight slur. "I was beginning to think you would never come."

I stared at him in shock. This was the first time I had seen my grandfather appear to be in the beginning stages of drunkenness. It was an image I would never forget.

Papa seemed equally as surprised. His eyebrows raised in astonishment. "What is the matter with you, Morrissy?" he asked.

"My daughter's dead, Holmes, that's what the matter is," Grandfather spat out, taking a few shaky steps toward us. He pointed one bony finger at me. "I've come to claim what is rightfully mine. You've had her long enough. It's time I bring her home."

I hid slightly behind my father, feeling frightened. No, he was wrong. Grandfather's house was not my home. Baker Street was my home. London was my home. Papa and Watson and Mrs. Hudson and Gladstone were my home.

My father moved down the stairs, keeping me behind him. "Eliza entrusted me to take care of Maria, and I have done so and will continue to do so. If you bring her back with you, you would be breaking her last request."

Grandfather shook his head. "An eye for an eye, Holmes. You took my daughter away from me. It's only fair that you get the same punishment." He gestured to the valet. "Get the girl's bags. She'll be leaving with us."

"Not, she will not," Papa said, sending a hard glare in the direction of the valet. "Maria is not an object that can be so offhandedly tossed from one person to the next. Nor should she, a mere child, be brought into a matter that only concerns the two of us. She will be staying here with me, where she rightly belongs, and that is final."

At his words, Grandfather's expression changed. His eyebrows dipped low over his eyes and his lips curled back into a snarl. "Final?" he repeated in a whisper, almost to himself. "Final? When did I ever allow Sherlock Holmes to say what is final?" His voice rose as he continued, "Never. I believe it is I, not you, who will make the final decision. It is I, not you, who will have the girl, and it is I, not you, who will be raising her in memory of Eliza."

With each word, he tapped the head of his cane against my father's chest. Both men stared at each other, a tense and hostile silence hanging around them. And then that silence was broken when Papa straightened himself and spoke in a quiet but powerful tone.

"You lost that right when you refused to listen to Eliza's suspicions, even though she begged you to believe her. You lost that right when you decided you would rather have my daughter go through life knowing nothing about her father than for her to learn about him and his work."

Something seemed snapped in my grandfather then, an abrupt and frightening change that made me feel terrified. I had every right to be, for what happened next was one of the scariest situations I have ever witnessed. It was to leave a mark on me, one I would carry for the rest of my childhood and into my teenage years.

Grandfather bared his teeth, a quick motion I barely had time to register, and in the blink of an eye lunged at my father and pinned him against the wall, his eyes burning with unrestrained hatred. Papa was caught off guard by this action, his brown eyes wide with shock. I let out a surprised cry and stumbled back, my feet slipping on the tile floor as I did so.

"'Right?' 'Right?' " The older man snarled, his cane pushed against my father's chest. "You dare to speak to me about what is right? You dare to tell me that what I did to protect the child from you was wrong? Eliza is dead, Holmes. My daughter is dead, and it's your fault. It's all your bloody fault!"

Before I had the chance to call for help, he was beating Papa with his cane, smashing the head against his face. I watched in horror as my father slid down the wall, his arms raised in an attempt to protect himself. Someone was screaming, crying out for the man to stop. I realized it was me.

"Stop, stop! Grandfather, stop, please!" I darted forward and stepped in between them, tears streaking down my face as I raised my hands to block the cane from hitting my father again.

He raised the weapon over his head again, seeming with the intention of striking me too. I closed my eyes and waited for the cane head to make contact with my face.

But it never came.

Instead, I felt a pair of arms wrap around me and pull me backwards, and then I found myself in my father's embrace, his hands protectively shielding my head from harm.

"No, please," he begged, his voice a desperate whisper as he looked up at my grandfather with pleading in his eyes, "please don't hit her. She's only a child." His face was bruised, blood trickling down from a cut above his eye and a split in his bottom lip. One of his eyes seemed to be swollen shut, and the other was colored a nasty-looking purple. I sniffled, turning away to press my face into his chest.

Grandfather glared down at us, breathing heavily as he slowly lowered the cane. "Maria will be coming home with me. That is final." He stepped back and turned to the valet, asking him to retrieve my things.

When the servant had left upstairs, it was just the three of us. I kept staring at my grandfather, waiting for him to continue beating us, to continue his ranting and raving. But he said nothing until the valet had returned with my carpetbag.

"Come, child, it's time for you to go home." He bent over and reached out a hand for me, but I shrunk back against Papa, not yet willing to leave him.

The older man frowned and pulled himself straight. "I will give you five minutes to say goodbye, Holmes," he muttered quietly before he turned and left the building, the valet following him out.

After the door had closed behind them, I hugged my father as tightly as I could. "Please, don't let him take me," I begged, "please. I don't want to leave you. I don't want to go."

My father shushed me quietly as he cupped one trembling hand around my face and stroked my cheek with his thumb. "I know, I know, Maria," he murmured, "I know."

We sat there in silence for a moment, both knowing in our hearts what had to be done but still holding on to the foolish hope that it wouldn't have to be done. In the end, we just held on to each other, my father's chin resting on top of my head and his arms still around me, just as mine were around him. Though neither of us spoke a word, we both knew what the other was feeling. I didn't want to leave him alone, with his dark room and even darker thoughts, not being able to keep him from drowning himself in guilt and pain and regret.

But right then, no one cared about what I wanted. No one except Papa cared. But not even he could change my grandfather's mind about letting me stay.

Almost as if I had summoned him, Grandfather and another man came back through the doorway to stand before us. The last moment we had ended. Our time together was done.

"It's time to go now, child," he said, and before I could speak, a hand had grabbed onto my shoulder and pulled me away from my father.

"No, wait! Please wait!" I reached out my hands for him, hoping he would stop them, that he would tell them that he wanted me. "Papa, please don't let him take me! Papa! Papa!"

My father pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, using the foyer table for balance. "Wait, wait," he murmured. "Wait, please. Don't take her, don't take her from me. She's all I have left..."

But there was nothing he could do. There was nothing any of us could do.

One last thought came to me, one last thing I wanted to hear from him. Mustering all the strength I had, I called out my last words to him. "I love you, Papa!"

My ears strained to hear a reply as the man dragged me towards the door, but there was none, no "I love you" back. The last thing I saw of Baker Street and my home was my father, his face bruised and bloodied and his brown eyes filled with so much pain and sadness it made my heart hurt to look at him. Then the door closed shut in my face, and I was left with only memories of a better time.

✦✦✦✦

Grandmother was waiting for us on the stairs when the carriage pulled up to the door. She smiled as I stepped out of the carriage, my bag in my hands. Grandfather came after me.

"Maria, you've returned." She reached out and hugged me, but I wriggled my way out of her grasp, my face set in an irritated scowl. I didn't want to be hugged, couldn't she see that? I had just been taken from the only loving home I had known, with nothing but a silent moment as a goodbye. No, I didn't want to be hugged, least of all by her.

Without so much as a glance in her direction, I entered the house. The foyer looked the same as it did the day I had left: the polished tile floor, the high ceilings, the large sweeping staircase leading up to the bedrooms.

Everything was so shiny and clean, and to my surprise, I was almost disgusted by it. For a moment, I couldn't figure out why, but as I walked further into the room, I realized it was because I had become so familiar to the chaos and mess of Baker Street that seeing anything neat was an odd sight.

"I hope you weren't too rough with him, Hubert," I heard Grandmother say from behind me.

"He got what he deserved and more," my grandfather replied, stepping into the doorway.

His words struck deep into my heart and hurt me more than I cared to admit.

He got what he deserved and more.

Had he? Had Papa deserved to be yelled at? To be beaten over the head with a cane until he was broken and hurting? Had he deserved to have his precious daughter ripped from his arms and out of his life only because a man claimed to want her back just to spite him?

No, he hadn't. No man deserved to be treated like he had been, especially by his family-in-law. If he had had his way, I would still be at Baker Street, peacefully playing the evening away on the piano surrounded by my friends and family.

No, my father hadn't gotten what he deserved, and neither had I.

That night, in my old room, I cried myself to sleep, quietly mourning everything I had lost in a single day. I cried for my friends, I cried for myself, but most of all, I cried for my father, already missing him with all my heart.

I wouldn't be seeing him again after that day, not for a long time.

✦✦✦✦

Wow, guys, I finally got myself together and finished this chapter. Thank you so much for waiting. I kept adding to it and then shoving it away and then pulling it back out and procrastinating cause this chapter hurt, but now it's done.

Oof, this chapter. This chapter. Maria's back at her grandparents, her mother's dead, Sherlock's even more depressed now that both his wife and daughter are gone...it's just a mess. My heart hurts for him so much.

What did you think, now that it's finally here? 

(Check out this new sign-off gif I made! I love it so much.)