Author's Note: Bonjour, mes amis! It certainly has been awhile.

Not that anyone cares, life has just been happening, and I haven't really had the inspiration to write anything. I'm trying to get it back though.

Without further ado...

Elizabeth pulled the trigger. The gunshot was deafening as the sound bounced off the alley walls.

Her aim was perfect, and the man who had been choking Sherlock dropped to the ground. Elizabeth stared with bated breath, but the man didn't move.

Oh, god.

Had she really just...?

Oh, god.

Sherlock picked himself up off of the ground and walked over to his daughter. "Congratulations," he said. "You're a murderer."

Elizabeth shot awake, breathing hard. The tendrils of her nightmare still clung to her, and she remembered vividly exactly how she had felt when she saw that she had killed that man.

She had felt a part of her wrench and snap apart. It had hurt, like a physical hurt, and Elizabeth could still feel the ghost of that pain. Even though she hadn't really done it in real life, Elizabeth felt as if her very soul had somehow grown darker.

Elizabeth figured that she was probably being overdramatic. But she still couldn't shake the bad feeling in her bones. Knowing she wouldn't be sleeping anymore, Elizabeth trekked downstairs in search of something to keep her occupied.

She found her father sitting at the kitchen table asleep, his head resting on his folded arms. Elizabeth went to see what he had been doing, and she realized that he was testing the erosion rate of human fingernails. It looked like he had fallen asleep before he could perform the experiment, but he had set his test liquids up.

So Elizabeth did the experiment while her father snored gently on the counter. One by one she placed a fingernail into a test tube and added a liquid, making note of the changes on the nail.

That occupied her for about twenty minutes. After she finished the experiment, Elizabeth cleaned each instrument used meticulously, willing the chore to eat up more time.

As she was scrubbing one of the test tubes, Elizabeth was overwhelmed with a flashback from her dream. Suddenly all she could see was the man falling and moving no more. All she could see was her father telling her she was a murderer. All she could see was the gun in her hands.

Elizabeth panicked and lashed out, smashing the glass test tube against the side of the fridge. The glass shattered, spraying the floor with sharp shards.

Sherlock startled awake. He looked from the floor to his daughter who was standing, fists clenched, beside the sink. "Elizabeth?" Sherlock got down from his stool carefully, trying not to step on any glass. "Elizabeth, what happened?"

At that moment, John came running in. "What's going on?" he asked, noticing Elizabeth's position and her father's cautious stance.

"Elizabeth?" Sherlock repeated, leaning forward to search his daughter's eyes.

"I'm not a murderer." That was all that Elizabeth could manage. But she wanted them to understand that she wasn't a killer. It had only been a dream. She could never kill someone in real life. It was just a dream. It wasn't her.

The men's eyes widened, and John took a slow step forward, "No, Elizabeth, you aren't a murderer. But can you tell me what would make you think that?"

Reality faded back in, and Elizabeth suddenly felt very stupid and embarassed. "Oh my god," she exclaimed, bending down to pick up the bigger pieces of glass. "I'm so sorry."

"Elizabeth, stop," Sherlock said. When she didn't respond, he carefully shuffled over to her and took her hands away from the glass. "Elizabeth, what's wrong?"

"It's nothing," Elizabeth pulled her hands away. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." she trailed off, gesturing to the glass.

"Don't worry about the broken glass," Sherlock took her hands again, and this time Elizabeth didn't pull away. She allowed her father to lead her into the living room and into a seat on the couch. Elizabeth could hear John moving into the kitchen to clean up the glass.

"I want you to tell me what's going on," Sherlock said calmly, but Elizabeth detected a large amount of worry in his eyes.

So she told him everything. Everything.

And he listened.

When she was done, Sherlock took her in his arms and said firmly, "Elizabeth Angelica Holmes, you are not a murderer. You are a kind, gentle, compassionate young woman. It was just a dream, nothing more."

Even though Elizabeth had told herself these exact things several times, somehow hearing it from her father made the words hit home.