Chapter 1

"I have some interesting news." Mycroft drawled.

"For the last time, I do not want another of your cases." Sherlock was still recovering from the last one, involving The Woman.

"It isn't a case. It has to do with the third of our small clan." Sherlock appeared confused until his mind palace brought to light a hazy face of a brother older than Mycroft.

"And?" Sherlock snapped impatiently. His oldest brother had been fourteen years his senior. He had been at Uni by the time Sherlock had been forced to endure pre-school.

"He's dead." Mycroft said. Sherlock waited for regret or grief, but none came. He hadn't known him well anyway.

"And?" Sherlock snapped at his brother.

"And you, little brother, are in his will." Sherlock stopped in surprise.

"What do you mean, Mycroft?" He asked warily.

"Were you aware he was married? I assume not, seeing as how neither of us received an invitation. He and his wife died in a car accident." Mycroft deliberately avoided his question.

"Why is this relevant to me?" Sherlock said, bored already.

"He had a daughter. I believe she is about six years old." Mycroft added, in a tone that suggested he probably knew a lot more about her than that.

"So?" Sherlock snapped. He disliked children in the fact that they were often the victims of the most violent crimes. It sometimes triggered something akin to sentiment, which he despised while on cases.

"He appointed you her guardian. Congrats, you're a parent." And with that, Mycroft hung up.

Sherlock pulled the phone from his ear and gripped it tightly, as if hoping to convey the grip to Mycroft's neck. This did not happen, so Sherlock quickly texted John that he had news and took off running for 221B, his mind already racing.

"How can they do that? Don't you have to consent? Sign paperwork?" John asked, astonished. The two sat in their respective chairs at 221B, trying to understand the information.

"I suppose Mycroft deemed it legal." Sherlock said, the thought of a new resident already beginning to bore him.

"Well, he is the British government." John said, earning a smirk from Sherlock.

"But still, who would trust you to look after a child?" John wondered aloud. Sherlock's face remained cold, but he felt a twinge of hurt at his friend's words. He was capable of emotion, John of all people should see that. That was just it though, no one saw anything.

"My brother must have held me in high regard." Sherlock huffed indignantly.

"What was your brother's name?" John questioned softly.

"Haven't the faintest." Sherlock replied.

"Yup. You can handle this child." John added sarcastically.

"I can memorize four hundred and twenty three types of tobacco ash. I can 'handle' a child." Sherlock said haughtily.

"And I'm the bloody queen." John muttered to himself.

There was a knock on the door. Sherlock had shot the bell earlier in preparation for this. He would be able to determine a lot about his new charge based upon the knock. If she allowed Mycroft to knock, that would tell him something as well.

A medium knock sounded, but not his brother's. It was rhythmic, possible musical inclination. It was neither too loud nor too soft, so of average confidence. Average. Sherlock sighed inwardly. He had grown used to John, though he could hardly be considered ordinary, now he had to get used to an utterly dull and needy presence in his home. He pulled open the door with a sense of dread in his stomach.

Grey eyes met his own. They were large, almost taking up too much of her face, but still aesthetically pleasing. Her hair was a shade lighter than Mycroft's had been when he was younger. It was a light reddish-gold, spun delicately in intricate curls. She was dressed in a small suit jacket and a flouncy skirt, her shoes were black and impeccably shiny. Sherlock sighed. A little Mycroft, he presumed.

"Ah, there you are, brother. I was just about to leave little Matilda in your care. Be good for your Uncle Sherlock, Matilda." He patted the girl's head awkwardly.

"Yes, Uncle Mycroft." She said dully. Her hands were clasped in front of her as she stood stiffly.

"I'm off then." Mycroft grabbed his umbrella and made a hasty exit towards his car. Matilda watched him go. As soon as his car sped out of sight, the child gave her newest uncle a wink, turned, and sped off in the opposite direction. Sherlock blinked in surprise.

So the well behaved little child had been an act. Sherlock's deductions had been wrong, and he was not happy. He took off at a run after the girl after firing a text to John.