AN: Sherlock's not mine. I should just die of heartbreak saying that.

I know Parentlock had been done before. But I assure you this won't be like those over-affectionate or over-ignorant or purely daddy-lock based stories. Trust me there will be more than enough of murder, mystery and mayhem to balance out the fluff and not to mention humour.

Infact Sherlock is not technically the father or a relative of my OC. Then who is he? Well, read this chapter and find out.

In addition to the 12 BBC Sherlock original episodes, I will be adding my own cases in between too. Expect some non-drastic original plot alterations. Also good news for those who absolutely loved season 4, there will be brief and insignificant references to that season throughout the story. I may even attempt to write about post season 4 universe, if there's a demand. Next update is scheduled for either tomorrow or the day after. So here goes nothing.

CHAPTER 1

"JESUS H. FUCKING CHRIST!" I jolted awake disoriented. And wet. I was dowsed in fucking ice cold water at 5 fucking a.m.

Again.

I suppose it is one of the many occupational hazards of working with the world's only consulting detective, worsened by the fact that I live with the said consulting detective because apparently according to him its a perfectly okay thing to do to one's colleagues and flatmates.

"As ever, Cyra, your rather colourful early morning vocabulary never fails to astound me. Yet again you found an interesting way to demean a catholic deity who by a large section of commonwealth is considered none other than God himself, though of course this insult is of little to no consequence to me as I myself believe that God is a ludicrous fiction dreamt up by the inadequates, but if I may add that this kind of language in general-"

"No, you may not."

"I'm sorry?"

"Piss off, Holmes. Really not in the mood for your monotonous monologue at 5 in fucking morning." I mutter rubbing my temples. Ugh! The blasted headache. Why is it aching anyway? Oh right. "Which reminds me by the way WHAT THE FUCK HOLMES! Why in the fucking fuck am I fucking wet in my bed at 5 FUCKING a.m.?" I shouted at his unamused expression.

"You were annoying me." he replied, unfazed.

"By sleeping?" I asked incredulously, already going down my list of 101 ways to kill Sherlock Holmes. Number 38 would do very nicely at the moment. All I need is some ninety eight percent hydrochloric acid solution, which is never far.

"Please." He rolled his eyes. "Screaming bloody murder is more like it." He mocked using wild hand gestures.

"The balance of probability says that you were having one of those episodes of yours." He added more quietly looking anywhere but at me.

Oh. That explains the pounding headache.

"You mean nightmares." I muttered suddenly deflated.

"Nope. One can at least recall seeing a nightmare, even if its a mere glimpse or a trace of a memory, especially if its quite frequent and so intense as to make one scream like a banshee in the middle of the night each time. In ninety one point three percent of cases its highly probable for an individual to remember a few of his subconscious thoughts consciously."

"People don't always remember their dreams." I said in a small voice already he was right but refusing to admit that anything's wrong with me.

"The balance of probability-"

"Okay! Okay! Fine! But can't you at least find a more pleasant way to snap me out of my 'episodes' as you put it?" I asked making air quotes on the word 'episodes'. Jeez. Trust the drama queen to make everything look more dramatic than it really was. They were probably just nightmares. People forget their dreams all the time. Right? And isn't this better anyway? I, for one, am thankful I can't remember something possibly scary and terrifying. I have enough troubles in my life to deal with other than haunting dreams. The better half of the said troubles was currently standing over me, frowning.

"No, it's less tedious, quicker and more efficient this way." He answered in a matter of fact voice. Of fucking course it was.

"Nevermind. I am wide awake now and not screaming or annoying. Why are you still here?" I asked rubbing my temples tiredly, dismissing him.

"Um. I... uh..." He clears his throat and I widen my eyes in absolute horror. Oh no. Here it comes. "I think it is incumbent upon me to insist that perhaps it's time you should consult with a- " He clears his throat again. "A...a th-therapist-"

Mayday! Mayday! He used the fucking T- word.

"MRS. HUDSON!" I shouted, cutting him off mid-sentence. Sherlock closed his eyes sighing defeated.

"What is it dearie?" The kind old lady peeks into her room. "Isn't it a bit too early for your morning coffe- wait, why are you wet-" Suddenly her eyes widen and her sweet and kind face transforms into an angry scowl. "SHERLOCK HOLMES! Tell me you did not just do what I think you did. Not Again! Listen to me young man, if the poor girl catches pneumonia and dies, I will bury you alive at the cemetery and perform my classic exotic dance number on your grave."

" Ha! I would pay to see that." I chortled, trying to picture it, feeling more relieved now that Mrs. H is here.

"You can't 'cause you'll be dead and you, Mrs Hudson-"

"Oh hush! You've done enough." I smile inwardly. Once again, Mrs. Hudson saved the day. God do I love her. "Oh poor dear, look at you." I immediately transform my amused expression into a miserable one. I even faked a cough as she fusses over me. Adding to the mix, the wide puppy-dog eyes and some quivering lips for good measure and ta-da- unsuspecting Mrs Hudson was in a full protective, mama-bear mode, ready to unleash her fury upon anyone who so much as looked my way. Unfortunately for Sherlock, at the moment that 'anyone' was him. "Don't you dare bother her in her state Sherlock, or you're going to regret it! Look at how pale she is!" I sniffled for the effect. Thank god for my generally pale complexion. "Oh my poor dear, let me run a nice warm bath for you and put the kettle on for some coffee. That'll bring some colour to your face, I'm sure."

Sherlock rolls his eyes at my dramatics and I smirk at him smugly when Mrs Hudson turns her back.

"I fail to decide whether to be alarmed or proud at your well refined acting skills." He said grudgingly with a pout. Oh not the pout please. I am not equipped with enough wits this early in the morning to deal with a pouting Sherlock.

"Only you, Sherlock Holmes, can give a compliment while looking like you tasted a sour grape!" I huffed. "Again, why are you still here anyway? Get out. Don't you have a mind palace to revisit or something?"

"Cyra..." His voice takes on a worried note which in turn worries me. Was I that loud this morning? Then why the hell can't I remember? Ugh! The fucking headache returned with vengeance. It nearly made me wince. I heard Sherlock release a long sigh and then he added softly, "I'll get you something for your headache."

I open my eyes and smile at him gratefully, knowing he had dropped the subject- for now anyway.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Its eight in the morning. Mrs. Hudson had gone out. I was lying on the sofa, legs hanging over the arms and nose buried in my 'The Lord of Rings' copy. Sherlock was lounging in his chair cleaning his bow. Curious. He does that only when...

Suddenly I hear the door downstairs open and the sound of all too familiar lazy footsteps coming upstairs, with the umbrella in tow. No.

"You didn't." I glared at Sherlock.

"Yes I did." He said quietly. He had the bloody decency to look sheepish. The cock.

Well fuckedy fuck. I must have really scared him this morning if he was desperate enough to turn to Mycroft and actually invite him here. He never invites him here. Never.

"He has no right you know. Technically you're my only legal guardian." I mutter petulantly.

"I know. But that had never stopped him before, had it? " He added sourly, as he continued to fuss over his bow with exaggerated concentration.

"Oi what are you sulking for? You're the one who invited the bloody Queen of England here!" I whined and threw my book at his face. He dodged it easily without even looking up. Bastard. I turned to lie facing the back of the sofa. Not in the bloody mood to face the bloody Spanish Inquisition- or in this case the British Inquisition.

"You left me no choice. But that doesn't mean I have to like it." Sherlock continued.

The door opened and the ever graceful and poised Mycroft Holmes walked in. Not that I could see him of course. But let's admit it, the man's got an air of elegance to rival that of the Queen herself.

"Greetings, brother mine." Mycroft drawled in his fake-pleasant posh accent.

"Mycroft." he replied coldly. "I see you've gained four pounds."

I smirked. This was Sherlock's standard way of greeting Mycroft and it had its desired effect- getting on his nerves.

"Just two and a half thank-you very much." Came his reply, no doubt with that condescending smile of his. I don't have to turn around to picture it.

"Three and a half." I asserted confidently.

"And how do you deduce that, Cyra dear? You haven't even looked at me."

"Obvious." I replied in the same obnoxiously arrogant manner Sherlock does. "By the creak of sixth step as you climbed the stairs below. It was a little more pronounced this time." I added smugly, turning my head to look at him as if to confirm my deduction. " Yep. Three and a half precisely."

Sherlock snorted, no doubt seeing through my fibbing, but no less entertained I presume.

"As, ever brother dear, your influence over her never fails to astound me." Mycroft settled in the seat opposite Sherlock.

"I would take that as a compliment." Sherlock replied evenly.

"Of course you would. But her classmates and teachers at school won't be so generous in their opinions I'm afraid." He added in the same condescending tone, no doubt with the same smile slash grimace adorning his features.

Damn it all! I didn't plan on spending this morning picturing Mycroft's facial expressions in my head as he spoke. Regardless, he didn't deserve my ire- not yet atleast. The sheer honor rested upon the shoulders of the great Sherlock Holmes only. Besides, I was fond of Mycroft and happy to see him despite the reason he was here. So I got up grudgingly. This had gone long enough already and Mycroft hasn't even started with me yet. Better to get the hell on with it then.

"Donot speak about me in third person. I am standing right here Holmeses. Also, my classmates and teachers can kiss my arse." I skipped to Mycroft's side and kissed his cheek in greeting.

"Ah, glad you finally decided to finally join us properly, dear. These pleasantaries were getting rather tiresome." He patted my back affectionately with one of his rare genuine smiles. "Though, If I may add, the quality of your language leaves much to be desired for."

"No you may not, Mycroft." I mock glared him. He maybe a cold, condenscending and a royal pain in the arse on the surface, but deep down in his heart of hearts, he was like a sweet-old-little teddy bear who loved to fuss over those very few people he cared about.

I happened to be one of those people.

And I always give him hell for it.

"If you think that was vulgar, I would have loved to see your reaction earlier this morning, being at the receiving end of one of her passionate rantings, abundant in variety of various choice words-actually just one particular word used in various forms to be more precise. I assure you, you would have busted a vein, brother dear."

"A delightful prospect for you no doubt." I spat at him through my gritted teeth and turned towards Mycroft. The hostess in me taking over for the moment. "Shall I make some tea?"

"A tea would be very nice, thankyou dear."

"I could use some tea too." added Sherlock.

"Make your own damn cup." I grumbled at him on my way to kitchen.

"Language, young lady!" came Mycroft's rebuke.

Third person's POV

"Again in the dog house brother dear?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows with barely suppressed glee. "What have you done this time?"

"Don't gloat!" Sherlock all but spat at him. "That's not the reason I summoned you. And I'm pretty sure you will me joining me in my so-called dog-house very soon. You're hardly ever out of it."

Mycroft sighed. Sherlock was right. He was never her favourite out of the two of them. She had always like Sherlock better. He was more humane of the two and definitely much less strict. When it came to teenagers that always helped. Regardless. He didn't care about these silly things normal people concerned themselves with. Stupid goldfishes, the lot of them. He just wanted Cyra and Sherlock safe and happy. But if he was to be painfully honest with himself, it always gave him some kind of childish satisfaction when Cyra favoured him over Sherlock. And this was one of those rare occasions. So, naturally it was hard not to gloat.

Though, the worry behind Sherlock's angry scowl sobered him up instantly.

Back to business now.

"How bad was it this time?" asked Mycroft.

"An eight."

"An eight!" Mycroft's face aged a few years sitting right there and then. "Last I heard, it was a five and that too weeks ago. If you're exaggerating Sherlock, which has always been one of your less favourable virtues, rest assured, I will-"

"Oh spare me the lecture Mycroft, I am perfectly serious." Sherlock's tone became almost scathing. "I may have neglected to inform you of the increasing frequency of her nightmares since the last time we talked but I would never joke about Cyra's health and you are very well aware of the fact. Therefore do refrain from insulting my sensibilities with your incredulity."

Both of them glared daggers at each other, fuming silently.

"Very well." Mycroft spoke after a very long minute. "What do you propose we do, little brother?"

"I tried to talk to her-"

"Ah. That must have gone down very smoothly." Mycroft mocked.

"You've no idea."

"Oh don't I?" he said more to himself, remembering the time she had to live with him when Sherlock was in the rehab.

"She didn't even let me say the word properly.l"

"Mrs Hudson was called upon I presume?"

"Mrs Hudson loves her like a grand-daughter she never had and she used that to her best advantage, the little minx." He muttered with grudging respect in his tone. "You should have seen her expression this morning. She could give all of the acting industry a run for their money and she's barely fifteen." He added fondly, a tight smile grazing his lips.

"And you take pride in that, don't you?"

Sherlock merely smirked.

"Well he most certainly should, shouldn't he?" entered Cyra, holding a tea tray with three cups and biscuits, smirking right back. "When it comes to dramatics he's the one I look up to." she added with a wink towards Sherlock.

Sherlock's smirk transformed into a full blown, eye-crinkling, dimple-deepening smile. No matter how tiresome it was to deal with her, there wasn't a single moment in the day when he wasn't proud of her. Not that he would ever admit it to her of course.

As Mycroft gazed upon scene unfolding in front of him- the two people he cared a great deal about caught in a moment of affectionate exchange-he couldn't help but feel all warm and light inside. All his stress regarding threats of terrorism, rogue nations, compromised operations even the mysterious episodes of Cyra vanished in that moment. It was the little happy moments such as these, that he allowed himself to indulge in occasionally which humanised him to some extent, that to momentarily. So, whenever these rare moments occured, he would lock them away in his memory palace for possible future revisits.

Sherlock, knowing he was back in his young companion's good graces- going by the state of tea-tray which was holding a set of three tea cups instead of two, she earlier promised- shared a look with his older brother and felt his momentarily content expression reflected upon his own face too.

Yes, Cyra can be a foul-mouthed, ungrateful, unpleasant and a rude problem child sometimes but at the same time she's a brilliant, beautiful, loving, forgiving and a kind young lady they have had the pleasure of raising. And yes they had every right to beam with pride because of her.

Then there was the matter of her episodes, no doubt they had everything to do with the unpleasant, suppressed memories of her early childhood before she came to live with him. Obviously, she doesn't remember any of that, kind of like her terror filled dreams. Nobody knew what or who haunts her, but going by growing intensity and frequency of her terror filled screams and sobs every other night, Sherlock knew that those memories would surface soon.

Besides he had the strangest feeling. Some may discard the very idea of a premonition but he believed that the intutions are not to be ignored as they represent data processed too fast for the concious mind to comprehend. He was afraid of the unknown and that was the very worst kind of fear one could ever have. Something was coming. Something big. Whether it had anything to do with Cyra's suppressed memories or not he did not know and he didn't like not knowing. In any case, her recurrent nightmares filled him with a feeling of extreme unease and dread for the safety of his god-daughter, Cyra Elizabeth Brooke.