Holy crap, an update! Sorry, the muse ran off when the weather here in Angelica went insane. Something about people in warm climates needing muses more than I do... anyway, here! Have an update!
"Evie has a therapist?" John asked. The question came as they strolled to the Northumberland Hotel. Sherlock seemed to be off in his own world until John spoke, looking at him curiously.
"She told you that?"
"In a round about way; she gave her…"
"His, actually."
"His card to the witness." Sherlock nodded. He was quiet for a moment, causing John to wonder if he would even answer. Soon enough, he spoke again.
"Sherringford's heart attack came after a fight with Evie over the phone, strangely enough over her leaving the school she attended. It got quite heated and she hung up on him…" He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "The doctors said his heart had been weak for a long time, but no one could tell Evie that… not even Sherringford himself. As far as she's concerned, that fight was what killed him."
"Wait, Sherringford told her?" asked John.
"He didn't pass on as soon as he had the heart attack," Sherlock replied. For the first time, John thought he heard sadness in Sherlock's voice. "He lived a day or two; Evie stayed by his side until he couldn't hold on anymore."
"Oh my..."
"He told her it wasn't her fault, that his heart had been ailing him for years… she just doesn't believe him."
"Guilt is a hard thing to overcome," John said. How many times had he thought about the day he was shot; how the surging pain in his shoulder prevented him from helping anyone. How many of them had died because he was unable to help them? He, himself, may have died out there, had an orderly not grabbed and thrown him on a truck… "But it can be done," he continued. "It just needs time."
Soon enough, the two men found themselves in front of room—suite, actually—316, Sherlock knocking on the door when they arrived. John could faintly hear the sounds of Chopin's Étude Opus 10 Number 3, in E major being played on a radio within the room. It made him smile slightly. The door opened a moment later; a young girl John had never seen before was at the door.
"Hello, Mister Holmes," she said a bit timidly, brushing a strand of dark brown hair out of her eyes. "It's nice to see you again."
"Hello Jenna," Sherlock replied as warmly as a man like Sherlock Holmes could. "Come to see Evie?"
"I got here just as she did," the girl replied. As she and the detective conversed, John remembered that Evie had said Lestrade's stepdaughter was named Jenna; surely this had to be her. "She took two Paramol and asked me to take the bottle after." She handed the bottle to Sherlock. "I made sure it was only two."
"I don't doubt it," Sherlock replied. He nodded to John. "This is my friend, Doctor John Watson. Might we come in?"
"Oh, of course!" Jenna stepped aside, blushing slightly. "Please to meet you, Doctor. Evie's in by the piano."
"Trying to play it?" John asked a bit sadly, thinking of how her hand must ache after using it to strike Mycroft.
"Oh no, Doctor, not trying," Jenna said, leading them through the suite to a brightly lit sitting room, where John was surprised to see Evie at the piano. "She's succeeding." John watched in amazement as Evie's fingers flew across the keys before her. The song was slow and presumably meant to be sad, but there was not a trace of sorrow in the way she played. She was happy and wanted the world to know it.
"I'll have to thank Uncle Mycroft," she said, holding her right hand up while continuing to play with her left; the splints were removed and she wiggled her fingers like nothing had happened. "Apparently, another good crack was all I needed."
"Not broken then?" Sherlock asked, looking at John.
"I never said it was broken," John replied. "Only that it might be." He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm a doctor, not oracle."
"I thought you went to get it x-rayed?"
"The machine was broken," Evie said quickly, returning to her hand to the piano. "Who cares, my hand works!"
"Evie, we need to talk about the card." She stopped playing, turning to face her uncle. "When did you get it?"
"Tuesday," she said. "I had just told the headmaster I was leaving, the card was in the mail when I got back to my room."
"Was there an envelope?" Evie bit her bottom lip, thinking for a moment.
"I… don't think so," she replied sadly. "No envelope, no address… I should have realized…" John noticed that Jenna was quick to comfort Evie, putting an arm around her. Evie was just as quick to receive the comfort, resting her head on Jenna's shoulder.
"Let me see the card, Evie," Sherlock replied. She handed it over to him; he looked at it closely. Before he could say anything, there was a knock at the door. "Expecting anyone?" Evie raised an eyebrow.
"I'm at a hotel in a city I haven't been in for five years and everyone I know, save the man I recently slapped, is in here."
"Fair point." Sherlock went to the door and looked through the peep hole. A porter from the hotel was standing outside, a brown box in his arms. "Yes?"
"Package for Miss Holmes, Sir," the porter called through the door. "And a sealed letter for Mr. Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock opened the door, took the package and letter and shut the door quickly. The box—which was unwrapped and had handle shaped holes on each side—had some weight to it and that weight kept shifting. He shook his head as he set the box down on the table in front of Evie. She looked at him, curiously.
"It's a bit early for my birthday, Uncle," she said. "Are you sure it's safe?"
"Probably." Evie rolled her eyes and slowly removed the red ribbon that was tied around the box. The moment she had done so, the lid popped up; underneath it was a small English springer spaniel puppy.
"Aww!" both girls exclaimed happily. Evie took the box top off his head, setting it on the table before lifting the pup out of the box.
"Hello there," she said softly. She held the puppy under his front legs—which is how everyone knew it was indeed a boy—and looked him over as he squirmed and struggled to lick her face with his long tongue. The dog looked to be smiling at Evie, John thought. It was a beautiful pup, deep liver colored everywhere but a white caplet on his back that moved down his front legs and stomach and a small line down his forehead, wrapping around his muzzle. Around his neck was a yellow ribbon that held a small note. "To my darling niece, with my utmost apologies. Uncle Mycroft." Evie laughed softly and held the puppy close.
"What'd you get?" John asked, noticing Sherlock was reading the contents of the envelope he had received. Rather than telling him, Sherlock handed John the letter. It read as follows:
As I said before, she's your problem now.
Mycroft.