I Still Remeber John Watson's Daughter

Chapter 1 221B

A/N: This will have very slow updates. The girl on the cover is John's daughter.

I Still Remember

John Watson's Daughter

Chapter One

"No Dad!" I said as my dad talked to me. He had just been drafted. My mother had died last year, car accident.

"I'm sorry sweetie, but there's nothing I can do about it. I have to go. Harry has agreed to watch you." Of course, she did. She used me. And Dad wouldn't listen to me.

"No Dad, Harry drinks. I'd rather stay in this hotel on my own. Please, there must be somewhere else that I can go or a way for you to stay." He had no clue what she did to me. After that, he had yelled at me and dropped me off at Harry's, and went to wherever he had to report to. My aunt yelled at me when I refused to leave the small space I was given to stay. I would stay in this room and starve rather than deal with her. It would be better.

I had tried to tell my dad what she did to me but he wouldn't listen. "Oh Izzy our guest is here," my aunt called. I hated it when she called me that. I hated being called Izzy or Isabella, my full name. Where was Clara? Clara kept this from happening.

"You take care of him," I said not even bothering to move. There was no point.

"He paid for you sweetie," came her slurred voice. This is what she did to me; sold me to men who lived in the same building as her to pay rent while she spent her paycheck on booze.

"I don't care, you deal with it," I said. A man stormed into my room.

"Don't talk to your mother that way!" he snarled.

"She's not my mother you pisspot," I said not even bothering to move from the lilo. I had a mouth on me that I had learned from Dad's friends. He slapped me before removing my clothes and his. I no longer bothered in resisting. They were always stronger, they always got what they wanted. Besides, it hurt less if I held still. When he was done he dressed and left. I wondered how much of this I would have to take and for how long before my dad came home if he came home.

18 months later

I was now 15 and furious with my dad. We almost never talked and he never noticed the bruises (skype). I tried to tell him what was happening but he would always have to go or start talking about something else. I was leaving this retched flat for good. I didn't care if I had to go to a homeless shelter. I was done. I grabbed my packed bag and went to school like always. I just wouldn't come home this afternoon not that that place was home. School went, as usual, it was dull.

I skipped the bus though and walked into town instead. I walked till I couldn't anymore and sat down on the steps of 221B Baker Street. I wasn't with my Aunt tonight but I was cold and tired, and hungry. "Oh dear!" I heard a woman say. I looked up to see a short red headed older woman. "Dear, are you all right?" she asked. I shook my head. I was out but now I was alone and scared. What did I do now? "Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea?" she asked.

I nodded, "Please if it's not too much trouble," I said standing as she unlocked the door.

"Not at all dear, what's your name?" she asked going into 221 A.

"Bella," I replied. She flipped on the lights and I pulled my jacket closer, not wanting her to see my bruises. I was so used to hiding them. She went around the kitchen making the tea as I sat at the kitchen table.

"So Bella dear, why were you out in the cold and not home?" I wasn't sure how to answer that and pulled my jacket even closer.

"Mrs. Hudson!" a man called coming into the flat. I jumped as the door hit the wall. "Where are they?" he asked. He was thin and tall. His hair dark, slightly long and curly. His eyes a very bright blue but also very light. His expression showed anger but there was something about him.

"Where are what dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked. Apparently, this was normal.

"My cigarettes," he answered.

"You know perfectly well that you don't like me touching your things. I'm your land lady, not your house keeper. Bella, this is Sherlock Holmes. He lives just upstairs," Mrs. Hudson introduced. He turned and looked at me with a very intense look. I looked back and I felt my jacket slide off my shoulder and I tried to cover it back up.

"What happened to you?" Sherlock asked.

"What?" I asked not making eye contact. He walked towards me and I stood and backed away. I was afraid. I was backed into a wall. He pushed my jacket aside and moved my hair from my neck.

"Show me your stomach," he said.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson scolded. I pulled my shirt up just a few inches which was as far as I could go. I was too sore.

"How long?" Sherlock asked.

"Wait you believe someone is hurting me?" I asked shocked.

"I know and it is more than one someone," he replied.

"18 months, my aunt has been selling me to men to pay the rent while my dad is at war," I said starting to cry. Finally, someone believed.

"Sherlock, look now you've upset her," Mrs. Hudson said.

"No, he didn't. He believed. I've been trying to tell my dad for years and he wouldn't listen. But I've been living with her for 18 months. Please don't send me back!" I cried. "How did you know from just the bruises?" I asked. He didn't answer; he looked away from me uncomfortable. "I'm sorry," I said.

"He didn't say anything," Mrs. Hudson said as Sherlock sat down.

"Sometimes words aren't needed," I replied going over to Sherlock and placing my hand on his shoulder. "Do you want to talk about it?" I asked. It took one to know one.

"Talk about what dears?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"My uncle used to hit me when I was younger," Sherlock said. I pulled my chair up to sit in front of him. "He tried to go further than that once but a friend of mine killed him. She was 12 at the time. 18 years later she's still behind bars," Sherlock said and I took his hands in one of mine, leaving the other on his shoulder.

"Oh, I'm so sorry dear," Mrs. Hudson said and wrapped her arms around him.

"You're staying with us," Sherlock said. "There are two spare rooms upstairs. You may take one, though I would eat with Mrs. Hudson. I keep experiments in the fridge, play the violin at all hours and sometimes don't talk for days on end. I hope that won't be a problem."

"You are good at the violin?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered.

"Then no problem. I've gone weeks without talking. Though there may be times when I want to talk to you for some reason or another. I prefer talking to people who understand what I'm going through," I said.

"Fine," he said as Mrs. Hudson brought us some tea.