Sophia Holmes and the Study in Pink (Sherlock's Daughter Fanfic) *Completed*

Chapter Two

Dad whirls around, grabbing his phone, and putting his coat and scarf back on before making towards the door.

Recognising my cue, I pack up and throw my own coat and scarf on, but by the time I've got downstairs, dad is already out and in the waiting taxi and gesturing for me to hurry up. "St. Bartholomew's Hospital, please." The cab starts running, and I watch the scenery build up outside my window, familiarising myself with our location. Being in the centre of town will be handy, even if we're not the sort to do shopping.

"What are we doing?" I ask, knowing we must be going to Bart's for the bigger equipment, or a body in the morgue.

"Confirming an alibi," he answers simply.

We must have hopped back to a previous case than the one we're on now - perhaps the one with the ladder considering we haven't wrapped that one up yet.

I glance at his wrists as he steeples his hands, his sleeves sliding up his arm. "Please say you're not using those patches again." He opens his eyes and glares at me to shut up, then he senses my worry and softens, shaking his head. 

Not long after mum died, I found him unconscious on the sofa with five nicotine patches on his arms. As it turned out, they were covering an array of track marks from the heroin he'd been shooting up. The first few years were bad and dad had broken off all relationships so very few people knew what he was going through. It's a time I never want to revisit. 

When we arrive at the hospital, we head straight for the morgue. A young woman with mousey hair is ahead of us, struggling to open the door due to the large tray that's balancing precariously in her arms. 

"Molly, I need a body. Fresh as you can find." 

She glances back, a blush rising on her cheeks as she sees us. "I can't really -" 

"Good. I'll be in the morgue, I just need to get something." Dad turns on his heels and I frown for a moment before following. I have no idea what he's up to, but whatever he's after takes us to the research area on the other side of the hospital. I can deduce a lot about most people, but with dad, nothing. Not unless he's being obvious about it. 

Near the labs, a lecturer dad knows from university emerges from one of the rooms. "Sherlock Holmes!" Dad forces a smile onto his face as he's forced to stop. "Haven't seen you around here for a bit. I heard you and your girl were away on a case. What happened?" 

"It was the Spanish - nobody recognised the given name of the victim was the English of a place in Spain." 

Mike nods, pretending he understood. "Found a flatmate yet?" 

"No and is it any wonder?!" dad exclaims, snorting. "Who'd want me for a flatmate? I have a motherless daughter, I play the violin at any time, night or day, and sometimes I don't speak for days on end. Who'd want to live with that?" Mike shrugs his large shoulders and dad adopts a sweet smile. "Could we borrow your riding crop please?" 

"I don't have that on me now," Mike responds, laughing and I eye him sceptically. 

"Unless you've just returned from having a circumcision, your stance and walk suggest you've just come from one of your appointments," I say and he raises an eyebrow. "So who is it this time?" He doesn't respond but his silence says enough, so he gives a flustered smile before heading back into his room for the crop. 

A few minutes later, I watch as dad unzips the body bag on the table and peers at the corpse inside. Then he sniffs it. "How fresh?" 

"Just in." Molly Hooper answers, walking over. "Sixty-seven, natural causes. He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice." 

Dad zips the bag back up and straightens up, spinning around to face her and putting on a false smile. "Fine. We'll start with the riding crop. Molly, help me get the body out and onto the table, Sophia, take in as much as you can, I'll be quizzing you later." 

That's how he likes to teach me: not algebra or climate change like they teach at school. What use is it? In the world of heroes and villains and crimes and cases, this is much more useful. 

Once she's helped with the corpse, Molly retreats into the observation room to apply some lipstick and to watch my dad disrespect the dead. It's not as if they mind. Dad lifts the crop high and repeatedly beats the body violently, making Molly flinch each time the crop comes in contact with the body. I take out my notebook and start writing down my observations. From what I can see, the deceased worked at Bart's for ten years as an IT technician but retired two years ago to spend more time with his grandchildren - one of which had terminal cancer. He lived alone after his wife had died, but he kept a picture of her wherever he went. Sentiment. 

As dad finishes and straightens up, breathless, Molly walks back into the room. "So, bad day, was it?" Molly jokes nervously to dad's ignorance as he pulls out his notebook. 

"I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes," dad tells her. "A man's alibi depends on it. Text me." 

"Listen," she tries, "I was wondering: maybe later, when you're finished..." 

Dad stops scribbling to look up at her then gives her a double-take. "Are you wearing lipstick?" he asks, spoiling Molly's attempt to set up a date. "You weren't wearing lipstick before." 

"I, er, I refreshed it a bit," she lies hesitantly, before sending him a coy smile. He stares back at her, oblivious to her flirting attempts. She should know by now that a relationship between them is never going to happen: he's been married to his work since mum died, and I don't think any woman could fill the gap she left. 

Dad goes back to writing in his notebook. "Sorry, you were saying?" 

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee." 

Dad flips his notebook shut and stores it away. "Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs, Sophia!"

"Coming!" Tucking my own notebook away and, casting a sympathetic look at Molly, I follow after him.