Colder Than Ice (Sherlock)

Note: Sherlock (BBC) fanfiction. Established Sherlolly, Parent!Lock; canon divergence.

As the brown-haired girl rummaged her drawers in search of her external hard drive, she came across a photo in a wrought iron frame. Despite her efforts, Stella’s lips curled up to form a soft, fleeting smile. The sensation was foreign to her — as ordinary an action it seemed, it had been seven years since she last blatantly displayed a trace of emotions on her face. Yet with the smile, her ice-blue irises did not become bluer; her pale, heart-shaped face didn’t gain any color. The grin, it seemed, made her pupils darker, skin paler, and lips purse tighter together.

“Molly, will you pass me the beaker?” Sherlock asked, extending a hand in Molly’s direction.

“Sure!”

The detective’s daughter hid below a lab bench, sneaking glances at her parents. When Sherlock asked whether she would like to join them she had declined, much to her parents’ surprise.

“Sherlock, Millie is her own person. Don’t expect her to be a science genius, though it’s more likely than not that her IQ is over two hundred,” John Watson had said, shaking his head at the Consulting Detective. Molly simply chuckled.

“Molly, the beaker?”

“Here, Sherlock! Listen, I have to sign some papers for Mike. Don’t blow up the lab, alright? Love you,” Molly said, swiftly kissing Sherlock. Millie giggled from below the bench, covering her eyes.

“Mummy, gross!” She whined, earning a laugh from Sherlock. He walked over to his — their — daughter, and scooped her into his arms. Molly walked over to the duo, having heard her daughter’s complaint. She tickled little Millie, causing her to burst into laughter. Sherlock merely chuckled, and quickly directed a glare towards the blogger who apparently snapped a picture of the happy family.

This picture so happened to be developed and framed, and Stella ran her fingers softy over the photograph that had gathered quite some dust.

That was the last prominent gleeful memory of her family.

It had been already seven years, and yet, the pain still lingered. Her family was no longer cheerful or complete, as opposed to the mirth captured in the photo by John. There were no Molly working in the morgue, no Sherlock doing experiments and goofing around with his wife, no Stella watching her parents from afar.

It was unsettling, really, to know how her family fell apart. She had always known that her parents hadn’t got along well when they first met in spite of her mother’s initial infatuation and adoration for her father. They had bonded after a particular disastrous case on Sherlock’s part in their university days over solitude and mutual trust, as not much people knew Sherlock was alive; and Molly was empathetic and compassionate. She had the intellect that made her capable of being a professor in pathology in Oxbridge, yet she chose to remain as a pathologist in St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, and offer Sherlock Holmes private counseling whenever he felt like giving up.

They were the perfect family, although people were skeptical about the match between Molly and Sherlock. Being each others’ confidantes, it was difficult to find a family with stronger bonds between members than the Holmeses. To Stella, at least, she had lead a life of peaceful yet dynamic equilibrium, until the day when all hell broke loose.

It was a cold, yet warm day in January. Her father was working on a case with Uncle John at Edgware, his trustworthy sidekick. Mummy had a day off, so instead of heading to St. Bart’s in the morning, Molly Holmes stayed at home with her. After a nourishing and fulfilling breakfast the girls settled into a game of hide and seek, with Stella hiding and Molly looking for her. Several times she had scared Molly out of her wits, popping out of nowhere after Molly turned the entire flat upside down in search of Stella. Yet on this day, Molly was infinitely grateful towards Stella’s fondness of uncanny hideouts, for it saved not only her life, but also Sherlock’s life.

“Oh, come on!” Molly groaned. “You have to be in here somewhere!”

Stella giggled, snuggled comfortably on top of the kitchen cabinet, hidden away from Molly’s line of sight behind a steel board. She peeked through the crack between the board and the cupboard, smirking to herself as Molly crouched on the floor, looking underneath the sofa when —

“Stop where you are.”

Molly squeaked, turning around to face the intruders, only to see the black barrel of the gun. Stella, safely tucked away, held her breath and dared not make a sound.

“Where’s Mildred?” A man demanded, jamming the barrel of the gun into Molly’s temple.

“Millie — she’s — not here.”

Stella cringed. Her legal first name hadn’t been the most attractive name in the world, but it had never sounded this malevolent. The way which Bad Man spoke her name made her feel she was inferior, which she refused to acknowledge or acquiesce to—she was the daughter of Sherlock and Molly Holmes, for God’s sake!

Bad Man jammed the gun harder, and Molly winced. “Where. Is. Mildred Holmes?”

“She’s at — she’s with — she’s with Mary!” Molly stuttered, and Stella still dared not to breathe even though she knew she was safe for the moment. Her mother had lied—the woman who always told the truth told a lie for her daughter’s safety.

She couldn’t focus on the scene in front of her. She saw everything, yet she didn’t see them. Numbly she witnessed the Bad Men tie Mummy up and throw her out of the flat, but her mind refused to register this action and comprehend the sight. .

At least ten minutes passed before she regained control over her shaken self. Shakily she hopped down from the top of the kitchen cabinet, wobbled over to Molly’s phone — she didn’t take it with her when they were playing hide and seek, and hence left it behind when she was taken away — and unlocked it. She scrolled through her contact list to find Daddy’s number, and called him.

“Molly, I’m on a case!” Sherlock’s voice reached Stella’s ears, and Stella sniffed.

“D — Daddy?”

“Millie? What’s going on? Why’re you crying? Why do you have Mummy’s phone?”

“Some — three bad men came and — and — and took Mummy away,” Stella sniffed, struggling to speak.

Sherlock swore, not caring that his daughter would hear the expletive. “Millie —”

“Y — yes, Daddy?”

“Millie, Daddy and Uncle John are going to be with you very soon. I’ll call Auntie Mary to take you to her house, and we’ll meet you there.”

Stella nodded. “Be quick, Daddy. Mummy told the bad men... she lied — she said I was with Auntie Mary.”

“Uncle John just called Mary. She’ll pick you up in a few since she’s meeting some friends nearby. Meanwhile, don’t hang up, Stella. Keep me on the line.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

It was the last time she ever saw or heard from her mother. When Sherlock arrived at the Watson’s flat an hour later, he sprang forward and crushed Stella in an embrace. “Daddy’s here, Millie, Daddy’s here.”

A tear had escaped her ice blue eyes, sliding down her porcelain cheek and staining both of their clothes. Sherlock leaned back, and with immense sorrow wiped his daughter’s tears with his thumb.

Stella might be young, being almost seven years old, but she was still her parents’ daughter. Swiftly she rubbed her eyes, eliminating as many traces of tears as possible, and stared at her father. “Daddy, you’ll find Mummy, right?” She asked in a clear, strong voice. Sherlock nodded, gazing at his daughter; and no matter how well he hid it, Stella could still see the guilt, sadness and despair swimming behind his ice-block-cold gaze.

It was the last time she ever allowed herself to he called Millie. Two days later she protested against anyone that called her by her legal first name; Sherlock included. His heart sank when he, with a heavy heart, called his daughter Stella instead of Millie or Mildred. The name Stella was picked by Molly, and Sherlock had picked Mildred for the sake of sticking to the Holmesian tradition of bizarre yet aristocratic first names. He didn’t let Stella know, but every time he called his daughter, he would feel a hard pang in his heart.

The memory of her father’s broken gaze on his usual indifferent countenance was forever etched in Stella’s mind. She felt a lump rise up her throat, but she swallowed forcefully and held a fist in front of her mouth.

No, she reminded herself. Crying doesn’t help the situation. Rationality is my only weapon, nothing else.

In spite of her efforts, nevertheless, she couldn’t stop the stray tear rolling down her cheek.