Missing heiress

Story by: Isla de Muerta

Genre: Romance/general/tragedy/mystery

Rating: T just in case

Disclaimer: Sherlock and Watson aren't mine though I hope they'd be. Mine are only strangers you don't recognise

Summary: Watson meets a strange young girl at cemetery, then again in front of his and Sherlock's home. She doesn't seem to remember him. Ten years from that, he meets her again. Who is she, what does she want, why does she shock Watson and why is Sherlock acting the way he is, after meeting the young woman?

A/N Revamped from a fic called The girl. The italic scenes are flashbacks. Please R&R, tell me if it's any good, any better now.

Chapter I: The last rose of summer

From Watson's POV

First time when I saw her was late in August when the last roses of summer were blooming brightly. I was returning from a sick call to our apartment 221b Baker Street and walked by one cemetery and there she was, hiding behind one old tombstone, smiling to me. I remember it very well because of her brilliant smile but also because of what happened after our short encounter.

"Well hello. What are you doing in there?" I asked from the little girl who I had noticed hiding in the cemetery, just along the street I was walking.

"I'm hiding," she said.

"Of course you are, how stupid of me. Who are you hiding from?" the girl flashed a most brilliant smile to me.

"You," she said, giggled and in a flash, she was gone. I couldn't help but to smile and continued my way back to the apartment that I shared with Sherlock Holmes. From a short distance, I saw a girl standing in from of the house, where we lived, staring at our window.

"There you are, how did you manage to get here so fast?" I greeted the girl. She didn't answer to me and acted as if she wouldn't know me at all. Even the look of the remarkably coloured, icy-blue eyes was saying that she did not know me. And she didn't smile.

"What's the matter with you? We just met, don't be afraid," I said friendly and stretched my hand towards her to appease her but she screamed, ran away and left me wonder what had just happened.

It was late August when I was returning home from a sick call. It was already late night. I walked past a cemetery and couldn't help but to smile when I remembered what had happened there, ten years ago. I almost waited for that sweet little girl to show up again from some bush but of course, she didn't. She probably was already so grown up that she didn't played anymore. Few minutes later, I came to Baker Street and as sure as the sun rises every day, I saw someone, in front of our apartment, staring at our window. The young woman was wearing a pale-yellow silk dress.

"Good night Miss," I greeted her, after noticing that she didn't wear a wedding band. Something in her momentarily caught my attention but I walked on to open our door, stepped in but couldn't forget that woman.

I found my dear friend Holmes playing his violin. I went straight to the window and looked out. I stood there for few minutes to see if she was still staring but after noticing she wasn't, I sighed and sat down to a chair to read a newspaper that I hadn't got time to read in the morning and forgot that woman.

Or so I thought but something in her that I couldn't define stayed subconsciously in my mind. For some reason I couldn't concentrate to the paper but just stared the page when Holmes suddenly woke me up from my trance.

"My dear Watson, you've been glaring that same page for ten minutes now. What in the name of heavens there is so interesting for you that you do so?" he asked from me. I noticed that he had stopped playing and was now sitting in his favourite chair, looking at me.

"Oh, nothing actually," I answered to him and shook my head.

My friend gave me a quick little smile and measured me from head to toes. Then he shortly mentioned, "Oh really Watson? Was she still there, on the street, when you came up?"

"By George Holmes, how on earth did you know why I went to the window?" Holmes surprised me once again, "No, she wasn't."

"She appeared there five minutes before you came. She was wearing a pale-yellow silk dress. Her hair is auburn and she is not from London. Her appearance is quite remarkable," Holmes explained, "She bothers you".

"Yes Holmes, she bothers me. It is as if I would have seen her somewhere before," I admitted.

"Maybe you have, Watson, maybe you have. Well, it is late dear friend so I won't keep you up much later or you won't be able to take care of your patients tomorrow. Good night," he bid me.

"Good night Holmes," I said and retired to my room. Little after 1 a.m. in the morning, I woke up to something. I heard heavy rain tapping to my window and from the background, Holmes playing his violin. I went to the window and looked out.

"How stupid," I said to myself," Did you really thought that you would see her there in this weather," and went back to bed, shaking my head.