Marietta Oduya knew how to bide her time.

For example, she did not ask her mother about her paternity until her eleventh year. The signs had always been there, of course, an unseen figure in the background and shadows of her life. It did not matter how many or how few hours Mother worked, her paychecks always came out the same, more than enough to keep the two of them comfortable. Every year, the gifts from "Santa" were wrapped more neatly than the others, but contained far more generic gifts, explosions of glitter and pink when the five year old had asked for a larger hard drive for Christmas. There was someone there, someone hidden, who showed his care through money and gifts. Someone who did not know her.

She had decided that eleven was a good age to know; she could look upon the man with a rational eye, unfazed by the earlier nights of her childhood, sitting up and asking the Tooth Fairy for a father. She combed her hair, put on her best dress and polished shoes, went down to the kitchen, and asked her mother where one half of her genetic material had come from. Three phone calls and a ride in a black car later, she was standing in front of her answer.

No one was ever going to put it together by family resemblance. Her dark skin and tightly curled hair drew the eye away from the parts that matched the man. She found them later in the bathroom mirror, the shape of the eyes, the quirk of the hairline, but they would go unnoticed. She wondered what he would have done if he had a child that looked like him. Maybe he did, somewhere else.

He had said hello, shook hands, and settled in for a chat. Or more appropriately, a condescending monologue to what he clearly thought was a normal little girl. He was sorry that he couldn't have seen her before, but he had a very, very important job, did she see? He did his best to provide for her and Mother, but a child just did not fit in his life right now. If she wanted, they could keep in touch, and would that be okay with her?

She watched his eyes the entire time. As warm as the falsified inflections were, his eyes were cold.

She had simpered her way through a reply, and gone home to learn everything about Mycroft Holmes that she could. She spent the next three years digging through articles, and there was a great deal of digging involved. This was not a man of headlines; she found him in off-hand comments, in citation pages, and in foot notes. As the information was gathered, the picture grew clearer. She would have to bide her time.

It was not some sort of evil master plan. She just recognized opportunity when she saw it, and the genetics of a powerful government man was an important card in her hand. It would have been easier if he had had a greater public presence. The people who really mattered in his work could not care less what he sired. But enemies, opponents, rivals, all of these people needed any advantage they could get. And here she was, readymade and open to offers.

But the game went beyond her own blood. In her fourteenth year, another player entered the public sphere. One of her friends had raved about a new crime blog, written by a veteran and all about a man named Sherlock Holmes. Marietta nodded as her friend scrolled through the stories and wryly wondered if the good detective offered family discounts.

She would not go and see him, of course, not yet. She had to plan her moves before she set her pieces on the game board. She was fourteen years old and did not yet have anything she really wanted. This had to be saved for a special occasion.

Marietta Oduya Holmes knew how to bide her time.