(A/N) Hello, new fandom. This'll be my first attempt at a Sherlock fic, so we'll see how this goes. I typically inhabit a land of anime and fantasy, so let's see how I do over here in semi-reality. I just couldn't hide from the plot bunny. It was a very hungry little bugger. This takes place post Great Game, so we're operating under the assumption that everyone survived.

Warnings: Yes, there are some OCs in this, but don't let that turn you off right away. I think it's safe to say this story will ultimately end up being Sherlock/John, as well, and while I do like me some slash, the rating is more for violence than anything else…as of right now, anyway.

Disclaimer: FANFICTION! Enjoy.

A Rose on the Grave

Chapter 1: Repressed

"Drop the gun, Sherlock. You don't even know how to use that thing."

"Would you like to bet on that?"

"I'll kill you if you don't back off."

"Would you, Mr. Christopher? I don't believe you would."

"No…you're right; I wouldn't…not while you know the disc's location…but I might kill her," the man says, turning and aiming his gun at the young girl cuffed to the pipe behind him.

"No," the boy whispers, his gun lowering barely half an inch. "You…you wouldn't…kill her."

"I will…if you don't drop the gun and tell me what I want to know."

"I can't…it isn't right," he says, his hands shaking slightly as his gaze shifts to the girl…his friend…his best friend.

"To hell with your playground rules! This is bigger than that. Do you really think her life is anything to me? Or yours, for that matter? I'll kill you both and bury you at the bottom of the bloody ocean. Only you can stop this."

He hasn't taken his eyes off her the entire time the man's been speaking. She's afraid…but she understands. She's had her life torn apart around her. She trusts him. He's the only one she trusts.

"Forgive me, Mr. Christopher, but you'll do that whether I give you the disc or not. If you want me to cooperate…let Rosette go free."

The man laughs at this. "We're not making deals here. If you haven't done what I want by the count of three, I'm going to shoot her. One."

"No…sir…please," he begs, sounding like a five-year-old again.

"Two." He cocks the trigger.

"Don't…please…don't hurt her."

"Daddy?"

"Thr-"

The sound of the gun firing explodes in his ears. The weapon's unfamiliar. He has no idea where he's aiming, but as he watches, Jonathan Christopher's face bursts open in a mass of blood, muscle, and bone. He's dead before he even hits the ground. Horrified, he drops the gun, the sound of it clattering away across the floor mingling with Rosette's cry. As his gaze shifts from the bloody sight on the floor to his friend, he can only think that he's glad she can't see her father's face.

"I – I'm sorry," he mumbles as he moves toward her, half-collapsing beside her. "I'm so sorry. I – I didn't…he was going to kill you!"

"I know," she whispers to him, leaning closer and resting her forehead against his since her hands are still cuffed and she can't put her arms around his shoulders. "It's all right. It's not your fault. You did what you had to do."

Reaching forward blindly, he grasps her right shoulder. "I…I thought…I was afraid…I wasn't ever going to see you again."

"It's okay. I'm fine."

A load of bollocks, that. She isn't fine and they both know it, but at least she isn't dead.

"I couldn't…I…I shot him, Rosette," he says, feeling like he could burst into tears.

"It doesn't matter," she soothes, nuzzling him as if he's a small child again. "He was a horrible man and he deserved it."

"But he was your dad…"

"I already told you, it doesn't matter. He really was going to kill me," she says firmly. "You saved me. I knew you'd find me. I knew you'd come, Sherlock," she says, her face alight with a relieved, trusting smile. That smile will be forever burned into his brain…that and what comes next.

Another gunshot sounds in his ears. Rosette stiffens and she gives a strangled cry, the wonderful smile slowly melting into a look of shock and pain. He knows what he will see, but is unwilling to accept the hole in her stomach, blood flowing freely from within.

"ROSETTE!" Sherlock Holmes shouted as he shot bolt upright in bed, his gaze darting around the room, searching for a girl who'd been dead for more than twenty years. It took him several moments to realize he was not fourteen anymore and he was in his flat on Baker Street…and his flatmate probably would have heard that. John was a soldier, after all: trained to wake at the slightest noise.

As Sherlock had predicted, John Watson was at his door inside of five minutes, poking his head inside.

"Sherlock? Are you all right? What was that?"

"Nothing," he mumbled, massaging his temples as he climbed out of bed, noting that it was still dark out. "What time is it?"

"Three in the bloody morning. Just…just a dream?" the doctor continued to pry, no stranger to nightmares himself. "Who's…Rosette?"

"Old case," he lied, staring out the window. "Rosette Christopher. She died."

"Oh," John murmured, a slightly awkward silence following before he asked, "did you…want to talk?"

"Certainly not," he said, still not looking at his friend. "It was only a dream. I can't even imagine why I'm thinking about it now. It was a long time ago."

"Sherlock…you're sweating," John pointed out, noticing the sheen of moisture in the light from the hallway. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine, John," he said, his tone souring slightly as he finally turned to look at his flatmate. "I'm not an infant. I can handle a few bad dreams."

"Suit yourself, but if you ever need to talk-"

"Don't you have to be at the office in the morning?" Sherlock cut him off. "You should get back to bed. I'll make some tea or something."

John was a bit too surprised that he'd remembered to call him on the fact that he was clearly avoiding the subject. As he headed back to his own room, all he could think was that his flatmate probably would not make that tea he'd been talking about.

True to John's expectations, Sherlock didn't leave his room. He went right back to staring out his window, still trying to piece together his scattered thoughts.

He hadn't thought about Rosette in a while. Perhaps he'd even been foolish enough to believe he'd purged himself of her memory. However…ever since the incident with Moriarty, the heart he didn't have had been more and more on his mind. Ever since Rosette's death, he'd been thoroughly convinced he didn't have a heart, and his interactions with others seemed to confirm this. Her murder had been the event that had destroyed anything that could remotely be considered a heart. Even so, Moriarty's words haunted his thoughts whenever he didn't have a case to work on, and even then…

I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you.

I have been reliably informed that I don't have one.

Oh, we both know that's not quite true.

Not quite true? The last time he'd allowed himself a heart, his only friend had been murdered…right under his arm, no less. John was his friend now. What would happen this time?

Was history about to repeat itself?

XxX

About a week after the incident, John and Sherlock found themselves out for lunch discussing a new case.

"So…what exactly are we looking for again?" John asked before biting into a spicy tuna roll.

"A woman whose right leg is roughly an inch shorter than her left leg," the consulting detective replied, keeping a subtle watch on the crowd of people entering the sushi bar he and John were currently sitting in.

"And you can tell that just by looking?"

"Naturally."

"Not exactly specific. I shudder to think how many women that description might fit."

"Maybe so, but how many of them wear flip-flops and frequent sushi bars on Shaftesbury Avenue?"

Shrugging, John ate a little more of his lunch. "I couldn't guess. And you don't suppose your suspect's going to be bothered by the fact that you're staring at all the customers and not eating your miso soup?"

"I was honestly considering just tossing it. This really isn't the best place for Japanese cuisine," Sherlock said, dubiously swirling a spoon through the concoction.

"If I have to make you eat that, I will. I don't know if I've seen you eat anything this week," John reprimanded him in an offhand sort of way…though he did have to agree about it not being particularly good sushi.

Sherlock was about to respond when he quite suddenly froze in place. The look was so brief, John almost thought he'd imagined it, but he could swear he saw a tiny spark of horror in his flatmate's eyes.

He turned to follow his gaze and found a young woman standing in the doorway staring at them. After several moments of staring, a huge grin split her face and she made a beeline for them. Just to be sure she wasn't their suspect, John shot a quick glance at her feet and found combat boots instead of flip-flops.

Aside from the boots, she was dressed rather well in a black knee-length skirt and a spaghetti-strap top that sported, of all things, a camouflage pattern. She was tall, about his own height, in fact, but she looked young. Her auburn hair was long, falling just past her shoulders, but it looked wild and unkempt. The girl's…interesting look was finished with a pair of blue eyes that promised what could only be described as mischief.

"Uncle Sherlock!" she greeted enthusiastically, pulling a seat up to their rather small table.

"Uncle?" John asked, glancing between the new arrival and his flatmate.

"I'm busy right now, Shayla," Sherlock replied, not quite meeting her eyes.

"Is that any kind of greeting to give your only niece? I haven't seen you in over a year."

"Working."

"Uncle, won't you at least say 'hello'?" she asked, starting to sound a little hurt.

"It won't mean I'm not working right now," he said. Something John couldn't help notice about the man was that he sometimes had a tendency to look through people when his mind was elsewhere, but this wasn't like those times. At the moment, Sherlock seemed to be avoiding looking directly at her.

"Come on, Sherlock. She's here now and we've got all afternoon. Aren't you at least going to introduce us?" John asked.

"Yes, who is your friend, Uncle? You don't usually hang around with anyone."

Sighing, and finally resigning himself to the fact that he was stuck, Sherlock jerked a hand in his friend's direction. "Shayla Holmes, this is Dr. John Watson, my flatmate. John, I imagine you've gathered by now that Shayla's my niece?"

"Hello, Shayla," the doctor greeted courteously, reaching out to shake her hand. "So you're…Mycroft's daughter?"

"That's the one, and you don't have to worry about the full name, Doctor. Most people just call me Shay."

"All right then…Shay. How old are you?"

"Sixteen next month," she said, looking rather pleased with herself.

"Ah, sixteen, and where do you go to school?" he asked, keeping up the small talk.

"I don't. I did for awhile when I was little, but after an attempt to kidnap me, my parents decided it would be best to hire a private tutor for me."

"Who also happens to serve as a nursemaid and personal body guard," Sherlock added somewhat snidely. "Tell me, Shayla, where is dear Hunter today?"

"At the Starbucks down the way watching my every move. She doesn't care for Japanese."

"Well, to each his own," John said casually as he took another bite of the less than stellar sushi, still wondering at a woman named Hunter.

"Have you talked to Mum at all recently? She's meeting us at Covent Garden later. We're to go to the ballet tonight."

"Mm, joy. And you're going to Covent Garden dressed like that?" he asked, dodging the question about her mother.

"You know me," she said, still grinning, even if it was somewhat half-hearted at this point.

"Didn't you come in here to get some lunch? If you take too long, Miss Hunter Carson will come over here and find some way to blame me for making her job more difficult. You I can stand, little scamp, but Miss Hunter is another matter altogether," Sherlock said, finally managing to look his niece in the eye.

For a moment, Shayla looked like she might argue, but then her shoulders slumped in defeat and she stood from the table. "You're right. I should be going. Don't be a stranger, Uncle. You either, Dr. Watson. I expect to see more of you."

"A-all right," John said, surprised by the abruptness of the whole exchange. "Goodbye, Miss Holmes."

"Shay," she reprimanded him before going to join the line of patrons waiting to be served. As she moved off, the doctor couldn't help but notice the rather distinct black satchel draped over her shoulder: some sort of Asian writing monogrammed onto the fabric in red.

"That was a little harsh, wasn't it?" he asked, turning his attention back to Sherlock. "If she's your niece-"

"As I said, there is no great love between Miss Carson and myself. If I can avoid seeing her, I will."

John didn't comment on it, but he had noticed that, while the exchange might seem harsh to an outsider, by Sherlock's differing standards, his goodbye had been almost…endearing.

"So…Mycroft's…married?" he asked, still not quite able to get his mind around it.

"Yes…to one, Kathleen, maiden name, Christopher. The Holmes' and the Christophers have been two very close political dynasties for several generations now and the two of them found it politically convenient to marry. It looks good for a politician to have a family, after all."

The name Christopher sounded a warning chime in John's memory, but he couldn't quite recall why, and before he could probe the thought any further, Sherlock suddenly shot up from the table, spilling his miso soup in the process.

"Flip-flops," he declared excitedly, moving away without bothering to clean up the mess.

XxX

Just as Sherlock had expected, flip-flop girl had been the perpetrator of a string of cannibalistic murders, killing people and turning them into sushi.

Apart from thinking that he probably wasn't going to eat Japanese again for a while, John was prepared for a quiet evening in (as quiet as an evening in at 221B, Baker Street could be, anyway), but his hopes were soon dashed by a rather frantic pounding on their door.

John opened the door to find Mrs. Hudson accompanied by two women, one dressed in a black evening gown studded with what appeared to be diamonds, and the other clad in a black suit. The first looked oddly familiar, short brunette hair and striking blue eyes, but the second one was new, short with black hair pulled back into a sharp bun, skin nearly snow white, and eyes an odd shade of brown that could almost have been red.

"I'm sorry, John, but they insisted on coming up."

"Where's Sherlock?" the first woman demanded, getting right up in John's face.

"Here, but…not quite here, if you know what I mean," John said nervously, taking several steps back, both to escape the near-hysterical woman and to allow the three of them inside. "He's probably…contemplating the ancient art of sushi-making," he said, glancing back at his friend, who was draped over the couch and staring up at the ceiling. "Sherlock…a little help here?"

"With what, John?" Sherlock asked in exasperation as he slowly pulled himself into a sitting position. "I was th-" When he saw who was currently standing in his flat, his voice briefly died in his throat, but it was soon resurrected. "Ah, Kath…and Miss Hunter Carson, of course."

"Save the bollocks, Holmes," the woman who was apparently Hunter Carson fired back at him.

"Did I say anything?"

"You opened your mouth."

"If you think-"

"Please! Both of you! Not now!" the first woman shouted, looking like she might burst into tears. "Sherlock…I need your help."

"With what, dear sister? I thought you were meant to go to the ballet tonight." That was when Sherlock realized what was wrong. "Kath…where's Shayla?"

"She's gone," the woman called Kath whispered.

"Gone?"

"She disappeared from Covent Garden. The police have locked down the building and detained everyone inside. Mycroft's furious-"

"As well he would be," Sherlock said calmly, his gaze shifting to Hunter. "Someone actually managed to get past the deadly Hunter?"

The woman said nothing, but if looks could kill, she would be the best in the business.

"Sherlock, please, don't provoke her. She feels bad enough already. You've got to help us."

"I'll just…make some tea, then, shall I?" Mrs. Hudson said, ducking into the kitchen and leaving the two flatmates with their clients.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, still looking at Hunter, knowing she would have been nearby when whatever had taken place happened.

"Shayla went to get ice cream during the second intermission. I accompanied her out of the box, but she asked me to wait. She said she could handle it. So I waited. I could see the vendor from where I stood. One minute, she was buying the ice cream…the next, she was gone…disappeared into the crowd."

"And the entire complex has been searched?" Sherlock asked, knowing just how big Covent Garden was.

"Yes. They're searching a second time. The doormen and the ice cream vendor have been detained for questioning. Sherlock…please help me…my baby…my Shay…I can't lose her, too."

Sherlock remained silent as Kathleen came to sit beside him on the couch. He didn't protest when she took his hands in hers. "Someone who can slip through our secret service detail…who can get past Hunter…they'll never find who did this, never. It's got to be you. You're the only one who can rescue Shay. You're her only hope."

"Kathleen…you know I can't-" he started to say.

"Rosette is past, Sherlock. Shay is now. She could die; she will die…unless you find her. I'm begging you," Kathleen said, keeping her hold on his hands, but moving to her knees in front of him. "Please…find my daughter…find your niece."

For a long while, Sherlock just sat there, looking down at his sister-in-law, impassive as usual. Then, seeming to come to a decision, he drew Kathleen's hands up toward his face.

"I will find her. I promise."

The oddly tender moment between the two in-laws might have gone on longer, except Sherlock's phone chose that exact moment to buzz, indicating a text. Sherlock released Kathleen's hands and reached for the device, his nostrils flaring and his eyes widening briefly when he saw the message.

The number was blocked, but the text read, 'I still want that disk back.'

XxX

(A/N) Hopefully, I haven't confused you too much. Don't worry, things will be explained. My only other thing for this chapter is that I have no idea whether they call them flip-flops in Britain or not, but there's something amusing to me about Sherlock standing up in a restaurant and shouting 'flip-flops!'

I have a few chapters written for this already, so if anyone's interested, I can try posting them on a weekly basis until I run out and just have to go chapter by chapter. Well, until next time, enjoy the Sherlock.