Over the past couple of years, Sherlock had heard many statements that just didn't immediately make sense in his mind, or that seemed to come out of nowhere and were so shocking or absurd that he didn't even want to justify them with a remark.
"For the last time, you CAN'T keep fingers under the sink. If I find them here again, I swear..."
"I think Gladstone's eaten one of your experiments again..."
"Five nicotine patches? Don't you think that's a bit much?"
"She and I are getting a little place together, of our own. I'm moving out, Sherlock."
"We're getting married next spring!"
That had been a year ago, and up until now, it had held the record for the most absurd thing he'd ever heard. Though, this had definitely beaten it.
"Your daughter's here, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock looked over his shoulder from where he knelt over a body, his magnifying lens still hovering over the area he had been examining – a particularly interesting residue on the right sleeve, proof that the victim wasn't quite as clean cut as the police had originally stated – and gave the sergeant a confused glare. "What?"
"Your daughter," the man repeated, a stocky blonde no older than twenty five that obviously was new as he didn't seem to know who Sherlock was. "She's waiting outside. Must be your weekend, yeah?" He grinned.
"I don't have a daughter," Sherlock replied plainly, looking back to fine white powder that lay on the surface of the green fabric.
He froze when he heard the man behind him break into a fit of laughter. Where was John when he needed him? Things were so much simpler when they lived in the same building.
"That's a good joke, sir, I..." The man had the sense to stop when he caught the icy grey eyes piercing into him. "That is... She looks just like... she's really not yours?"
"Not. Mine." Sherlock repeated slowly, hoping maybe it would sink in. "I have no children. I am not in a relationship and have not been for a very long time, so don't even think about insinuating I just don't know about it. I'm married to my work, so if it were possible for a child to come through that, then perhaps I might have one, but..."
"Thank God it's not possible," John commented, walking in the doorway, and Sherlock sighed inwardly. Finally, someone worth talking to. "I'd hate to see that child."
"You're late," Sherlock declared, changing his glance from the man in uniform to the doctor who had just entered.
"Sorry, bit of a situation at the house," he answered flatly, causing his friend to raise an eyebrow. The way John's eyes had darted away from him and directly to the body meant he was lying, or withholding something. "Once I got here, it took me longer than it should have to convince them that I was allowed on scene."
"New team," Sherlock nodded disapprovingly. "Lestrade's not on this one." Lifting up the dead man's hand, Sherlock examined the nails carefully. There was slight discolouration – partial leukonychia, could be a sign of arsenic poisoning. "I haven't seen your wife around the lab lately."
"No, uh, she hasn't been well," John answered quickly, too quickly, as he knelt down beside the body. "What're we looking at?"
"It appears to be a stabbing."
The side of his mouth pulled up into a grin. Even after living apart for a while, John knew him well. "The wounds are too shallow to have caused any significant damage. Preliminary examinations suggest poisoning."
The sergeant cleared his throat, causing the other two men to turn and look at him.
"Look, I don't mean to interrupt... but what do I do about your... um... the girl?"
John furrowed his brow. "Girl?"
Sherlock sighed. "My daughter, apparently." He waved the other man off. "Give her back to whoever brought her, send her away. She's not my problem."
"That's the problem," the sergeant looked embarrassed. "The woman who dropped her off... well she said that she was your daughter, and how was I to know any differently? She looks like she's your daughter!"
The situation was forming in Sherlock's mind. "She left the girl."
The blonde young man nodded. "She didn't give her name either. I just—I thought..." Sherlock's piercing glare made the man feel foolish and frightened at once. "Well, she said it was your round."
Whatever colour was in Sherlock's face drained. "My round."
"Round two, actually. She didn't want to see you... I thought a recent split, or..." He trailed off as Sherlock swept by him, John hurrying after.
Sherlock stormed through the crowd of police as his eyes scanned around. He may not have known who he was looking for exactly, but he had an idea.
At last, he saw what he was looking for just outside of the police tape; About knee high, light grey eyes and dark brown hair pulled up into tiny pigtails, standing beside a police car and clutching a teddy bear for dear life. A tiny, bright suitcase composed of the primary colours stood nearby, and he swallowed when he read the name on the tag.