(Author's Note: I am an American. I would very much appreciate any corrections/suggestions on my terminology :)The characters will probably be a little OOC, but I will try not to change them too much. Reviews, good or bad, would be much appreciated, and I will respond to all of them)

Tap. Tap. Tap tap. Tap.

I bite back a moan of frustration. I finished my Pre Cal test ages ago, but the way this kid next to me is tapping is really annoying.

"Oy, you. Shut up!" the kid looks over at me surprised, but he does stop his tapping. Finally. Peace and quiet. I don't even really know why I'm here. I finished secondary school about six months ago through independent study, but my mother insists that it's good for me to be around kids my own age. So here I sit, in this insufferable classroom.

"Sadie Adams to the head's office, please," a cool voice says over the intercom. I shrug. Anything to get out of here. I grab my bag and walk out the door, nodding at the teacher as I pass. I think she sighs, but I'm not particularly paying her any attention. As I saunter down the hall, I run the possibilities for the reason of my visit to the office through my mind. I suppose Mum could be signing me out early, but I doubt it. She puts entirely too much stock in the public education system. I've not done anything to get me into trouble in weeks, unless you count sleeping in class, which I don't. The teachers probably prefer that to me correcting them.

"Sadie?" I've arrived at the office and the receptionist is speaking to me. I smile pleasantly.

"Hello. I was called?" She gives me a sympathetic glance that I don't quite understand. Why does she feel sorry for me? I frown a bit; I don't like pity.

"Right through here, Sadie." She bites her lip and looks at me sadly. What in the world? I walk into the head's office, more than a little perturbed, and look around. I see the head, the guidance counselor, the nurse, and… another woman. I look her over, analyzing her quickly. Her hair is pinned back in a severe bun, and she carries a suitcase. I see a lanyard peeking out of her jumper. Make-up expertly applied, not a hair out of place.

"Government worker." I say, glancing her over. The head, used to such a performance, merely sighs and gives me a pained look. "No, strike that, social worker." The head, the guidance counselor, and the social worker, all in a room to see me.

I'm not stupid. No, far from it.

"What's happened to her?" I demand, my voice as steady as I can make it. The social worker looks at me carefully.

"Well, Sadie, it seems-"

"Just tell me what happened." I keep my voice hard, because if I don't I'll start crying and I don't want to cry in front of these people. To her credit, the lady doesn't blink. She's obviously got some information on me, because she is not surprised in the least by my reaction.

"Your mother was hit by a car and died on impact." I blink. I blink again. I blink one last time and all indication of my tears have been erased. I swallow to get rid of the lump in my throat. I had known it, I had known she was dead the second I walked into this office, but it doesn't make the news any easier to take. My mother, dead. I will never see my mum again. "I'm very sorry, Sadie," the woman says, looking at me sadly. I nod. In a small voice, I ask,

"What's going to happen to me now?" The woman looks at me carefully.

"Have you ever met your father, Sadie?" I shake my head.

"Mum never told me about him. I don't even know his name." The social worker- Kelly, I can see her name on the badge now- exchanges a pained glance with my guidance counselor.

"Well, Sadie, since your mother did, in fact, list him as the father on your birth certificate, it seems he's got legal custody of you." I look at her in shock. I've always wondered about my father. Mum would talk about him, occasionally, but she never told me his name.

"Who is my father?" I ask her carefully.

"Have you ever heard of Sherlock Holmes?" I run the name through my memory. I have an eidetic memory. As far as I know, I haven't forgotten anything, ever. Well, from about three years old on, I suppose.

"No, I've never heard of him."

"He's a… a sort of detective, I suppose." In response to my still-blank expression, she presses on. "Well, he's your father."