May 14th, 1864,
Some May Call It Selfish
"Can you promise to come back and see me again?"
Those words echoed in Amelia's head.
She found it astounding that yesterday hadn't been just a dream.
It was bright and early Saturday morning, and Watson let out a pained yawn as she made her way down Baker Street toward Uncle Sherlock's apartment. Her shoes tapped in a mindless rhythm against the stones cobbled across the ground. She'd spent practically all night staring into the light of that glass sheet, wondering what secrets it held, and how she was going to crack it open.
She was racking her brain wondering what would happen on January 17th, 1998. She knew she could go and check for herself, but what if it was just the date of another monster attack? That thing definitely seemed to have it out for her, so seeing it again wasn't exactly first on her list of priorities.
As for sharing any of this with Master Holmes, she remained on the fence. She'd felt particularly hesitant that morning, and ended up stashing the glass paper away in a drawer before departing. The clock, however, she was determined to keep on her person at all times. After she'd nearly lost it in that monster encounter, she couldn't feel secure without it.
Arriving at the address where Sherlock's apartment was located, she noted the lack of a carriage out front. Perhaps their transport was running a little late this morning.
As she walked down the empty driveway, Amelia felt an uneasy feeling of regret creep into her stomach. Why didn't she bring all of her evidence with her? Why had she suddenly been so hesitant? Master Holmes would be much better equipped than her for this task; if solving this case would determine the ultimate fate of the world, why would she not tell him?
She knocked on the door of apartment 221B, and hid her hands in her coat pockets. She was beginning to become accustomed to running her fingers across the metallic surface of the clock. There was something comforting about the sensation. Perhaps the device itself made her feel safe, or perhaps it was just nice to have something for her hands to do during moments of down time.
"Ah, Amelia," Sherlock greeted as the door creaked open, "unusually punctual today! Come in, come in!"
Amelia let out a soft smile, but resisted chuckling. She'd actually been fiddling with the clock's time travel capabilities that morning, which was the only reason she wasn't tardy.
"Aren't we going back to the crime scene today, Master Holmes?" Amelia questioned.
"Come now, it's a lovely Saturday, my dear. Wouldn't you like to settle down for a spot of tea and biscuits before heading out?"
Something seemed off to Amelia. It was rare for her mentor to suggest such a thing when there was work to be done. That being said, tea and biscuits sounded quite nice. When she was growing up, Sherlock had always known how to make her tea just how she liked it. Why shouldn't she take a couple minutes to indulge herself, if Master Holmes was offering?
As Amelia entered and took a seat, she saw that Sherlock had already prepared the tea in advance. He set a plate of biscuits upon the table, and poured piping hot cups from the kettle for Watson and himself before taking a seat.
"So," Watson spoke up first, "has there been an update on the autopsy report?"
Master Holmes, who'd been in the middle of sipping his tea, set his cup down and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. "Still inconclusive, I'm afraid. They did find a myriad of debris and shards of glass in the cuts across his body."
"What about his broken bones?" Amelia pressed.
"Well," Sherlock sighed, "his left calf and right forearm were deprived of circulation before being broken. Then the force of whatever was restraining them became so great that they snapped like twigs."
"And the doctor couldn't pinpoint what the perpetrator used for that?"
Sherlock nodded as he took another sip from his cup. "Amelia, dear, are you going to drink your tea? It's going to get cold."
Watson ignored his request. "What do you think it could have been? Ropes?"
"Not ropes, no. For the markings to line up, such a rope would have to have been unimaginably thick," Sherlock responded. Though he was clearly reluctant to continue down this line of conversation. "P-perhaps you'd like a biscuit? I made your favorite."
Amelia scrunched her face slightly as she picked one and took a bite. Sure, it tasted fantastic, but she wasn't thinking much about enjoying morning tea anymore. "Then what do you think?" She emphasized. "Surely you have some ideas of your own, right?"
"Well, personally I think the killer used snakes, but that's neither here nor there," the detective quickly glossed over. "The real reason I invited you for tea was-"
"Wait, snakes?" Watson interrupted. "You think the killer used snakes?"
"A-Amelia."
"What kind of snakes? Were they trained?"
"Amelia, listen to me."
"Where did he get them? Are there any places around here that would sell snakes?"
"Amelia."
Watson stood up from her chair excitedly. "Let's go to the scene of the crime and look for signs of snakes! Maybe the burns on his body were from-"
"AMELIA WATSON!" Sherlock shouted, his booming voice freezing Amelia exactly where she was. "Please sit back down."
"But-"
"Sit." He commanded.
Amelia complied, perfectly settling herself into her chair.
"Relax. Drink some tea." He instructed.
Very stiffly, Amelia reached out for her cup, lifted it, took a sip, and placed it back on the saucer with a gentle 'clink'.
"Amelia," Master Holmes began, "have you ever wondered why your father left you with myself, rather than your mother?"
"I mean… I guess? Once or twice?" Talk of her father made her pause for a moment. She wondered worriedly where her mentor was going with this. "Weren't you and dad just really close?"
Sherlock choked up a bit. "Well, before your father… left us, he had one final request. And although it was a big responsibility, I promised him that I would see it through."
"Your old friends always said something about that," the bright-eyed girl remembered. "So that promise… was that you would raise me?"
Sherlock took a sip of tea before continuing. "I told your father in his last moments that I would raise you to follow in his footsteps, rather than your mother's. Under my custody, you'd become a cunning detective, just like your old man."
Amelia looked down at her coat, her dress shirt, her tie, and she smiled. "I'm… grateful, Master Holmes. I can't imagine my life any other way."
"Yes, well," the master detective averted his gaze as he took a nervous gulp of tea. "I'm afraid that that wasn't your father's request."
Amelia's stomach churned as those words settled into the air. "What do you mean?"
Sherlock shifted in his chair. "Your father feared for your health and safety in our line of work. So, he asked that I prioritize those above anything else. However, it has become apparent to me that, by continuing to train you, I am no longer acting in your father's best interests."
"B-but…" Amelia could barely form words. Her eyes stared blankly, and her mouth hung in a low frown. "I-I… I th-thought I w-w-was doing a g-good job…"
"You've been performing excellently, Amelia. You're only 17, and yet you've nearly filled your father's shoes already," her mentor assured her warmly. "However, it's been selfish of me to constantly push you to meet that standard without considering the strain it's putting on you."
"I don't mind, really!" Amelia cried in response. "I'm fine, Master Holmes! I can handle this!"
Sherlock took a deep breath. "How's your sleep been?"
"F-fine…"
"You didn't sleep at all last night, did you?" Holmes took out a pocket mirror and showed Amelia the distinct bags under her eyes.
She pushed away the mirror. "M-Master Holmes, I-"
"And what about your behavior yesterday?"
Amelia slammed the table. "I swear, there was another body there! I'll-" she hesitated a bit, choosing her words carefully. "I'll find it today! I'll find it and prove it!"
"Not to mention that you were so… detached, unresponsive, uncoordinated; for God's sake you spaced out in the parlor for several minutes!"
"It was… the salty sea air!"
"Hogwash," Holmes dismissed.
"I was having an off day! You can't judge me based on one day!"
He slumped a bit. "Amelia, I've been thinking about this for a long time. Numerous times I've told you to slow down, yet you remain as stressed as ever. Yesterday was simply the final straw on the camel's back, my dear. You're not going to change my mind."
Amelia's gaze fell downward. "…Then what are you gonna do with me?"
Holmes looked directly into her eyes. "By the end of the day today, I'll be sending you to live with your mother."
It took a moment for that news to settle in. The concept of Sherlock sending her away seemed so foreign to her. The girl clenched her fists and jolted out of her chair. "This isn't fair! Give me one more chance!"
"It was a mistake to give you this many chances, my dear. I instilled you with too much false hope, and only made the problem worse."
"Master Holmes!" She pleaded.
"And that won't be necessary anymore; from this moment forth, you may call me Uncle Sherlock."
The color drained from Amelia's face. For a moment her arms went limp, her eyes widened, and her mouth hung slightly open.
"I've already told the county police that you're no longer involved in the investigation; they'll no longer be allowing you at the scene of the crime. I suggest you return to your apartment, pack your things, and await your mother's arrival later this evening. I recommend you go with her; she'll take much better care of you, I can assure you."
In one last fit of rage, Amelia slammed the table with her fist, causing the biscuits to jump and the teacups to spill, before storming out of Sherlock's apartment, and slamming the door shut. The world-renowned detective Sherlock Holmes merely sat pensively in his chair and watched her leave as a single tear slid down his face.
Stomping into her bedroom, Amelia ripped open the drawer where she'd been keeping the glass pad, snatched it, and shoved it into an inner pocket of her coat. The only other items she carried were the golden pocket watch, a notebook, and a pencil. There was little else left for her here. The rest were now just relics of a life that she'd no longer be allowed to live. She wouldn't need them where she was going.
January 17th, 1998.
She set the watch to midday and took one last look around at the living space Uncle Sherlock had purchased for her 3 years ago. It was hard to imagine that she'd never see this place again. It was even harder for her to imagine that she may never see Sherlock again. But she gritted her teeth, clenched her fists, and allowed the clock to whisk her away as everything she'd come to know melted and disintegrated before her eyes.
