Sophia Holmes and the Great Game (Sherlock's Daughter Fanfic) *Completed*

Prolouge

Recap:

"Here to speak to Mr Berwick," dad says to the prison guard, flashing him a small ID card. "I believe he wanted to speak to us?"

The uniformed man nods us in, and I follow my breath into an even colder, but larger room.

After we'd finished the case of the Weeping Angels, we were contacted by Barry Berwick: an English man detained in Belarus. The Angels shook us both up, but we're managing to ease ourselves back into The Game. It is quite disturbing being in the nineteenth century one moment with the author of your books, but mind-blowing stepping into a time machine which is bigger on the inside.

"Mr Berwick," dad says coldly as we walk up to one of the tables. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate Sophia Holmes. You wanted to talk to us about your case."

"Thanks for comin' Mr. Holmes," Berwick says, and we sit down in the seat opposite him.

Except for the one guard at the other end of the room, we're alone with a - potentially - rather violent murderer.

Dad was very reluctant to come here, but I persuaded him into it, but even I am beginning to regret it as I feel the bite of the cold snow outside whilst I look over the boring client.

"I don't really know what to tell you."

"Just tell me what happened, from the beginning," dad prompts.

"We'd been to a bar –" Berwick begins, "a nice place – and, er, I got chattin' with one of the waitresses, and Karen weren't 'appy with that, so ... when we get back to the 'otel, we end up havin' a bit of a ding-dong, don't we?" His misuse of grammar makes us both cringe, and dad lets out a deliberate, noisy sigh. "She was always gettin' at me, sayin' I weren't a real man."

"'Wasn't' a real man," dad corrects him before I can.

"What?" Berwick demands.

"It's not 'weren't'; it's 'wasn't'," dad explains, sounding bored already.

"Oh," he says, looking down, but keeping calm.

"Go on," I urge.

"Well, then I dunno how it happened, but suddenly there's a knife in my hands," I roll my eyes; how very original: he's going to say that he's been cursed or hypnotised or something. "And, you know, me old man was a butcher, so I know how to handle knives." My gaze lowers to his hands to cross-check that fact, and the rough palms and old scars confirm his story. "He learned us how to cut up a beast."

I grimace again, and dad steps in. "'Taught'."

"What?" he demands again, his anger starting to boil. Must have been what Karen Berwick experienced not long before her death.

"'Taught' you how to cut up a beast."

Berwick glares at dad.

"Continue, Mr Berwick," I sigh.

"Yeah, well, then-then I done it."

"'Did it,'" dad contradicts.

"'Did' it!" he emphasises, slamming his hand down onto the table and causing me to draw my hands away. "Stabbed her ... over and over and over, and I looked down and she weren't ..." Dad sighs again and turns his head away in frustration. Controlling his anger, Berwick immediately corrects himself, allowing dad to turn his head back to face him. "'Wasn't' movin' no more." Dad turns it away again, with an even more, annoyed expression painted over his pale cheekbones. "'Any' more," Berwick corrects himself once more, before letting out a shaky breath. "You've gotta help me," he says in a lower and softer voice than before. "I dunno how it happened, but it was an accident. I swear."