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

Chapter Thirteen - The Lost Vermeer Part III

I wake up the next morning at home with two thoughts:

1). How the hell did I get here?

2). I just killed a man.

Neither bothers me too much, so I allow myself to roll out of bed and stand up, stretching out the aches and wincing against the bruises which have developed since last night's fight.

I'm still in my clothes, pointing to the fact that we got back late last night - late enough that Mrs Hudson wasn't up to undress me. As I begin to walk over to the door, I feel the twinge of an oncoming headache and hope that the impact of my fall last night wasn't enough to endanger my health again. I really can't be doing with that.

Dad and John are sat having breakfast when I enter. Well - John is: dad is still fasting and researching the hell out of the Vermeer.

"You should have woken me, I could have helped," I say, walking across the kitchen and into the living room.

"You needed to rest," dad replies softly.

"I'm fine," I insist. "Any luck?"

"No," he sighs, slamming the laptop closed in annoyance. "Not a thing." He stands up and begins to walk towards the door.

"Wait," John says, stopping as he's about to take another mouthful, "where are you going."

"The Gallery," I say simply, following dad over.

"What? Now?"

"The Gallery opens tonight," I remind him, crossing back over to the table for my gun. They must have taken it off of me last night.

John sighs, and hurries to finish eating.

***

"Of course she's here," dad says, slamming a hand down on the reception desk and causing the man behind to flinch. "The 'Lost Vermeer' is being unveiled tonight!"

"I-I'm sorry, sir, but I -"

"Did somebody want to talk?"

I spin around immediately as the Eastern European accent rings through the air.

"Miss Wenceslas," dad says, turning to face her.

"Urgh," she sighs, her face contorting as she sees dad. "It's you. I've told you already: that painting is not a fake. Now leave before I call the Police."

"Miss Wenceslas," I say, calmly, "your painting is a fake. I hardly think you're in the position to make threats."

"Who are you?" she asks, looking down her nose at me.

"Show us the painting," I continue, "or I will be forced to call the Police."

"Very well," she spits and turns around on her heels and starts tapping across the hall.

I drop behind dad and John as I take out my phone, and send a text.

We're in

A few seconds later, Lestrade enters the lobby from his stakeout position outside and joins me by the desk.

"Alright?" he asks, and I nod.

"Allonz-y," I say, nodding in the direction the others went, and immediately frown. Where did that come from?

We set off down the corridor, and catch up with the others as Miss Wenceslas is leading us into the exhibition.

"Miss Wenceslas," I say, walking over to her with Lestrade. "This is Detective Inspector Lestrade. He's here to arrest you once we've gathered sufficient evidence on your painting."