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The Time I Wasted (Sherlock Holmes x Daughter!Reader)

Request:  Heyo great writer can you do Sherlock X daughter reader. Angsty please prompt 99 and 95 thank you

Words: 1529

Warnings: Angst. Character death. Blood. Wound infection. Gore. Detached father. Parent death. Torture. Basically an angst salad. Curse words.

Characters/Pairings: Sherlock x daughter!reader, John, Mary, Mycroft, Moriarty.

A/N: I started writing this, hated it. Deleted it. Rewrote it. And died. Enjoy.

A sigh was heard from the kitchen. Followed by a mumbled curse. Another one. Another goddammed head.

“Dad!” A young woman’s voice called. “Dad!” She called again when there was no answer. He was most likely deep in his mind palace again. She groaned.

What was she supposed to do with the head dripping a mysterious clear goo all over their food? He wouldn’t be happy if she got rid of it, but now she can’t even prepare dinner.

Looking over to the man perched in his chair, she tapped her foot with her hands on her hips. “Dad, do you want take-out?” She knew it was a long shot in asking but sometimes it was nice to imagine that he would actually reply.

You see, despite the great detective, Sherlock Holmes, being her father, she did not share the same intelligence as him. Yes, she was smart, enough to breeze through school, but not enough to gain the attention of her father. He often ignored her or treated as he did everyone else. Like an idiot.

Fed up with the silence and the fucking head, she stormed from the kitchen to the door, barely grabbing her coat.

“I’m going to Uncle John’s.” She threw over her shoulder, not really looking at the man. It’s not like he cared anyway. Nobody really did. Maybe John and Mary, but they were too wrapped up in their own lives and she didn’t want to bother them.

This is why as she left the flat, she didn’t hail a cab to her Uncle’s home. Instead, she took a left, hands buried deep in her pockets and headed nowhere. She was never wanted here anyway.

Her father had an uncharacteristic, drunken tryst with her mother twenty-one years ago. He had been on a case apparently that involved a serial lover/murder. Guess he was just putting himself in the killer’s shoes. But nine months later, after he was long gone, little (Y/N) was born. Everything was great, though. Her mother poured everything she had into raising her. She was her best friend. Her confidant. Then it was all stripped away.

When she was twelve, her mother died in a plane crash. She had been on a two-week business trip and was finally coming home. But rather than her loving mother opening the door, it was a woman from social services, coming to take her to her father.

For another ten years, she would live as a ghost in this strange man’s home. Wanting nothing more than to have a loving parent to replace the one she had lost.

She didn’t know how long she walked. It must have been hours because the sky had gone dark a long time ago. But she had no intention of going back yet. Maybe not ever. Nothing in that flat really mattered.

Having a feeling that something was amiss, she looked up. A black car had pulled up next to her. She rolled her eyes. Of course, Mycroft sent a car. This happened every time she was gone for too long. As if she were a prisoner.

Walking up to the car she opened the door and looked at the woman sitting in the seat. It wasn’t Anthea, but an equally beautiful woman.

“Can’t Mycroft just leave me alone?” She asked, getting in the car anyway. The woman looked up from her phone and smiled. The doors locked. And the woman pulled out a cloth. Too late did (Y/N) realize this wasn’t Mycroft’s doing.

Everything went black as the cloth was pressed to her face.

“(Y/N), what did you do with my skull?” That girl, always moving things around. ‘Cleaning’, as she called it. He shook his head, digging around the flat for the cranium. “(Y/N)!” He looked up to the kitchen where she just was. No, it’s dark now. Oh, she must have left a while ago.

“Probably to John’s. No, not John’s. She didn’t take her purse… Another one of her fits then. Mycroft’s people should be bringing her back then.” Unconcerned now, he sat back down and once again entered his mind palace. Unaware of where his daughter really was.

><

“Ugh, my head. I feel like I was hit by a truck.” (Y/N) moaned as she tried to lift her head. It was cold. And the ground was hard. Concrete. The chill had already settled in her bones, causing her to shiver violently.

“Ahhh, the little mouse is awake~” A sweet Irish voice came from the dark doorway. She already knew who it was.

She squeezed her eyes shut as the bright florescent lights flicked on. It set her head on fire. Her body ached. She doesn’t remember anything past getting in the car, but from the still bleeding scrapes on her elbows and knees, she wasn’t put in this room nicely. She must have hit her head as well if the wet feeling on the side of her head suggested anything.

“Aw, not even a hello, darling? No matter, you won’t be saying much soon.” He smiled softly, chewing his gum. She sent him the most hate-filled glare she could muster.

“Fuck you, prick.” She bit out.

He gave a short, barking laugh, feigning shock and offense. He held a hand to his chest and scoffed. “My dear, those are some pretty colorful wonder from someone so young. What would your father say?”

“He’s not my father!”

“No? Then I suppose he won’t care about all the fun we’re going to have.”

 ><

“What do you mean she hasn’t been here? She lives here.” John watched Sherlock pace.

“I mean, she hasn’t been here, John! She left and hasn’t come back,” Sherlock snapped.

“How long has she been gone?” Mary asked from her position on John’s old chair.

“Three days.”

“Three days, Sherlock?!” John dragged a hand through his hair, letting it scrub back down his face. Mary buried her face in her hands.

“Darling, I don’t think she’s coming back,” Mary said softly. Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks.

“What, why? Why wouldn’t she come back? All of her stuff is here. She even left her idiotic stuffed cat. She never would leave that, it holds sentiment. And we all know how she adores her sentiment.” He was rambling now.

“Look, whether or not she wants to come back, we need to find her. She could be in trouble,” John rationalized.

At that moment a knock sounded at the door. The three occupants turned to see the newcomer.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock addressed his brother.

“Brother mine,” The older man greeted. Reaching into his suit, he produced an envelope. “A letter for you.”

Sherlock wasted no time in striding across the room and nearly ripping the letter from his brother’s hands. One simple sentence was written on the paper. And it was all he needed.

Let’s play Hide and Seek.

 ><

If she thought she was in pain before, this was agony. It was hellfire in her bones. Her wounds had stopped bleeding a while ago, but because of the poor conditions of the room and her weakened body, infection settled in quickly. She sat in her own vomit and blood, the pain making her nauseous.

She just wanted to die. It would have been better if he had just killed her outright. But where’s the fun in that? Her throat was raw from screaming and vomiting. Her fingernails were bloody and torn from digging into the wooden chair she sat on.

All of this. All of this because she was related to Sherlock Holmes.

She hates him.

Suddenly, hands were on her. But after three days of torture, and another two of festering in her own sick, she couldn’t react.

“(Y/N). (Y/N), look at me.” A voice called. “Just hold on.” A gurgle was his reply. “Shh, don’t try to talk.”

“D-dad?” Was that her voice? It was unrecognizable. It was weird, talking instead of screaming.

“I said don’t talk.” Sherlock scolded, lowering her to the floor. The coolness of the floor helped clear her fogged mind.

“Just leave me, it’s over.”

He scoffed, shaking his head, “You just don’t listen, do you?”

“I got it from you.” She coughed out a laugh, it hurt. But not physically. How ironic. To finally have a conversation with her father and she’s dying. She knows she is. She was too numb to not be.

“We just need to wait for John. We’ll get you to the hospital. I can save you.”

“No, you can’t. It’s too late…” He knows. But he doesn’t want her to be scared.

“This looks infected.” The wound on her side oozed and practically bubbled with infection.

“It’s fine.” Really, it was. She couldn’t even feel anything anymore. Darkness was creeping at the edges of her vision. Her father’s face nothing but a blur.

“…You’re dying.” He said this more to himself than her. Ten years wasted. He had this precious girl next to him this entire time and it took her dying in front of him for Sherlock to realize it. The guilt was unbearable. But probably not as unbearable as what he put her through.

“Well… that’s fine too.”

Darkness consumed her.