T H E    S E A R C H

It was impossible to think.

Her muddled mind was frozen by the frigid temperature that possessed the air around her. The cold attacked her clothes and skin, swarming like a hurricane, threatening to demolish everything she had left.

Which was nothing.

Nothing was left in her messed up world. Her life was torn apart and everything was gone, including her mum, whom she missed with all of her aching heart.

Blood was family. And so, despite the several complications of growing up with her mum's meth addiction, she stuck by her until the end. Family was all she had.

Now, with it gone, she was a void, soulless like the night that hung above her.

Unfortunately, unlike a void, she wasn't indifferent to her surroundings. She felt less invincible, and more... empty, numb.

And so she, a broken teen, shivered from the harsh cold as she searched for her only hope. Struggling as her thin hoodie fought a losing battle with the sharp breeze.

Amelia was broke, hungry, tired and cold. However, she was anything but lost. She knew where she had to go: 221b Baker Street.

• • •

It seemed like forever when she finally arrived at her destination.

The black, wooden door sent both relief and fear flooding through her veins. The girl's heart thudded heavily against her chest. This was her last hope; if this idea of hers became sour, she wasn't sure what else she could do.

Above, a dim light flickered shakily, as if it sensed her nervousness too.

With a deep breath and a dejected sigh, she shifted her feet on the cement steps and hesitantly lifted up the crooked knocker. She tapped it lightly against the door.

As expected from the quiet noise, an eerie silence was the only reply.

'Oh, bloody hell,' she thought, eventually working up the courage to knock again.

And again.

And again.

And agai-

Because of the tight grip she had on the knocker, her whole body was yanked forward slightly as the door opened.

"Who are you?"

"I-" Amelia stuttered, taken aback by the appearance of a short old lady with choppy blonde hair. "Is... Er- Does Sherlock Holmes live here?"

The door was slammed shut in her face, creating a pregnant pause in the air.

Tentatively, she knocked again.

When she felt the silence in the air again, desperation flooded through her in waves. "Please... I- I don't know what to do anymore. He's... He's my only hope." Her mind was racing.

She didn't want to go live in a foster home. She didn't want to stay in an orphanage. She didn't want to be parentless. She was terrified of the thought of being an orphan.

Tears were starting to prickle behind her eyes.

There was a pause. Then, the lady slowly opened the door so she could peek through. "You're not the first one to say such a thing."

"I-" her cheeks flushed red, "Is he here?"

"No. Sorry, dear."

"Er... When do you think he'll come back?"

"Who are you, dear?"

Amelia puffed out her cheeks in defeat, desperately trying to hide her tears. "My name is Amelia Brooks. And Sherlock is the only family I have left."

• • •

After shutting the door in her face the hundredth time that night, the lady decided to let her in his flat and wait for Sherlock himself.

The way she was talking, though, indicated that he hadn't been home for a while.

Instead of lingering in the news, Amelia welcomed the warmth of the small flat and attempted to ignore the skull that sat at the edge of a small fireplace.

She rubbed her hands together slowly. The change in temperature sent pins and needles through her frozen fingers to a point that it hurt quite a bit. Frantically, she rubbed her hands together.

"Would you like some tea?" the lady, who hadn't bothered to introduce herself, looked at her pointedly. Her hazel eyes were dull with exhaustion.

Amelia could tell she had a lot on her mind, and her suggestion to make tea wasn't out of pity or kindness, but mostly from the desperation of needing something to do. And so, in spite of the warnings going off in her head, Amelia accepted the offer from the stranger with a close-lipped smile, then sat down on one of the couches.

With the lady busy making tea, she studied her surroundings with caution.

Bullets holes decorated the wallpaper her, zeroing in on a poorly drawn smiley face, while several stacks of papers and mail sat on a desk near the windows. There was a skull on top of the fireplace, as well as many other odd trinkets.

It was difficult to figure out what the hell happened to the place, especially with her horrible eyesight; glasses were not an option when attempting to support both her mom and her.

She should've been at home packing, waiting for someone to pick her up and place her in the care system. But she couldn't resist remembering that one particular day several months ago.

It was a tiring period of time.

Her mum had picked a fight with her drug dealer, resulting in the guy refusing to sell. Because he refused, she stayed at home, suffering from withdrawal for a week.

It was the longest time she had ever been sober. And so Amelia tucked her in bed one night, worry flooding through her at the sight of how weak her mum was.

The teen remembered turning to leave, only to feel a hand on her wrist.

"You're as smart as your father," mum had whispered with closed eyes and a dreamy voice, "He knew everything... Even about Fred."

Amelia had kneeled down next to her half-asleep mum, unintentionally holding her breath. Her mum sounded completely delirious, but she was curious nonetheless. It was the first time her mum ever mentioned him; this was a chance she couldn't miss out on. "What's his name, mum?"

There was a deafening silence that made her question if her mum had fallen asleep. But the two words eventually drifted into the tight room.

"Sherlock... Holmes."

She put the name to a face immediately. Her friend had struggled with his dad's disappearance a while back, persistent with his belief that his dad was alive, even when everyone said he wasn't. He found several different detectives, all who were useless. Then, out of some miracle, he found Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock, like some sort of god, found his dad's whereabouts within two days.

And although her friend's dad hadn't been alive when they found him, it was a lot better than an empty casket. Amelia had found Sherlock to be extremely intriguing.

Of course, it was ridiculous to even assume someone as brilliant as him would be related to her. He had become extremely popular in London these days.

But she was desperate with the thought of having another family member out there. He was her final hope.

So she researched as much as she could about the man, asking around whenever she was free. She wanted to know more about him before diving in to a new reality where her father was actually alive.

The worst that could happen was for her to be turned down by her remaining family member. She had nothing left to lose, after all.

In the midst of her troubled thoughts, three urgent knocks echoed through the flat.

Her heart jolted.

With him in mind, she stood up and quickly attempted to tidy her tangled hair and straightened out the wrinkles in her hoodie, not wanting to give a bad impression to the only person who mattered at the moment.

The steps creaked as the two adults walked up the steps. The lady was whispering frantically to the mysterious person.

Amelia only had to hear the words 'daughter' and 'Sherlock' to know they were talking about her. She fiddled with her fingers impatiently, waiting for the person to appear.

And he did.

A man who did not resemble the person she had seared into her own mind appeared in the doorway. This wasn't the man she was looking for, but he was familiar.

He didn't have dark brown hair like her, and his dark eyes were dull compared to her bright green irises. And unlike the pictures, his greying hair was short and lacked curls.

He was someone who also appeared quite frequently in the papers; a partner of Sherlock or something.

"Sherlock's daughter, you said?"

"Yeah," she replied quietly, unsure of what was happening.

He straightened up, making her eyes flicker from his hair to his eyes because of the sudden movement. "I'm Detective Lestrade," he reached out with his right hand. It lingered awkwardly in the air, "You are?"

She hesitantly placed her hand on his, giving it a small shake. "Amelia, Amelia Brooks."

"Brooks. Your mum's maiden name, I suppose?" She nodded, a frown set on her lips at the mention. "Does she know that you're here right now?" He acted as if she was a child and it annoyed her quite a bit.

"She's dead."

A clang echoed throughout the flat, coming from the kitchen; where the lady seemed to be. She must've been eavesdropping, but Amelia couldn't bring herself to care. It must not be every day when a random teen shows up at your steps, claiming to be Sherlock Holmes' daughter.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Detective Lestrade seemed to be at a loss for words.

Her chest tightened at the memory of her mum's body.

Vomit spilling onto the floorboards. Holes in her arm. Dead before her daughter could even utter a goodbye.

She shook her head, somehow able to keep her tears at bay. "Do you know when Sherlock will be back?"

"He's been gone for weeks," the lady spoke up, handing Amelia her tea.

"Oh."

Her disappointment was clear.

"How about this," Detective Lestrade gave her an awkward smile, "Let's see if Sherlock's really your father first. Then I'll help you search for him, yeah?"

Her face lit up at his promise. She nodded excitedly, "Thank you."

• • •

"They're related all right."

Amelia gave Molly and Detective Lestrade a smile, which soon withered away as anxious thoughts filled her mind.

"Do you think he'll like me?" She starts, questions after questions appeared in her head. "But what if he doesn't? What if he takes one look at me and decides I'm not worth it?" The girl was full-on panicking, her heart beating as fast as her thoughts.

They didn't get a chance to reply, as the sound of a cell phone ringing filled the air.

She watched as Detective Lestrade fumbled around with his pockets, pulling out a silver flip-phone.

"Sorry," he gave her an apologetic smile, "I need to take this." With that, he hurriedly stalked out of the room and into the long hallway outside.

Molly, despite looking extremely bothered with her own thoughts, turned to the young girl with a soft smile. "Sherlock's a good person. Don't worry."

Amelia attempted to quiet her thoughts, giving Molly a tight-lipped smile. "Thanks."

In that moment, Detective Lestrade stalked back inside the morgue, his face tight with worry.

"Amelia..." he started, running his hand down his face, "You didn't tell me you were running from the social services."

"Uh..." she blanked. "It slipped my mind," she lied, biting her lip nervously. "Please don't let me go back there!"

Detective Lestrade sighed, shaking his head. "I told them you could stay at Sherlock's flat for the next few weeks... with Mrs. Hudson as your temporary guardian. If Sherlock doesn't show up by then, I'll be forced to send you back."

Amelia breathed out a sigh of relief.

• • •

"Hey. Kid."

A hand on her shoulder woke her up with a jolt. "Y- Yeah. What?"

"Sorry. I promise I'll get you to Mrs. Hudson's as soon as I'm done with this case, alright? Just-" he looked out the car window, at the yellow tapes and police, "Just stay in the car."

She dug her face deeper into the car seat, too tired to think to much of his words. "Okay."

And she was out like a light.

• • •

When Amelia woke up again, she was confused at the sight of police lights flashing around her.

On instinct, she thought up of several excuses — lies — to prove her mum was innocent of the drugs in their living quarters. But her mind eventually returned to reality. She was at a crime scene of some sort and Detective Lestrade was nowhere to be seen.

Worried at the disappearance of the man, as well as hating the sense of loneliness, she quickly escaped his car and ducked underneath the yellow tapes. Thankfully, many officers were preoccupied with other things, not needing to focus on keeping people away because of how isolated the area was.

"I thought I told you to stay in the car."

Relief was all she could feel at the sound of his voice. Despite waking up in his car.m, she was terrified that he'd abandon her.

"I- You didn't say that." Her memory came back as soon as those words left her mouth. "Oh... yeah. Sorry."

He let out a sigh, regretfully seeing a bit of Sherlock in her. A thought popped up in his mind. "You think you can solve this for us?"

Detective Lestrade shifted to the side and pointed at the cement ground, revealing a pale man who's in his twenties. His throat was slit, but a gun was in his right hand.

Amelia, who had already imagined this scenario before in her hours of boredom, quickly shook her head. The sight of blood made her head spin dangerously.

"Please," a man with a questionable hairstyle scoffed behind her. She turned around and faced him, surprised. "We get rid of Sherlock and you decide to bring his daughter? Ridiculous," a man with questionable hairstyle gestured to Amelia's pale face as if it was all he needed to prove a point.

Although his words indicated that he cared, the hatred and annoyance in his voice said otherwise.

"You know what?" Amelia interjected, forcing down the bile that began to crawl up her throat. "Let's do this."

That was Part 1! I originally wrote this for the #Descendants One Shot contest, but ended up writing something else for the contest because this didn't really fit the prompt that was given to us. Plus, it was getting over the word-limit.

Not sure when I'll complete Part 2, but I really liked writing this!

Thanks for reading.