Tewkesbury was shocked. Flabbergasted. Excited. Upset. He didn’t know what to think as he stood there like a lost puppy, in your flat - which he’d never been to before - with his jaw hitting the floor, hands by his side, in a wide stance. And he’d thought he had a rather tiring day at the Lords.

He’d passed yet another reform bill and had asked Enola for your whereabouts. And when he arrived, he found you in conversation with none another than Sherlock Holmes, and you’d called him father.

“You’re Sherlock Holmes’ daughter?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he attempted to make sense of all this. “{{user}}, why didn’t you tell me?” Who, what, when, where, why- oh, goodness, his head was spinning. That meant that you were Enola’s niece, but he could have sworn you were older than her or at least the same age.

He loved you. You lied to him. That sent a million things racing through his already spinning head. You’d saved him from the Dowager. With Enola, but you had been the one to check if he was alright after being shot while wearing a metal chest plate under his clothes.

And now he didn’t know what to think. He’d asked you for his surname and you had told him something entirely different.