{A/N: The following will not make any sense unless you read it's predecessor, "The Detective's Daughter" which can be found back on my My Stories Page. I appreciate your cooperation in this matter.}

"Family means nobody gets left behind. Or forgotten."

-Chris Saunders

Times Square was much larger then they were expecting.

The brochures and online reviews had marketed it as "A bigger, louder Picadilly Circus", but now, standing in the thick of it, John thought that was a bit of an understatement.

Everywhere he turned there was shouting, horns blaring, signs glowing and flashing, and people shoving. It was making John's head pound.

"I think this might be a bit much for Martha." Molly was standing right next to her husband, but had to shout to be heard. He looked down just in time to see his two year old daughter screw up her face and start sobbing, chiming into the already deafening orchestra surrounding them.

John knelt down and picked her up, bouncing her up and down.

"Shhh, Shhh, it's alright love, it's alright." He said, though he felt a bit like crying too.

Their flight had been a nightmare of delays with an emergency stopover in Greenland, and taking a walk to "stretch their legs" after finally getting to the hotel had just made everyone more miserable.

Martha wailed louder. Molly sighed and took her out of John's hands, balancing her on her hip.

"She's jet-lagged, I need somewhere quiet to bring her to take a nap."

John ran a hand through his hair, feeling pretty exhausted himself.

"Alright, how about you take her back to the room, and I'll bring us back some lunch from that takeout place you read about."

"Are you sure you know where you're going?" she asked.

"I'm sure I can manage." He smiled. "See you for fish and chips in twenty minutes?"

"Sounds like a plan." Molly said, pecking him quickly on the lips. "Oh, and they're called 'fries' over here, my love."

John made a face, and his wife and daughter were quickly swallowed by the crowd. He took a deep breath and set off down 46th Street.

Despite what he told Molly, it only took a minute before he too, was lost. He was always rubbish in new cities. As he turned another corner, going down yet another dark ally, his phone buzzed in his pocket, making him jump.

Are you lost yet? -SH

John rolled his eyes and deleted the message. Sherlock had stayed on Baker Street to finish up some of the work for a case they'd been investigating that week. He'd found it appalling that John still planned on going to America, saying that a murder-murder-suicide-murder was much more interesting than New York, and Martha wasn't even old enough to remember taking a holiday.

But John had gone off anyway. And as some form of passive-aggressive revenge, Sherlock had taken to deducing what John was up to and sending him annoying texts commenting on it.

Molly and the child have already given up, haven't they?

John felt his annoyance grow, as well as his wariness, as he turned down a back street, already tired and hungry and increasingly lost. Yet the phone continued to buzz.

You wouldn't get lost if you were in London.

"For God's sake, shut up!" John snapped, whipping his phone at the ground.

It bounced a few feet away and stopped, unbroken. John looked around, feeling his ears go slightly red. The crowds had thinned considerably since he got away from Times Square, but there were still a few dozen people around to give him odd looks.

Taking a deep breath, John walked over and picked up his phone, Sherlock's judgmental eyes still staring at him on his left.

Wait a minute.

John slowly turned and looked at the wall next to him. It was covered with a large advertisement for Ovlin Matthews, a women's designer clothes line.

The advert was a big, glossy square with a long, willowy figure stretched across it's length, wearing a skimpy blue dress. Her head was tilted towards the camera-she seemed to be looking out onto the street. She had dark curly hair and skin pale as death itself. And her eyes were bright and silver. They looked as though they were staring straight through you.

John had only known of two people on earth who had eyes like that.

One of them was sending him bitchy texts from a flat halfway around the world.

The other...

"Ginny?"