'Girl found in house, dead. We need you here. Now, identity un-known so far.-SD'

He got the text at 8 am, it was far too early in Lestrade's opinion. Greg groaned, hoping it was just a simple case, and wouldn't require Sherlock's input, after all he was busy searching for Victoria, who'd been missing for 6 weeks now. There were posters all over England, Mycroft was furious that he couldn't find her. Greg arrived at the scene, greeting people and dismissing the press before making his way up stairs. There, there in the bed was his god- daughter, Victoria, 16 year old Victoria Watson-Holmes. He stood back, mind reeling, how would he tell Sherlock this? John? Hamish? Hamish was only 7.

"Leave her there for the moment. I need to think." He said stepping outside, he nodded people away and got into his police car, driving in a daze to 221B, knocking frantically on the door once he'd arrived.

John shuffled to the door, already dressed in his jumper and jeans, he pulled it open and smiled, "Greg!" he exclaimed as he saw the man, "It's half 8, why are you here?" he asked.

"They found her." Was all he could say. He thought back to what he saw, to exactly how she was laying on the bed in the dark room.

"They did?" he voice was hopeful until he saw the look in Greg's eyes. "She's not..." he trailed off and Greg gave a slight nod.

"I'm sorry." He said, he put his arm out and placed it on John shoulder. "I have to get back, I'll keep you updated." He promised, he turned around but stopped when John spoke again.

"Keep Anderson off forensics."

"I can't, he's already working it." Greg said, he moved forward and got into the police car and just before getting in turned around to say, "He wouldn't jeaprodise his whole career just because he doesn't like you too." And with that he sped off into the London streets.

John closed the door and just stood there, seemingly unable to do anything except stare. His daughter was dead, Sherlock would be so upset. What if he went back to drugs? What will we say to Hamish, he an Victoria were so close? How will he react? All these questions and more whizzed round Johns mind before a voice broke his trance.

"John!" It shouted from the bedroom, their bedroom. Sherlock would have just woken up but John still knew that he would find out something was wrong, he was always good at deductions, no matter how tired.

"Mmm?" he murmured as he walked in, avoiding eye contact and sitting on the edge of the bed.

"What's wrong?" He asked, his previous worry of where his shirt was, was all but forgotten.

"Nothing, why should something be up?" he replied, his voice betraying him and cracking slightly.

"John, don't try to hide things, you can't do it with normal people and you definitely can't do it with me." He sat beside John and placed a hand on his back, ignoring the fact that he was dressed in only a sheet, and started tracing circles into John's neck with his thumb. "What's wrong?"

"Sherlock..." he whispered, as he expected his voice had completely betrayed him, his throat was clogged and he couldn't utter another word. He leaned to the side and rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder, burying his face in the crook of Sherlock's bony neck.

"John?" he asked, panic in his voice as he took in the state of the other man; he was wrecked.

"Victoria." He whispered, it was barely audible but instantly Sherlock knew what was going on.

He breathed deeply, "Dead?" he asked, John gave only a movement of his head, yes.

Sherlock placed his free hand on Johns head, letting his sheet drop to only cover his legs and low belly. He couldn't do anything except sit and wait for John to say something. But he didn't, neither of them did. Not for half an hour until Johns head suddenly popped up and he faced Sherlock.

"What do we say to Hamish?" he asked, his eyes were worried and he was biting his lip as he thought about his son, "We still have one child." He said, indicating only slightly to Sherlock's history and the fact that John and Hamish both would need him, as he would need them.

"Tell him." He replied simply. He stood up and dropped the sheet when he got to the ward robe; he got dressed in his usual clothes. Smart, black trousers, a purple shirt, and a black jacket. He walked back over to John and took his hand, pulling him into a standing position and looking down through his fluffy hair, "Together. We tell him together." They walked to the door and into the living room where Hamish was already sat reading a book, he hadn't heard the conversation earlier, thank God.

"Dad!" Hamish said when he saw Sherlock walk in, "Papa!" he exclaimed when John followed on. They both smiled and sat down on the sofa, where Hamish jumped in between them, his exuberance almost instantly cheering up both John and Sherlock, only by a fraction, "What are we doing today? Are we putting up more posters?" he said. Every weekend for the past six weeks Sherlock, John and Hamish all went around London and stuck up posters with the word 'Missing' on top, Victoria's pictures in the centre and contact details at the bottom. Hamish was close to Victoria so he loved doing this, he just hated why he was doing it.

Sherlock looked at his son and ruffled his dark hair, "About that." Hamish's face instantly dropped, a question hanging on his lips. "They've found her." Sherlock said quietly, he looked at John for help and Hamish's gaze followed his. His small mouth was puckered in an 'O' shape and his eyes were wide and the brown seemed to make him even more helpless.

John just looked down at him and sighed, "She's dead." He whispered. There was no sweeter way to say it, Hamish had inherited Sherlock's intelligence so any other way of telling his would seem patronising, well to him it would.

Hamish dropped his head and stared at the floor. His breathing sped up and he leaned into the couch. From his body movements John could only assume that he was crying so, as Sherlock did with him earlier, he placed a hand on Hamish's back and traced circles into his neck.

John and Sherlock exchanged glances as their son just sat their crying. It was nearly midday before any of them spoke again and it still seemed too early.

"Will you find them? Whoever did it?" Hamish says, his eyes don't move from the spot that they had been placed on for fifteen minutes but his face turns into a frown.

"Of course I will." Sherlock smiles and Johns head snapped up, he shook his head just enough so that Sherlock would see but Hamish wouldn't. They hadn't been on a case in about 18 years. Not since Sherlock jumped, John never trusted Sherlock to do murders after that. He desperately wanted the murderer found but he didn't want Sherlock to do it. "Of course." He hugged Hamish to his side. "In fact, I'll start now." He grins.