Hello! I am taking a break from my long hiatus, and hopefully this fic will have been worth the wait! This is another one of my Elspeth Holmes AU fics, in which Sherlock has a teenage daughter - other fics in the series can be found on my profile. Hopefully this makes sense as a stand alone, but context can be found in the other fics.

Please read and review, and let me know what you think! I've been away from fanfiction for a long time, but I'm excited to start writing again.

1.

The room was silent.

Sherlock sat on the floor, quiet, alone. He didn't open his eyes once, not even when he heard the creak of the staircase as someone approached from behind. There was a pause. A moment later, the staircase creaked once more. Sherlock turned his head slightly as the living room door opened, listening to the sound of quiet footsteps approach the window, and before long, a familiar voice spoke. A voice Sherlock had been expecting from the moment he sat down.

"Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

"And possibly," Sherlock responded, his voice just as soft. "my answer has crossed yours."

"Like a bullet," was Jim Moriarty's answer. Opening his eyes, Sherlock climbed to his feet and turned to face the other man with his hand in his pocket, his fingers brushing against the firearm he'd placed there as a precaution. Moriarty seemed to notice the gesture; his dark eyes brightened just a tad. It was peculiar to see a man Sherlock had presumed dead standing in his living room in front of him, but Sherlock had seen quite a few strange things in the past days. "It's a dangerous habit, to finger loaded firearms in the pocket of one's dressing gown." Moriarty smirked. "Or are you just pleased to see me?" He rolled his jaw and tilted his head to the side, cracking the bones of his neck as though he were preparing for battle.

"You'll forgive me for taking precautions," Sherlock said. One could never be too careful when dealing with a dangerous man such as Moriarty.

"I'd be offended if you didn't," Moriarty said, patting the pockets of his jacket like he was searching for something. He reached into the breast pocket, removing a small pistol. "Obviously I've returned the courtesy." Sherlock watched as Moriarty cocked the pistol, then spun it around with his finger through the trigger guard in a careless manner, completely self-assured in his actions despite knowing one slip could put a bullet through the floor. Or worse, one of them. "I like your rooms. They smell so . . . manly."

Sherlock chose to ignore the implications of Moriarty lowering his voice. "I'm sure you've acquainted yourself with them before now."

"Well, you are always away on your little adventures for The Strand. Tell me: does the illustrator travel with you? Do you have to pose –" Moriarty touched his chin with the barrel of his pistol. "– during your deductions?"

Moriarty wandered towards the fireplace; Sherlock turned to keep him in sight. He knew never to turn his back on a man like Moriarty.

"I'm aware of all six occasions you have visited these apartments during my absence."

"I know you are." Running his fingers along the top of the fireplace, Moriarty grimaced. "By the way, you should invest in a lock for Elspeth's bedroom. She's a very sound sleeper, but the way her door creaks . . ." He grimaced a second time. "I almost woke her up, can you imagine how awkward that would have been?"

His blood boiling at the mention of his daughter, Sherlock took a step towards Moriarty. "Leave her out of this."

"Oh, but I do so enjoy our little games. Maybe we should get married – then I can play all the games I want with my dear Elspeth." Moriarty smiled. Sherlock looked like he was going to shoot him, right there on the spot. "Did you know that dust is largely composed of human skin?" Moriarty asked casually, glancing at his dusty fingertips. He licked them clean. "Doesn't taste the same, though. You want your skin fresh . . . just a little crispy."

"Won't you sit down?" Sherlock asked, gesturing towards John Watson's chair beside him. Moriarty ignored him.

"That's all people really are, you know. Dust waiting to be distributed. And it gets everywhere . . . in every breath you take, dancing in every sunbeam, all used-up people." Moriarty continued to ignore Sherlock's insistences that they sit down, staring into the muzzle of his gun. "People, people, people. Can't keep anything shiny," he muttered, blowing into the end and peering down. "Do you mind if I fire this, just to clean it out?"

Three things happened after Moriarty's question. The first was that Moriarty turned the gun and pointed it towards Sherlock, his finger pressed firmly on the trigger. The second was that Sherlock immediately snatched his own gun from his dressing gown pocket and aimed at Moriarty, staring the other man down as though he'd been expecting the threat. The third thing that happened was the living room door opened, and Elspeth Holmes walked in on her father and the man who gave her nightmares pointing guns at each other, her heart skipping a beat as a loud gasp escaped her mouth. Moriarty smirked, looking pleased to see her. Sherlock could see his daughter's reflection in the mirror; he couldn't turn his back on Moriarty. Not while he was holding a gun.

Eventually, almost simultaneously, they lowered the guns. Moriarty held his by his side, while Sherlock placed his on the nearby table.

"Elspeth," he said, turning to face his daughter. Her face had lost most of its colour. She looked torn between yelling and passing out, her eyes flickering towards Sherlock. "This does not concern you. You may be excused to your room, I will let you know when you can come back."

Moriarty tutted. "No, no, no, don't just send her away, Sherlock," he said, walking past the detective and towards Elspeth. The gun swung by his side. "That's awfully rude of you." His shoulder brushed against Elspeth's as he gently closed the door behind her, herding her into the living room before she could do anything, and Elspeth stared at Sherlock fearfully. "Besides, it's been so long since I've seen Elspeth's beautiful face. You wouldn't deny me of this joy, would you?"

"Papa," Elspeth whispered. Sherlock felt helpless, forced to watch as Moriarty approached his daughter and cupped her face with his hand.

"Don't worry, Elspeth," he murmured, stroking her skin with his thumb. Elspeth trembled. "Your father aren't going to kill each other . . ." A slow, shark like grin spread across his face. "Yet. We don't need toys to kill each other. Where's the intimacy in that?"

"Your meeting is with me," Sherlock said stiffly. Moriarty absent-mindedly stroked Elspeth's hair behind her ear, continuing the gesture as he tore his eyes away from her and looked back at Sherlock with a bored expression. I've found a new toy now, his face screamed. Sherlock refused to let Moriarty continue to intimidate his daughter the way he was. "You chose to come here."

Raising an eyebrow, Moriarty turned back to Elspeth and leaned in close to whisper something in her ear. It was only brief, but the way his lips brushed against her skin made her shudder and recoil from him, repulsed and terrified.

"Not true," Moriarty said to Sherlock, stepping away from Elspeth. "You know that's not true. What do you want, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stared at Moriarty, the seconds dragging on. "The truth."

"That." Moriarty nodded. He started to walk around the room, Sherlock's eyes following every step, and Elspeth gazed at her father. Her heart raced. "Truth's boring. You didn't expect me to turn up at the scene of the crime, did you? Poor old Sir Eustace. He got what was coming to him."

"But you couldn't have killed him," Sherlock said.

"Oh, so what?" Moriarty retorted, whirling around to face Sherlock. "Does it matter? Stop it. Stop this. You don't care about Sir Eustace, or the Bride or any of it. There's only one thing in this whole business that you find interesting." The room started to rock, decanters and glasses rattling on the table; Elspeth's eyes widened in fear. The shaking stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Moriarty held his pistol near his chin. "The Bride put a gun in her mouth and shot the back of her head off, and then she came back. Impossible. But she did it, and you need to know how. How . . . it's tearing your world apart not knowing."

"Papa," Elspeth said again as the room began to rock once more. "Is that what this is all about? The bride?"

"You're trying to stop me," Sherlock said to Moriarty. He tried to pull himself together, taking in a deep breath and closing his eyes as he cleared his mind, ignoring the way Elspeth's hand clutched the sleeve of his dressing gown. "To distract me, derail me."

The room settled. Elspeth's grip tightened a little, and Sherlock glanced down at her.

"Because doesn't this remind you of another case? Hasn't this all happened before? There's nothing new under the sun," Moriarty said, mocking Sherlock. He was right. This had happened before, and Sherlock had failed to solve the case. "What was it? What was it? What was that case? Huh? Do you remember? Come on, Elspeth, I bet you remember, don't you? You remember everything." Moriarty smirked at Elspeth when she glared at him. "It's on the tip of my tongue . . . it's on the tip of my tongue."

"It's on the tip of my tongue," Sherlock whispered.

"It's on the tip . . ." Moriarty raised his pistol, opened his mouth, and stuck his tongue out. Resting the muzzle against his tongue, he sank down to sit on the low table in front of the sofa. ". . . of my tongue."

"For the sake of Mrs Hudson's wallpaper, I must remind you that one false move with your finger and you will be dead," Sherlock said quickly. He certainly didn't want to see Moriarty blow his own brains out, and the thought of having to subject Elspeth to the sight made Sherlock's stomach clench uncomfortably. He had already seen Moriarty die once. He couldn't watch him die again. Moriarty said something unintelligible, keeping the gun pressed to the tip of his tongue. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm sorry?"

"Dead," Moriarty repeated in a low voice. A grin spread across his face. "is the new sexy."

The room shook, the tremors stronger than ever, and Elspeth clung to Sherlock as Moriarty raised the pistol once again, aiming it at his open mouth.

A gun shot.

Elspeth screamed and Sherlock jumped and Moriarty fell backwards, blood flying into the air. As the room settled once more, Moriarty stood up and shook himself down, ignoring the splatters of blood on his face.

"How is that possible?" Elspeth whispered. "How?"

"Well, I'll tell you what," Moriarty said, exhaling heavily. "that rather blows the cobwebs away. How do I look, huh? Huh?" He turned to reveal where the back of his head had been blown out, Sherlock's eyes widening as he stared in disbelief. It wasn't possible. There was absolutely no way it was possible. But Moriarty was there, standing in front of him with the back of his head gone, and he was alive. Elspeth bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. "You can be honest. Is it noticeable?"

"You blew your own brains out," Sherlock said softly. "How could you survive?"

"Well, maybe I could back comb," Moriarty murmured, ignoring Sherlock's questions and gingerly touching his hair. If it wasn't so horrifying, Elspeth would have laughed at the absurdity of the situation.

"I saw you die," Sherlock said. "Why aren't you dead?"

"Because it's not the fall that kills you, Sherlock." Moriarty stepped closer to Sherlock and Elspeth, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Of all people, you should know that. It's not the fall. It's never the fall." Glassware dropped and smashed. The room shook so hard Elspeth almost fell over, and she clung to Sherlock like her life depended on it, unable to tear her eyes from Moriarty. He stared back with a manic look in his eyes. They were shining with glee and excitement, wide and unblinking. "It's the landing."

"Well, a somewhat shorter exile than we'd imagined, brother mine, although adequate given your levels of OCD."

Glassy eyed and breathing heavily, Sherlock stared up at Mycroft. "I have to go back," he insisted. "I was – I was nearly there, I nearly had it!" He'd been so close. He'd nearly worked it out; he nearly solved the case of Ricoletti and his abominable wife. John and Mary had no idea what he was talking about, and Mary even insisted he wasn't making any sense, but he was and he'd been so close. "It was a case, a famous one from a hundred years ago, lodged in my hard drive. She seemed to be dead but then she came back – shot herself in the head, exactly like Moriarty."

Frowning, Mary sat on the seat opposite Sherlock. "But you've only just been told," she said, struggling to lean forwards over the swell of her pregnant stomach. "We've only just found out. He's on every TV screen in the country."

"Yes? So? It's been five minutes since Mycroft called." Sherlock looked at Mycroft. "What progress have you made? What have you been doing?"

"More to the point, what have you been doing?" John asked, laughing.

"I've been in my Mind Palace, of course –" Sherlock ignored John's sarcastic retort of, "Of course!" and continued, "– running an experiment: how would I have solved the crime if I'd been there in 1895? I had all the details perfect. I was there, all of it, everything! I was immersed."

"You've been reading John's blog – the story of how you met," Mary said with a fond smile. She was being sentimental. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her.

"Helps me if I see myself through his eyes sometimes. I'm so much cleverer."

Mycroft sunk into a chair on the other side of the aisle, watching his brother closely. He wasn't fooled, and he told Sherlock so; he knew when his brother was high. He told Sherlock to stop it when he tried to divert the conversation back to his weight gain, closing his eyes for a moment as the list dropped to the floor and John bent to pick it up, the doctor's eyes widening in shock. Mycroft knew there would be a list. There was always a list. He remembered when it all began, the day they sat on Sherlock's bed together. All Mycroft had done was watch his brother writhe in agony, helpless. There was nothing he could do to help him. Sherlock had fooled everyone.

"No one deceives like an addict," Mycroft said in a hollow voice, his eyes fixed on Sherlock. The younger Holmes couldn't look his brother in the eyes, so Mycroft glanced at Mary, who was typing on her phone. "What are you doing?"

"Emilia Ricoletti," she said. "I'm looking her up."

Mycroft cleared his throat. Sentimentality wouldn't help Sherlock. "Ah, I suppose we should," he said. "I have access to the top level of the MI5 archive –" Mary interrupted to let Mycroft know that was exactly where she was looking, a wide grin spreading across her face. Mycroft shifted his weight. "What do you think of MI5's security?"

"I think it would be a good idea," Mary said. Her eyebrows rose and her grin widened, and John couldn't help but smile fondly at his wife. "Emelia Ricoletti. Unsolved."

Bowing his head, Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. Everyone was talking; there was too much talking.

"Could you all just shut up for five minutes?" he demanded. "I have to go back. I was nearly there before you stepped on and starting yapping away."

"Yapping?" John repeated sarcastically. "Sorry – did we interrupt your session?"

"Sherlock, listen to me," Mycroft said. He leaned forwards and gazed at his brother, trying to show him how much he cared. Contrary to belief, Mycroft cared about Sherlock and Elspeth, and he did all he could to look after them because they were both so reckless. Sherlock had his drug addiction and fixation on Moriarty, and Elspeth's behaviour was becoming more and more unpredictable as the days went by. There was no telling what she would do. "I'm not angry with you. I was there for you before. I'll be there for you again. I'll always be there for you – for you and Elspeth."

"Hang on," Mary said, slowly looking up from her phone and glancing over her shoulder. Her brow furrowed. "Where is Ellie?"

Even Sherlock raised his head at the question, his eyes narrowing as he realised his daughter wasn't by his side like she usually was. It wasn't like Elspeth to avoid him, and if Moriarty really was back as the evidence suggested, the first place she would normally go to would be wherever Sherlock was. She would've been the first to shout when she found out he was high. She would've told him how much of an idiot he was, turned her head away so he wouldn't see the tears, and told him she didn't know what she would do without him. But Elspeth was nowhere to be found.

"The car's gone," John said. "She's taken one of the cars."

"Don't be ridiculous, she can't drive," Sherlock said.

"No one is suggesting she's driving without a licence," Mycroft said, having lost most of his patience for his brother after realising Sherlock was high. It didn't help that Elspeth had decided to play silly buggers and disappear – in one of his cars. He took his phone out, dialling Elspeth's number. It went straight to voicemail. "Elspeth, I don't know what you think you're doing, but now is not the time to start fooling around. Tell the driver to come back – immediately."

"She won't come back," Sherlock murmured. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes for a moment. Where would he go if he was Elspeth? He expected her to attach herself to his side and cling to him, ducking her head so he wouldn't see the fear in her eyes when they discussed Moriarty. "She'll have gone back to London."

"Back home?" John asked. It was his best guess; he couldn't imagine where else Elspeth would go. Not with Moriarty's face plastered all over London.

"Probably. She's distressed, she'll go to the first place she can think of," Sherlock said, opening his eyes. "She won't stay there long. She isn't stupid . . ." He was quiet for a moment. "Don't bother trying to find her, Mycroft," he added, noticing the phone in his brother's hand. "We both know it'll only end in tears."

Mycroft sighed. "She really does pick her moments, doesn't she?"

"I wonder where she gets that from."

Lowering his gaze, Mycroft muttered, "This is my fault. A week in a prison cell. I should've realised."

"Realised what?" Sherlock demanded.

"That in your case, solitary confinement is locking you up with your worst enemy."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother's dramatics. He wanted to tell Mycroft that his decision to take the drugs was nothing to do with him, and that the world did not, in fact, revolve around Mycroft Holmes, but he was interrupted by John Watson's abrupt demand.

"Morphine or cocaine?"

Ignoring Mrs Hudson's startled cries, Elspeth slammed the door of 221B shut behind her and raced up the stairs, her heart racing. The living room door banged when she pushed it shut, making it clear she didn't want to be disturbed. She snatched the remote from the arm of the sofa and turned on the TV. Straight away, Moriarty's face filled the screen. Elspeth bit her lip. His dark eyes penetrated hers from across the room. His animated jaw bobbed up and down, the high pitched voice repeating the same phrase over and over like a broken record.

Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?

Elspeth wanted to turn it off. She rolled the remote around in her hand, aiming it at the screen.

It had been years since her encounter with Moriarty. He'd been so innocent when he pretended to be Molly's boyfriend, a bundle of nerves with sweaty palms and shaky laughter and adoring eyes he couldn't tear away from Sherlock. He was a completely different person the night at the pool. He was Moriarty. She still had nightmares. His fingers digging into her waist, her hips, her thighs. His voice in her ear. His lips on her skin. Elspeth knew it he wasn't interested in her; it was just about sending a message to Sherlock. She was collateral damage. She almost wished he'd strapped the bombs to her rather than John – anything was better than that night.

She left the TV on. Elspeth knew it was stupid to torture herself, but she wanted to prove to herself that she wasn't afraid anymore. Glaring at Moriarty's face on the screen, she picked up Sherlock's laptop and sat at the table in the living room. Her laptop was upstairs. Besides, if Moriarty was up to anything, he would've contacted Sherlock.

Elspeth checked everything she could think of. Emails, blogs, all of Sherlock's files. Nothing.

"Come on," she muttered under her breath. "There has to be something." She looked up at the TV screen, meeting Moriarty's eyes. "What are you up to?"

"Ain't talking to yourself the first sign of madness?"

"Good, you got my text," Elspeth said as Bill sat next to her. "I'm guessing you've seen the news then?"

"'Is face is all over London, Els, it's kinda impossible to miss." Bill rested his head in his hand, watching Elspeth as she searched desperately through Sherlock's emails for a second time, hitting the refresh button in case Moriarty decided to make contact. If it was Moriarty. "I don't think Sherlock would be too 'appy if you broke 'is computer."

"I'll get him a new one." Elspeth frowned. "How has he done this? How?" She drummed her fingers against the table. "People don't just come back from the dead – Dad did it, but he wasn't really dead and he had planned it all. Moriarty blew his own head off, so unless he somehow used a double –" She stopped. "Oh my God."

Bill frowned. He recognised the look on Elspeth's face. It was the look she got when she'd realised something, or all her ideas had somehow clicked into place, and he tried not to flinch when she smacked him on the arm with such enthusiasm his skin was red. She was so caught up in the moment she didn't realise she'd hurt him, too excited to have finally worked it out to notice Bill's quiet "Ow." That was it. She'd learned about this sort of case before. It was something Sherlock once told her, and Elspeth never thought it was important, but now it all made perfect sense.

"Emelia Ricoletti," Elspeth said to Bill. "That's how Moriarty did it – like Emilia Ricoletti!"