I own nothing except OCs.

Chapter 2

Nine years later...

Violet always knew that John was a man of his word. He had always kept every promise he ever made her. What she didn't understand, was why the one he broke was the one most important to her. The one that kept her going every day. The promise that he made to keep himself safe in Afghanistan. She opened his last letter to her again. It had been written in a hurry, and held none of the same careful thoughts and feelings that he had always put in his letters. She was twelve, and John had been her legal guardian long enough for her to know that something was seriously wrong. The letter read:

Dear Violet, I'm sorry. I know there's really no excuse for me to have taken so long to answer your letter, but we were moved to a new camp recently, and the chaos that entailed just caused me to keep putting it off. I'm sorry. I hope you're doing well. How are the other girls treating you? I hope you've made a few friends. It's always good to have friends even if you don't have many. I can't write anymore. I'm sorry. I have to get back to work. Just know that I love you, and everything will be ok. - John

"Just know that I love you, and everything will be ok." She could hear his voice in her head. It was something he always told her, and he wrote it at the end of all of his letters. She couldn't believe it this time though; because everything was not going to be ok. Her world was collapsing around her, and it couldn't be put back together. She remembered how she had ended up in her situation as she pulled out the second envelope. The letter she knew would be cold and generic, and would provide no comfort to her. It would give her words of false hope. "Missing In Action" did not necessarily mean "Killed In Action," but it was close enough for Violet.

"Stay safe, and come back alive," Violet said to John as he was about to board the plane bound for Afghanistan. "That's all I want." John smiled and put his hand on her cheek.

"I will," he said. Then he kissed the top of her head. "I promise."

Violet let her body slide to the floor against the wall. She bit her lip. She wasn't going to cry yet. It would mean that she had admitted defeat. That she believed he would never come back. That he was dead like her mother and Mrs. Johnson.

Mrs. Johnson laughed as she poured Violet a cup of tea, and Violet couldn't help but smile. The elderly woman was always so kind to her during all the months when John wasn't home, and even more happy when he was. She saw him as a son, and she had given them a special deal on the rent for the flat they lived in. Mrs. Johnson devoted all her time to them as if they were her children, so it was almost no surprise to Violet that the little old lady would be willing to give up her life for her. She just wished she hadn't. Violet didn't know it would be the last time she would here Mrs. Johnson laugh.

"I'll go get some biscuits," Mrs. Johnson said. She shuffled to the kitchen in her slippers smiling, but when she looked out the window beside the door she dropped the biscuit she was holding. She hurried back into the room, and grabbed Violet by the arm. She held her finger to her lips, and led Violet up the stairs as quickly and silently as possible. "Listen to me," she whispered with intensity. "You go through John's bedroom, and you climb out the window, and run. Don't stop running until you've reached Scotland Yard. You don't have time to stop and call them." She started pushing her toward John's room.

"Wait, why?" Violet protested in a stage whisper. Mrs. Johnson's expression softened, and she gently tucked a bit of Violet's hair behind her ear.

"I care about you, and I don't want you to get hurt." Violet shook her head. She didn't understand. Then Mrs. Johnson pushed her into John's room, and locked the door before she could put up further protests. Violet called out to her, but then she heard the sound of a door breaking. Then came the unfamiliar footsteps of what she knew had to be a man. "Who are you?" Mrs. Johnson demanded loudly. "What do you want?" Then Violet understood. Mrs. Johnson had seen a weapon on the man's person, and hid Violet away so she wouldn't get hurt.

"Where's the little girl?" a gruff voice demanded back. "I know someone who's looking for her."

"What little girl?"

"Don't play dumb old lady," another voice cut in. "We know she lives here."

"I haven't the slightest idea of what you're talking about." All was silent for a minute, and Violet could feel the tension coming from the floor below her.

"All right then," the first man said. "Then we'll just have to find her ourselves." Suddenly, there was a gunshot, and Violet screamed involuntarily. Then she covered her mouth with her hands. That was exactly what the criminals had wanted her to do.

"Why'd you kill her?" the second man asked. "We could've used her to get the girl to come down."

"We know where she is though," the first replied. Violet backed away from the door. Their voices were drawing near, and the grief she felt for the sudden loss of Mrs. Johnson was replaced with adrenaline. She had to get out. She ran to the bed, and tied a sheet the bed-post. Then she tied two more sheets from the closet to the first, and dragged the bed to the window. That was when the door handle started to move. "Don't try to run!" the first man called. "Jim doesn't like it when people run!" Violet grabbed the edge of her makeshift rope, and jumped out the open window. She had a feeling she knew who "Jim" was, and she didn't want to go anywhere near him.

She slid down quickly as she lost her grip, but she managed to regain it a few feet above the ground. Then she let go, and did exactly what Mrs. Johnson had told her to do. She ran, and she didn't stop until two miles later when she reached Scotland Yard. After telling her story to a very confused detective, Detective Inspector Lestrade as he introduced himself to be, she was taken back to her flat in a police car.

They found Mrs. Johnson's body, and paperwork was signed and filed, calls were made to the military, who eventually got to John, and Violet was rushed back to the Yard for further questioning, and a brief phone conversation with John. Finally, she found herself in the car with the Detective Inspector again, who escorted her to the children's home she would have to stay in until John returned in a month. He didn't return in a month though.

It wasn't until after the month was up, and no one had heard anything from John that the two envelopes made their way to the children's home. A man in full military uniform had placed the letters in her hands with pity in his eyes. Violet didn't want his pity though. She wanted John. She wanted him to tell her that everything would be ok. She wanted to see him wearing his ridiculous jumpers, instead of them folded up in a box for storage.

She ripped open the second letter, and skimmed over the typed out letter of condolence. The letter explained vaguely the mysterious disappearance of Captain John Watson and eight other soldiers. After she read the letter, Violet tore it in half and left it on her bed. The letter claimed that there were people searching for the missing soldiers. She knew it wasn't true though. The look in the man's eyes as he handed her the letters had told her so. He pitied her because he knew they weren't looking for John.

Violet stood up, looked around her room, and then dashed down the stairs and out the back door. One of the women who ran the home called her name, but she didn't turn back. She scaled the fence, and kept running; just like Mrs. Johnson had told her.

She only ran a mile away. She would've run farther like she normally did, but she couldn't see herself going any longer this time. She walked over to the closest building she could see, and sat down leaned up against the wall with her knees drawn up to her chest. Violet glared angrily at the stars above her. It wasn't fair. She had already lost almost everyone important to her. She couldn't bear to lose John. He was basically like both parents to her, and without him, she had nowhere to turn. "Come and get me!" she cried out. She wanted the men who were looking for her to find her. She wanted someone to find her. "I'm right here! Come and get me!" That was when Violet realized she was crying. A tiny voice inside her had been battling the tears; telling her that there was still hope, but the voice had lost the war in her mind. All the horrible scenarios she could possibly conjure up in her imagination filled her head, and she hugged herself tight and closed her eyes.

Sherlock folded his arms to show Lestrade just how cross he was with him. He was sitting in the front seat of the inspector's police car, and the man was taking him home because he didn't trust him on his own. "I told you, I'm clean," the consulting detective complained; shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "I bet this was my brother's idea, wasn't it?"

"Sherlock, for the last time: I have only met your brother once. He's not conspiring against you." The D.I. wouldn't admit it to Sherlock, but he was worried about him. His landlady had said she could hear him up at all hours of the night, and she rarely saw the man who was thin as a rail to begin with, eat. "You've got to start taking better care of yourself." Sherlock snorted in indignation.

"What does it matter? There's no point." Lestrade sighed. Sherlock bit his tongue; realizing that was the wrong thing to say. It was the truth though. When there were no cases, he didn't know how he was surviving. He was forever internally connected with his hidden grief, and he didn't know how to break that connection. So he made himself distant. He didn't make friends. He didn't want to feel anymore loss. They both remained silent after that until Lestrade's phone started to ring. The D.I. held his finger to his lips, and pressed a button on his steering wheel.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," he said. The voice on the other end could be heard throughout the car, and the voice sighed with relief.

"I'm so glad you picked up," a woman's voice said. Lestrade rolled his eyes in recognition of the voice.

"Not again Mrs. Hopkins," he groaned. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him; suddenly curious.

"I'm sorry to trouble you again, and I know it's not really part of your job. She knows you though, and a child with her sort of...problems needs to see a familiar face." Lestrade sighed again. "Would you mind finding her?"

"I'm on my way, Mrs. Hopkins. Don't worry." Then he pressed another button, and rubbed his temple. "You're just going to have to sit tight for a while Sherlock," he said. "There is something important I need to do." Sherlock just nodded. He knew that a child had run away from home, but he suddenly wanted to know more.

"Who is the girl we're looking for?"

"It's complicated."

"I'm sure it's not."

"She's a twelve-year old girl who stays in the local children's home. Her mother was murdered right in front of her when she was three, and a military doctor took her in. God only knows where her father is. When the doctor was away she stayed with their landlady, who was also murdered for trying to protect her a month ago. She has PTSD, most likely because of what I just told you. And now that she has to stay in the home while the doctor's still gone she runs away all the time. The only person she trusts besides the doctor is me, so I always have to go find her. " Lestrade stopped at a traffic light, and turned to face the detective beside him with an intense look in his eyes. "You will not speak to her. You will not deduce her because I already told you enough about her. Don't even look at her. Because so help me God, if you hurt her, I swear I will break your nose." Then he faced the road again, and when the traffic light changed he kept driving.

Sherlock just leaned back in his seat in stunned silence. He had never heard Lestrade talk so sternly, or even utter so many phrases in one sitting. He cleared his throat. "What makes you think I would hurt her?" he asked. The D.I. huffed in frustration.

"Have you listened to yourself lately. Knowing you, you will say something horrible to the girl. She doesn't deserve that. She's been through far too much already. She doesn't need some stranger who thinks he's a genius telling her her whole life's story." Lestrade didn't say another word. He turned down street after street until they saw what looked to be a girl sitting up against a building. He pulled over and put his head in his hands. "She never goes far," he mumbled under his breath. Then he got out, and Sherlock watched as he approached the figure with the long dark curly hair.

Violet knew the footsteps of the Inspector very well. He was always sent to find her. She had already run away four times. This was her fifth, and she had only been there a month. "I knew you'd show up," she whispered. "I just thought maybe this time you'd show up to investigate a murder scene." The D.I. knelt down next to her. He remembered the murderers who had tried to get to her when her old landlady was killed.

"You can't keep doing this," he replied. "...What was it this time?"

"He's missing," she murmured. "No one knows where he is." Lestrade put his head back in his hands. Of course the man who had been like a father to her for years would go missing. Her life seemed to be just one disaster after another.

"I'm sorry."

"Will your sympathy bring him back?" she cried in outrage. "The man who brought the letters looked sorry. The letters said 'sorry,' and now you're saying you're sorry."

"Isn't that the normal reaction people have?"

"I don't want anyone's sympathy. I want John!" She sat up straight and tall as she said this, and her eyes were so filled with anger that he almost backed away. Then she suddenly seemed to shrink back into herself; breathing heavily as she fully grasped the situation. "His unit was ambushed. They found everyone except for nine people... Nine bodies unaccounted for. NINE! Why did he have to be one of them? Why couldn't he have been there? Why did it have to be him!" She sobbed without tears; trying desperately to catch her breath. Lestrade gently pulled her into his embrace. He had never hugged her before, but he suddenly felt like she needed someone to hold her together.

"Come on," he eventually whispered. "We need to get you back home." She nodded, and let him help her to her feet and lead her to the car. No one spoke the whole way back to the children's home. Sherlock kept stealing glances into the rearview mirror, but the girl seemed to be hiding within her long hair as if it was a veil. When they arrived, Lestrade got out and opened her door. She didn't move.

"You know what the worst part is," she mumbled. "Everyone seems to be looking for me, but no one's looking for him." That was when she started to cry. Sherlock clenched his fists. He couldn't hear children cry. He could barely stand to be around them. It reminded him too much of the child he no longer had. Lestrade placed his hand on the back of her head. Sherlock watched them for a moment through the mirror; wondering what each one was thinking. He knew the army doctor was missing, and as Lestrade finally led her away, her words echoed in his head. "I don't want your sympathy. I want John!" He suddenly felt connected to the little girl. He didn't want anyone's sympathy. All he ever wanted was for his wife and his daughter to be alive.

Sorry. I'm not feeling too good about his chapter, and it was really long in my opinion. This will get better! Please leave a review! Thanks.