"What the hell were you thinking? I thought since you had been," John stumbled over the next word, "away, that there was a kinder, gentler you. But no, you are the same insensitive machine you always were. Are you incapable of being empathetic?"

Lestrade approached Sherlock after John climbed into the taxi that had stopped just outside the yellow tape. "You two have a tiff or something?"

"John is disappointed in me," Sherlock sighed watching the cab disappear in the distance. "He thinks I overstepped my bounds in telling Mrs McElmurray she was partially responsible for her daughter committing suicide because the stepfather had been sexually abusing the girl since she was thirteen."

Lestrade nodded and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his coat and offered one to Sherlock. He shrugged when Sherlock waved the offer aside. "Sherlock, in John's defence, I don't think he knew that Miss McElmurray had confronted her mother with the facts of the abuse."

Sherlock nodded, still staring after John.

Lestrade took a drag on the cigarette and let the smoke out in a long sigh. "But, in your defence, I also don't think John knew Mrs McElmurray rejected her daughter's accusations because she loved her husband's money more than her daughter's safety and mental health."

"She is a vile woman that deserves more than a tongue lashing from me. See to it Lestrade." Sherlock stepped off the kerb, pulling his gloves on. "I'll email you my summary of the case."

"Don't bother, I think I have a pretty good grasp of what happened." Greg ground the cigarette out with his shoe. "Besides, I think you have something else of more importance to occupy your time."

"What now?" Sherlock's groaned when he saw the black car pull alongside him.

To Sherlock's surprise, Mycroft stepped out before the driver could come around and open the door. "Come with me. I need your help." Mycroft gestured to the inside of the car, speaking quietly, "It's a family matter."

"Something has happened to Sherrin?'' Sherlock asked as he climbed in the car.

"No, not exactly." Mycroft slid in beside his brother and tapped on the divider between them and the driver. The car moved forward and merged with the evening traffic. He settled back into the seat and pulled a file out of the briefcase at his feet

"Who?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed before widening in understanding. "When?" he corrected, opening the file. The only things inside were pictures, pictures of a particularly gruesome nature.

"Daniel and the individual under his protection were found brutally murdered, two and a half hours ago, in what was supposed to be a government safe house."

"Sherrin knows?" He had liked his brother-in-law and he knew Sherrin must be devastated. Sherlock shoved the distractions out of his mind and tried to concentrate on what Mycroft was saying.

Mycroft nodded, "Yes. Quentin said she went 'off the grid', as he put it, thirteen minutes later. Sherlock, I am afraid for her safety. Quentin and I are charged with finding the mole that did this," he stabbed a finger at the photos in Sherlock's possession. "It will take a Holmes to find a Holmes, so I need you to find Sherrin and ensure her safety."

"You think she might possibly harm herself?"

"I have no data on which to draw a conclusion. She was away for fifteen years, Sherlock. Do we really know her anymore?"

Sherlock scoffed at the idea, "Do people really do that?"

"What? Love with all their heart and lose the will to live once that love is gone? It happens, Sherlock. What would you do if your beloved doctor was so brutally taken away from you? What would you do once he was avenged and you faced living without him for the rest of your life? Would taking your own life never cross your mind?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat. When he finally spoke, his tone was subdued. "Have you contacted Mummy and Daddy?"

"Yes, but they have had no word from her so far. Quentin has her flat under surveillance just in case she comes back."

Sherlock pulled out his phone and began to type furiously. "Let me out at the nearest Tube station. She has informed me of the location of a few of her bolt-holes from her time away. I will have my Homeless Network scour the city's other prospective hiding places."

As Sherlock went to climb out of the car, he felt a tug on his sleeve. Mycroft looked up at him, and Sherlock could plainly see the usual mask his brother wore had fallen away. The worry and dread he felt were displayed all over his brother's face. "Find her, Sherlock. And please hurry."

Questions, comments or suggestions are welcome!