Elizabeth had lost track of how long it had been since her father had been gone. She barely had any concept of time, but she would always go to her father's grave on the weekend, sitting by it and begging for him not to be dead. She still had this conspiracy theory that her father was responsible for solving some crimes in Europe that only he could solve.

Ben had been to see her multiple times, trying to get her to stop her searching, but he was failing miserably. He had watched her go from one small thought to covering her entire bedroom wall with newspaper cuttings. He had walked into her bedroom after Mycroft had let him in, his eyes widening at the sight he was seeing.

Perched at the end of the bed, she was staring at the wall, her hand holding onto her chin as she let her elbow rest on her thigh. Shaking his head back and forth, Ben cautiously entered the room, his footsteps alerting Elizabeth to his presence.

Standing up, she turned around, her hands dropping to her hips as she looked at him. She had her hair tied in a messy bun at the back of her neck, dressed in a short black dress. She looked skinnier every time he saw her and he knew that she wasn't eating, despite the fact her uncle fed her some intricate meals every night. He doubted she even touched them.

"I didn't hear you at the door," she spoke and Ben scoffed.

"In this mansion, I'm not shocked," he informed her, looking to the wall and motioning to it with his chin, loosening his tie and dropping his bag on the floor. "What is this, Liz?"

"Oh," Elizabeth said, coming alive as she looked to the wall. Ben had found that the only time Elizabeth sounded enthusiastic about something was when she was going on about her father still being alive. "All of these are crimes that have been solved all over Europe in the past few months. I don't know exactly what it all means…but Anderson tells me they're all crimes that are pretty difficult to crack…"

"Stop it," Ben urged, his voice weak as he finally had enough and he watched her shake her head as she pointed to the wall, moving frantically along the wall, her hands pointing at everything she saw as she spoke in a hasty tone.

"No, but listen to me," she urged of him and moved with haste along the wall. "There had to have been a way for my father to know that he was going to die. He was no fool. We all know that. I don't know how he did or why he hasn't written to me…called…whatever…but there has to be a reason. Everything he does is for a reason. You know him. But there was this crime in Germany that happened six months ago. Six months ago, Ben…and then a mysterious man found a piece of evidence and left it outside the police station. Who would do that? Who would do it? We both know someone who doesn't want to be found-"

"-Stop it!" Ben interrupted, yelling at her and unable to take anymore of her rambling as she looked at him with wide eyes. She kept silent, her lips pursed as Ben went to sit on the side of her bed, burying his face into his hands and closing his eyes as he took deep breaths. "This has to stop, Elizabeth."

"No," Elizabeth responded. "Because I know it is true and I know my dad."

"So does your uncle," Ben said. "And speaking to him at the door he clearly thinks you're losing it."

Elizabeth scoffed with a shake of her head, pacing along the length of the bed as she kept her eyes in front of her. "I am not losing it," she sneered the words.

"Then what is this?" Ben demanded from her, motioning to the wall. "Look at this, Elizabeth. This is not normal."

"I'm the offspring of a man who is not normal," Elizabeth responded.

"Listen to me, Elizabeth," Ben said, his voice harsh as he stood up and dared to take hold of her by the shoulders, his grip tight as he kept her grounded. "I know that something happened to you and that is why you called off our relationship when…when I thought we had something and we clearly do…I get it. Something happened between your father and this Moriarty. You can tell me about that when you're ready."

She looked away then, almost too scared to tell him anything about it. She still didn't know if he would understand and if he didn't understand then she would lose him. She didn't know if she could afford to do that now, not when he was acting as her rock.

"But this," he said, pointing to the newspaper cuttings and print outs. "This is you grasping at straws. I understand why you are doing it, Elizabeth. You want him to be alive…but he isn't…you know that…deep down you know that he would have come for you if he was alive. He loved you."

"But…but he's Sherlock Holmes," Elizabeth said, her eyes wide and wet as she spoke and Ben moved a hand down her arm, trying to comfort her as he looked her in the eye.

"Even Sherlock Holmes cannot avoid death. He is human, Elizabeth," he informed her. "And…and you need to give yourself time to grieve. You haven't done that properly."

"Because grieving means accepting it," Elizabeth said, sniffing loudly as she shook her head back and forth. "I don't want to accept it. I want him back…I want my dad…"

Ben wondered if he was getting through to her as sobs seemed to escape her. She was shaking, but she wasn't letting out any sound. Instead she was quiet, her hands moving to cup her mouth to stop any sound from escaping. Moving closer to her, Ben dared to wrap his arms around her waist, holding her to him as she finally let the tears fall. Ben dared to take a deep breath, wondering if he had finally gotten through to her as he continued to cradle her against him.

Peering over to the doorway as she pressed her head against his shoulder, he saw Mycroft stood there. He managed to offer the man a small nod and Mycroft nodded back, his hands moving into his pocket to pull his phone out as he searched for a number, knowing that an appointment with a psychiatrist would not hurt Elizabeth.

…

He had tried to resist the urge to call Mycroft. It had been six months since he had disappeared and not a day went by when he didn't think about her. She was constantly in his thoughts and in his pocket. Mycroft had been kind enough to send him a photograph of her. Granted, it was a couple of years old, but it was something. She was smiling in the photo, looking happy as she spent a day out with her grandparents.

He would often pull it from his pocket and look on it in the evening. Sitting at the desk in the hotel where he stayed, his eyes on it as he let it rest on the desk. He would lace his fingers together, pressing them to his chin as he thought about her. He would often contemplate calling her and leaving her some kind of message.

He wanted to do that. He wanted to let her know what was happening, but he couldn't. Mycroft still suspected that Moriarty had spies in London and if Sherlock returned then he would endanger Elizabeth and John. He could not risk that, despite the fact he wanted her to know.

He looked at the photo of her leaning against the railing on the South Bank, her hair flailing behind her and her eyes glimmering as she stared at the camera. Her smile was wide as the skirt she wore threatened to blow up in the wind. Sherlock remembered the exact moment the photo had been taken. He had been complaining about not being able to go and work a case while his parents were in town.

He kept his gaze on the photo as he pulled his phone out and searched for his brother's number.

"How is she?" he demanded as soon as he had answered.

Mycroft took a deep breath and began to talk in a low voice. "She is well enough," he spoke. "She seems to have come to terms with your death. She is dating Ben…I must say he is proving to be very valuable in her recovery. I also have her seeing a psychiatrist once a week…the woman she saw before you left."

Nodding his head, he held the photo in his fingertips. "Good," he said.

"I am trying to persuade her to go back to university and quite her job at the restaurant," Mycroft declared. "I told her that there was no reason for her to continue working there."

"But she ignored you?"

"She usually does," Mycroft drawled. "I wonder where she gets that trait from?"

"I wonder," he responded in a sarcastic tone. "And what does she intend to do?"

"She is exploring all of her options," Mycroft responded. "I am aware that if she goes to university then she will want to stay in London. I cannot see her leaving the city. She does not know what she wants to do in the future. She has barely been able to focus on anything but proving you were still alive. The future is an abstract concept to her."

Saying nothing for a moment, he knew he was speaking sense before he dared to look away from the photo, wondering what sort of emotion was coursing through him. He expected it was sorrow. It was sorrow for his daughter. He wanted her back. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to be with her.

"When can I come back?" he demanded.

"Not anytime soon," Mycroft said. "Sherlock, I am warning you, if you have any thought of making contact with Elizabeth then forget it. We both know it is for her own good."

"And what about when I do come back?" Sherlock enquired. "We both know she will not handle the news very well."

"That is a conversation for another day," Mycroft told his brother. "For now, I need you to lay low and let me take care of your daughter."

"Easier said than done," he spoke and hung up the phone, placing it down and letting his attention wander back to the photograph once more.

…

Sitting in the flat in her father's chair, Elizabeth knew she was hardly helping as John boxed Sherlock's possessions. Elizabeth had been unable to move as Ben stood in the kitchen, unsure of what he should be doing. Mycroft had been to box everything up, but Mrs Hudson had yelled at him not to touch anything. She couldn't bear it. She didn't want to erase Sherlock from the flat, nor did she want any new tenants.

The items Elizabeth had requested were in a pile on the sofa and John was looking at them. There was one of his blue scarves and the book she had bought him for Christmas. There was a shirt that he always wore and cufflinks she had bought for him when she was just a young girl and Mycroft had purchased them on her behalf.

"He has so much stuff," John mumbled as he boxed some of the books away that Mycroft had not touched and that he wanted. "Mrs Hudson left the contract on the kitchen table to sign."

"Got them," Ben called out, feeling useful as he grabbed the documents and walked into the living room, handing them to Elizabeth as she glanced down at them.

"It is to end his tenancy," John informed Elizabeth. "She had it written so that you could sign it…considering…you know…"

"Yeah," Elizabeth nodded as Ben pulled a pen from the suit jacket he wore.

He had met them at the flat after work, looking at everything in the home with intrigue. It was all so strange, but somehow it felt homely. Elizabeth didn't look out of place sat in the chair her father always occupied.

Handing her the pen, he watched her squiggle her signature on the line, not bothering to read it. She stood up and went to place the papers on the kitchen table again, looking around the room before she heard John speak.

"Did you know that he had a copy of Harry Potter?" John called out and Elizabeth moved over to the living room, arms folded over her chest as Ben rested a hand on her back, knowing how difficult it was for her.

"He bought it for me," Elizabeth spoke. "I…I nagged and nagged him for ages. He kept telling me that fiction had no place in our life. He said that it would not teach me anything…but then I came home from school one night and it was on my pillow…he…he said it wasn't him, but I know it was."

John smiled fondly before standing up from the floor and offering to Elizabeth. She took hold of it and cradled it to her chest, looking down and accepting it. She accepted the feeling of grief that washed over her instead of fighting it. It was the first step to admitting that her father had gone, despite the nagging feeling in her stomach she could not shake.

…

A/N: Do let me know what you think!