'Mycroft?' Sherlock Holmes demanded as he picked up the phone. He was sitting on a private plane, leaving England. He was becoming more and more anxious and agitated as the days went on, and it showed in his tone of voice.

'Hello, brother dear.'

'How is she?' he growled, cutting straight to the point. Mycroft knew immediately what he was talking about.

'She's... okay, Sherlock. Your plan's working, but I don't know how much longer it'll last. People who've seen her have reported her as very... fragile.'

'And John?'

'Moving on, apparently. Found himself a girlfriend, it seems. He's doing better than Miss Wood.' Sherlock closed his eyes. He really wanted to tell them. He really, really did. But he couldn't. Not yet. It was still too dangerous.

'Keep an eye on her,' he said, his voice taking a pleading turn. 'please.'

'I have been. I'm doing everything I can. She's living in a youth hostel, but refuses to move back in with me. She's-'

'Not with Jackson?' Sherlock snapped, anxiety blooming in his chest. This was not the plan. She wasn't safe.

'No. She hasn't seen them since the night I told her of your plan.'

'Shit.' Sherlock breathed. He thought for a moment. 'Tell Jackson. Tell him nearly everything. Tell him not to tell Florence, and tell him to look after her, at all costs. Please. From me.'

'I will. Is that all?'

'Yes.'

'Alright. Good luck. Geneva next, isn't it?'

'Yes. En route now.'

'Keep in touch. I'll call you back later.'

'Right.'


Arthur Jackson sat back in his chair, his hand moving to his jaw. He rubbed it as he thought.

'Sherlock Holmes is alive.' he repeated at the man in front of him. 'Sherlock Holmes, the man Florence Wood can't live without, is alive, and you don't want me to tell her.' there was anger in his voice, and Mycroft could sense it. 'Yeah. Right. Okay. Makes all the sense in the fucking world.' he growled, slamming his hand down on the table. Mycroft did not flinch.

'It's too dangerous for her to know.'

'And it's less dangerous for her to not know? Come on, man! We both know, if you know her well, that she is an emotional wreck. She's probably contemplating suicide already – fuck, she was contemplating suicide the second she heard that he was dead – probably even before, knowing her. She came to us afterwards, and she was heartbroken. You want me to keep her salvation from her?'

'When you put it like that...' Mycroft began, and Arthur cut him off with a deadly laugh.

'You, mate, are mental. You're fucking off your head. You and Sherlock. This is preposterous. If you think I'm not telling her then bless you.'

'You can't tell her.' Mycroft said, his voice becoming more urgent. 'You really can't. For her own safety.'

'Why not? She's a clever girl. She's been without him before, knowing that he was alive and well-'

'If you're referring to the time she was away, that eight years...' Mycroft started, breathing in steadily. He hadn't spoken about this in a very long time. 'Then I regret to inform you he was hardly alive and certainly not well. He turned to drugs, and it became so dangerous I feared for his life. This wasn't like Sherlock, not at all. He knew the effects these drugs had on his brain power, he knew what they were doing to him, but he did it because he couldn't live without her.'

'You're not helping your point.' Arthur scoffed.

'Florence and my brother have a strange connection. They love each other, but they're not in love. I don't think. I'm not the best with emotions. Their bond goes beyond friendship, it literally is the difference between life and death-'

'Cut to the fucking point! It seems as though you're on my side now.'

'Basically, Florence is in severe danger. Moriarty – the man you met at the pool – left some sort of imprint on her. He damaged her mentally, and physically, and the majority of his... extensive network... know that she was his target, hence making her their target too.'

Arthur stared at him, realisation dawning on him.

'Sherlock is trying to dismantle this network. The details, to me, are completely unknown – we can't risk saying them out loud. But, he's doing it for her, mainly – he cares very little for the rest of the world - and her insight would severely... jeopardise the entire operation.'

Arthur nodded in understanding. 'I get it. Okay. Deal. But, if she ever finds out I knew, if he comes back-'

'We're relying on him coming back-'

'-then my relationship with her would be completely ruined. Understand? This stays between us. Forever.'


'I have a secret.' Florence said, her voice hushed. Sherlock, at nearly sixteen years old, was wary of his young friend's ways, and her childlike playfulness, even at thirteen years old. It annoyed Mycroft, but Sherlock secretly enjoyed it.

'Yeah?' he replied, his voice matching the volume of hers.

'Mhm. My mother told me not to tell anyone. She said it was a really big secret. But you're not just anyone.' She said it casually, Sherlock didn't think it was much. Perhaps money was tight.

'Go on.'

'She says she's got pills to make her happy again.'

Sherlock frowned. 'Pills?'

'Mhm. I'm scared, Sherlock. I don't think they're happy pills.'

'Have you… seen these pills?'

'No. She won't show me. But they come out when the drink does.'

Shit, Sherlock thought. This is certainly not good.

'But this is a secret, Sherlock. Promise me you won't tell anyone.'

'I promise. This stays between us.'

'Forever?'

'Forever.'


Florence shut the door behind her as the first tear escaped her eyelid. It slid down her face, dropping onto her jacket. Outside, the roar of the Press still filled her ears, deafening her. Surely, that was enough. That was enough pain for one day. She sighed as she realised where she had come to. She hadn't even thought about it as she made her way home, but she was here now. She couldn't go back outside.

She grabbed her bag, which she had dropped onto the floor, and moved quickly and quietly up the stairs. The room hadn't been touched since Sherlock died, and it had a musty air to it. She leaned against the doorframe as she became overwhelmed. The black armchair still had an indent in it.

Her eyes roamed the room from where she was standing. There was his laptop, the book he was reading. There was even the newspaper he had been reading the morning it all kicked off.

This was all a bit too much. It was all too big for her. She suddenly felt like a child amongst all this emotion, swimming endlessly up, up, up, trying to reach the surface, just for a single gasp of air.

It didn't take long for her to grab her bag again and sprint down the stairs.

She hailed a cab outside 221 Baker Street, thankful that the press had gone, and gave a location. She got out her phone, and dialled the familiar number. Placing it to her ear, she fought down tears.

'Arthur.'

'We really have to stop meeting like this.' he said, predicting her question.

'Please.'

She heard a sigh. 'Yes. Okay. I'm with the boys again. Where are you thinking?'

She thought for a bit. 'The Warehouse.'

'Okay. See you there.'

She hung up, gave the new destination to the driver, and waited.


'Of course,' Arthur said, in response to the question Florence had asked before – "what will I do now?" - 'there's always the option of staying with us.'

Perfect, Arthur thought. If she agrees, I'll be taking care of her, and I'll make sure she never finds out about Sherlock.

Florence frowned at him. 'After everything I've done to you?'

'What have you done to us?' James asked, confused. When he frowned, his scarred eyebrow would not move, so it only looked like he was raising an eyebrow.

'I... I don't know.' Florence said, rubbing her temples. 'I left with the memory stick. That memory stick was stolen, and I later lied to you about having it. I stayed with Sherlock, and only came to you when I saw it necessary...' she sighed. 'I'm selfish.'

'You are a little, yes.' Arthur said. 'But, if we cared, we'd have told you.'

Florence smiled slightly. She felt comforted by this.

'You asked the wrong question, though.' Michael said, his dark eyes melancholy.

Florence looked down. She breathed in, gathering the courage to answer him. 'I didn't. I... what you did was pretty shit, Michael. What's worse is that you won't tell us who threatened out lives. But I forgive you, it's been a long time and I miss you quite a bit.'

He smiled at her, a genuine smile that lit up his face.

'And you, James.' she continued, her voice deep. 'You're also a shit person. But I also forgive, and miss you.'

'Wonderful. Is this over now? It's getting quite late and this entire building is making my hair stand on end.' Arthur murmured. Florence smiled and nodded.


Eighteen Months Later -

Florence Wood ran a hand through her short hair as she stared down at the file before her. Her eyes narrow in concentration, she opened it, her hands shaking. This was her file. Started twelve years ago, when she was reported missing. The one Sherlock Holmes, her dead best friend, had worked on tirelessly, to find her.

Looking at it, she felt a pang of guilt. He had been through all of that, this eight inch thick file was everything he had done to save her. Everything. Now, when she knew all of this, she couldn't thank him.

Mycroft had kept it from her for a year and a half, after having offered her a job working for him. She didn't quite know what she was doing or what she was working towards, but it kept her busy. She was in one of Mycroft's foreign offices, away from London. She had requested this. At the time, she didn't want to be in London, or even England. She wanted a fresh start.

Mycroft had initially recommended America, but then he and Sherlock realised they had a girl fluent in French who wanted to be put in a foreign office. The decision was not particularly difficult to make.

Florence liked her job. She got to read interesting files, cases Sherlock had worked on. Now she could read her own.

At thirty years old, Florence had had a lot of time to ponder and regret her life choices. She didn't feel the need to have all of them stare at her, in paper form, in the face.

A knock on her office door startled her slightly. 'Come in.' she called.

Mycroft Holmes opened the door, and took the seat opposite her, on her desk. It was not often this happened, it was usually the other way around, where he was at the desk, and she was talking to him.

He eyed the unopened file before her. 'I trust this is all going well?' he said, and Florence rolled her eyes.

'I've had it, what, five minutes?'

Mycroft smiled slightly. Usually, he wouldn't let an employee talk to him like that, but Florence was... well, she was a close friend.

'Didn't you just come back from Serbia?' she asked, leaning back in her chair. Mycroft nodded.

'Actually, I've come to talk to you about that.' he said. Florence frowned, interested. 'We need to go back to London.'

Florence's frown deepened. 'For how long?'

'For as long as we deem necessary.'

'But-'

'I am aware of your... distaste... for the city. But this is really very important, and I believe that once you get there, you will be okay.'

Florence nodded. Truth be told, she trusted Mycroft with her life. 'What about Arthur?'

'I've already taken care of him. He's now a free man, and en route to the airport now.'

Arthur Jackson had gone with Florence, leaving the other two behind, and had been arrested upon trying to enter the country. It turned out the drugs he used to manufacture were quite popular in France, and he had traces of them on his jacket. They then discovered that he was the creator, and had him taken to a well-guarded, French prison.

He could speak barely any French, as Florence had learned from James, and Arthur had never really bothered to listen. But now, he was fluent.

'Okay.' Florence said, still nodding, and there was a slight smile on her face as she took in his words. 'When do we leave?'

'Right now, if that's alright. If you're not...' he looked at the file again. '…in the middle of something.'

'No.' she replied. 'That can wait.'


Florence grinned as she saw Arthur's face smiling at her from the aisle. He stood as she moved towards him, and hugged her tight.

'Are you okay?' she asked, pulling away and looking him up and down for the first time in a year. Apart from a few bruises and sunken eyes, he looked fine.

'I'm great.' he said, and she noticed how heavy his voice sounded.

'Are you sure?'

'Yeah. Just... anticipating why Holmes got me out in such a rush.' in all honesty, Arthur had a pretty strong feeling that he knew why he got out, but he didn't want to admit it.

'Me too... he had just given me my file from when I was gone, and literally five minutes later he told us we were leaving. Maybe something happened in Serbia.'

'Something that involves both of us?'

'Yeah. I don't know.' Florence sat down in the window seat of the aisle Arthur had been sitting in originally. Arthur sat next to her.

'I like what you've done with your hair.' he said, and she smiled.

'Thank you. I shaved it off when I got here. Part of the whole "fresh start" thing, and it grew back curly.'

'Did you donate the hair to charity?'

'No. The quality was terrible, they wouldn't take it. I figured that if they needed hair so much they'd take anything, but my hair was pretty shit.'

Arthur laughed. 'What did you do with it?'

'I burned it.' Florence said, her smile dropping. She noticed Mycroft had sat on the opposite side of the plane to them, and was reading a newspaper. She looked out the window as the plane began to move, the ground becoming a blur before disappearing completely.


Hello all my hopefully still reading friends!

i'm so sorry i haven't been at the top of the updating game. things have been happening... and i haven't been writing. HOWEVER - i am treating quarantine as a positive thing and looking to push through this horrible writers' block.

Thank you if you're still reading this. it means so so much.