So.

Here we go again! This fic has been in the works for a very long time. A very long time. It's also long. Very long. Stick with me here, I promise it'll be worth it.

Thank you for reading!

Florence Wood was missing. She had gone out late one night, seemingly fine, and had not returned. She had vanished without a trace.

Sherlock Holmes had been trying for almost nine years, to track her down and to find her. He assisted Scotland Yard in their biggest and most interesting "Missing Person" case, but to no avail. She had well and truly disappeared.

Sherlock could not remember a time where she was not at his side, and now that she was gone, he felt her absence like he had lost a limb, and it was as painful.

It was blatantly obvious that they could not live without each other.

He had presumed something was wrong. She was acting strange before she disappeared, the dark lines under her eyes were more prominent, and she looked gaunt. She shook continuously, and would often have to excuse herself as tears began to stream down her cheeks. He suspected drugs, but he knew her not to be like that. She resented the very idea. However, it became increasingly obvious that that was the case, and that she needed serious help.

When she had first disappeared, Sherlock didn't know who to turn to. She had no parents or siblings, only a senile old grandmother and three uncles. He didn't know their names, but once he had tracked them down they all said the same thing:

"She watched her mother die."

Of course, Sherlock knew this. He had been the one she called, muttering into the phone with a hint of panic in her voice – 'I don't know what to do, she just fell – she saw me coming and she leaned backwards and she fell.'

Sherlock had honestly been trying to find her for years, and he didn't want to admit it, but deep, deep down he knew she was gone and there was no getting her back.

And it killed him.

'John!'

John Watson sighed, rolled his eyes, set down his tea and made a point of turning around to answer his friend. 'Yes, Sherlock?' he answered, exasperated.

'I'm going to Scotland Yard.' Sherlock answered, pulling on his dark trench coat and scarf, despite the fact it was mid June.

'Why?'

The man didn't answer, much to John's surprise. Instead he practically ran to the door.

'Why, Sherlock? A new case?'

'No.' Sherlock said, his voice taking a somewhat dangerous turn. 'I need to identify a body.'

'Oh.' this was everyday news to John. He was indifferent about it normally, but the way Sherlock was acting today made him curious. 'Who's?

'I don't know, John, that's why I'm identifying it.'

'Ah. I'll come with you?'

'No. I need to do this alone.'

'Sherlock.' Greg Lestrade greeted grimly as Sherlock made his way hurriedly up the corridor.

'Is it her?' he growled, ignoring Lestrade's attempt at friendliness.

'I don't know, Sherlock. It's been eight years since she went missing. She matches everything we had, though. It doesn't look good.'

'Cause of death?'

'With one look at her, you'd think starvation. However, Forensics think it was overdose.'

They stalked into the morgue, ready to identify the dead woman, but instead found her sitting awkwardly on the examining table. She didn't look at them as they entered.

Sherlock's heart dropped. He was certain it was her.

Her hair, dark and long, was tied in a top knot on her head. Her cheeks were as gaunt as they'd ever been. Her lips were thin and cracked. Her eyes were a brilliant green. Her skin was slightly paler than he remembered, but it was still her.

It was her. It was fucking her. The whole room seemed to fade out of existence, Lestrade's droning voice carried away like leaves on a windy day. He looked her up and down, and tried to ignore the blatantly obvious marks of self-harm up her arm, on her chest, on the part of her thigh not covered by the sheet she had covered her naked body with.

Looking at those cuts brought reality crashing down onto him, to find her staring at him with those big green eyes that he had missed so very much.

And it was obvious she did not recognise him.

'What's your name?' Lestrade was asking, but she did not answer. Instead, she just stared at Sherlock, her eyes devout of colour, her lips pale and cracked.

Eventually she looked at the man in front of her. 'Florence Wood.'

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat, and Lestrade's eyes widened.

'Do you know where you are?'

Florence looked around her, one hand firmly on her chest. Sherlock didn't want to deduce anything from her demeanor. He feared he'd find something terrible.

'A morgue.'

'Yes.' He nodded, and Florence nodded with him.

'Why are we in a morgue?'

'Because when we found you, your heart wasn't beating.'

She twitched slightly, the arm holding her sheet beginning to shake before she grasped it firmly with the other one. Sherlock frowned.

'That didn't necessarily mean I was dead.'

Lestrade's eyes glazed over for a second, obviously trying to make sense of what she had just said.

'Do you have any idea how long you've been missing for?' Sherlock spoke up, his voice controlled – he did not want to show any emotion towards her until he was certain she knew who he was.

'Eight years, seven months and nineteen days.'

'Were you counting the fucking days?' He sounded angry now, his fists clenched behind his back.

Florence suddenly looked concerned. 'Yes.' she answered, her brow furrowed.

'And you have nothing to say about that.'

'I don't understand.' she said, her voice becoming increasingly higher as her anxiety increased.

'You were counting the days since you went missing. Why?'

'I didn't know what else to do!' she answered, her voice shrill.

Sherlock closed his eyes, breathed in, opened them again and deduced her.

Lack of body fat suggests living somewhere where there was little to no food available. Her fingers are raw and obviously bitten from anxiety. Her hair is dark, meaning the red dye has not been reapplied for at least four years, as it is completely gone. Her eyes are colourless, her hand shaking and there are obvious injection scars on her arm – drug addict, currently withdrawing. Self harm suggests she's been mentally struggling for a long time. The way she holds the sheet on her chest – tight. She does not want to let it go. I can only imagine she's hiding something.

'Florence.' he said, his voice a lot calmer than before. 'We need to know. Where were you?'

The girl's hair tie fell out, and her hair cascaded down her back, to her waist. Her iconic fringe had grown out, and it now hung around her shoulders. Her head dipped in shame.

'I can't tell you.'

See you again very soon ;)