They crouched down on the jagged, grey rocks that lined the edge of the beach and peered down into the small pool beneath them. The air that had been warm earlier in the day had now grown cooler. Sophia had left her jacket back with Molly on the deckchairs a bit further down the beach but her father had leant her his. It wasn't one of his usual jackets. Not a suit jacket with shoulder pads or lapels or buttons. Molly had laughed at him when he tried to pack them along with his button up shirts into the small suitcase Mrs Hudson had pulled out from the attic.

"You can't wear that to the beach." She had chuckled, from where she and Sophia had sat on his bed watching him. "It's a holiday, Sherlock. Not a case. Don't you have anything... I don't know... casual?"

"No." Sherlock had huffed. He hadn't wanted to even go on the holiday. It had all been John's idea. He said that they needed a break after what they had been through. He booked them a week in a static caravan somewhere in Wales starting the day they got out of the hospital. Sherlock Holmes had no say in the matter.

"You should wear your t-shirts you wear when you're on your special medicine." Sophia chirped happily. She expected the adults to be impressed at her quick thinking but the room suddenly fell quiet. The air was heavy and sorrowful for reasons that Sophia didn't know. Molly smiled ever so slightly but she could tell it wasn't a real smile. It was too sad and didn't reach her eyes. Her father faltered slightly, catching Molly's eyes. There was only a breif silence before Molly spoke again.

"Yes." She said, reaching over to give Sophia's hand a squeeze. She looked back up at Sherlock who had been watching them silently. "And we can pick you up some swimming trunks on the way."

Sophia thought that her father looked much better wearing t-shirts and hoodies when he wasn't on his medicine. He looked cleaner and happier. Like a dad from the television or one of the daddies who picked up her friends from school.

She pulled the zip up hoodie tighter around her. Molly had laughed when Sherlock had zipped it up over her swimming costume as the evening grew cooler. The bottom of the jacket reached below her knees and the hood had drooped down over her eyes but it was soft and smelt like her father. It felt like safety. Molly had rolled up the sleeves and told her to be careful not to trip before kissing her on the forehead and sending her on her way.

"Actinia equina." Her father spoke, pointing down at something that looked like a beautiful, alien flower. A deep red thing with tentacles that reached out and danced in the water like flames.

"Ack-tin-ya eck-win-ah." Sophia repeated slowly. She knew she hadn't said it right by the smirk on her father's face. She had stumbled over her letters and put too much emphasis on certain syllables. Sherlock didn't say anything though and instead nodded his head.

"More commonly known as the beadlet anemone." He continued.

"It's pretty." Sophia muttered in awe, deciding not to bother trying to pronounce 'anemone'. "Can we pick it and bring it back to Molly? She'd love a sea flower."

"It's not a plant, Sophia." Her father told her. He pointed towards the long snaking things that Sophia had assumed were strange petals. "They're tentacles. About 192 of them to be precise."

"Wow." She whispered.

"That's how they catch their food. They stick to the rocks and wait for small fish or shrimp to swim past and then the tentacles guide them to it's mouth which is also it's anus." He looked down at his daughter, clearly expecting a reaction. She stared back blankly. "It's butt, Sophia. Anus means butt."

"It's butt?!" Sophia cackled. "It's mouth is it's butt?! It poops from it's mouth?!"

"Touch it." Sherlock told her, quite regretting mentioning the whole 'anus' fact. Sophia scoffed and shook her head.

"I'm not touching it's butt."

"Touch it's tentacles." He clarified.

"I don't want it to eat me with his big butt mouth."

"The stinging cells on the tentacles are far too weak to effect a human being." Sherlock announced. "Plus, they only eat small fish and shrimp." Sophia hesitated. While she did believe her father, she didn't like the sound of 'stinging cells' or 'butt mouth'. How sad would it be, she thought, to die just over a week after being shot at by Moriarty all because of a stupid butt-mouth not-flower? It'd be a let down. A shame and a disappointment. "Trust me." Her father prompted.

She took a deep breath and reached into the cold water. Her father's hand gripped to her elbow to stop her from toppling in. Seaweeds dances around her fingers as they made their way hesitantly towards the anemone. The red tentacles swayed in the water, unaware of the little girl reaching towards it. The pad of her finger brushed over the ends of its long arms before she yanked her hand back out of the pool with such force that she almost fell backwards off of the rock. Salty water spattered onto her face in small drops.

"See." Sherlock said, helping her regain her balance. Looking down into the pool, she saw the anemone slowly moving. It's tentacles curled into itself, retreated until they had disappeared. What had once been a beautiful flower-creature now looked like nothing more than a blob of jelly.

"Wow." She breathed in amazement. Sherlock shifted. His legs had began to cramp up from being sat on his haunches for too long. With one hand on the rough rock beneath him, he moved carefully until his back was to the rockpool and he could perch on the edge of the rock.

Sophia did the same with help from her father's steady hand. She dangled her feet over the side of the rock, the waves from the sea splashing up to tickle her toes. It was only then that she realised how far out they had gone. The rocks that littered the side of the beach stuck out from the land and into the sea like a pier. They were far from the sand now. Far out from Molly and the small camp she had set up. Sophia didn't feel worried though. All they had to do was follow the path back that they had taken over the rocks to get there. Her father would guide her with his careful eyes and graceful balance.

Plus, the sea didn't scare her at all. Not the angry waves that crashed and roared or the fish and sharks that were bound to be swimming around underneath. She liked it. It was so vast and great that it made her feel peaceful. Sherlock had said that humans had only explored less that five percent of the ocean. There was still so much down there that they didn't know. She wanted to jump right in and sink to the bottom. She could explore it herself. She could spend her days searching the sea caves and underwater cities. Becoming friends with the magical sea creatures that nobody had ever met before. They'd keep her safe down there. Far away from anyone that could hurt her.

"I wish I could be an anem-mo-nem-mo-nem-a-nee." She announced, pulling the sleeves over her hands that were starting to grow cold.

"Anemone." Sherlock corrected. Sophia watched his feet in the sea below them. He was tall enough for them to be swallowed up to his ankles. They looked like two, big pale fish swimming at the surface. "Why?"

"I'd like to be able to curl up into myself like that when someone tries to hurt me." She replied quietly. For a moment, her father didn't reply. All she could hear was the sound of the waves crashing onto the shore and then sucking up the sand and shells. In the distance she could see Molly sat on a deckchair with two empty ones next to her. She was reading a book, her feet buried into the sand. Sophia waved over at her but she wasn't looking up to see. She was like that when she read, completely absorbed. Sophia would have to repeat herself multiple times until Molly looked up and, with a blush, asked her to repeat herself.

"Nobody's going to hurt you anymore." Sherlock stated. Sophia looked up at him. He was staring out to sea. She wondered what if he was thinking about pirates. About big ships and sword fights. About mermaids and maps. Most of her life, she would soon realised, would be wondering what her father was thinking. What was happening behind those blue eyes that always seemed to be working or solving something.

"Is Moriarty dead?" She almost heard her father's breath catch in his throat. He didn't turn to look at her. "When the police came in they fired their guns hundreds of times." She continued. The gunshots rang out in her mind. Like fireworks but horrible and with no beautiful light show at the end. Only white hot pain and screams. "Did he get hit? Did he die?"

Another silence. This time the waves were drowned out by the beating of her heart.

"Molly and I have been talking..." Sherlock started. His words were deliberate and clear. He had thought about this, known she was going to ask and practiced the answer in her mind. "And we think it's best that we don't answer that."

'We'. The word made Sophia's heart smile for some reason. The idea of he and Molly talking, deciding something calmly without Sherlock making his deductions or arguing that he was right, seemed so ordinary and peaceful. It was as if they were a proper family. If she closed her eyes she could imagine them having a calm conversation about stupid, mundane things like what to have for tea or where to go on their next holiday.

"If we tell you that Moriarty survived then there's no doubt that you'll have severe anxiety and paranoia." He told her. "If we tell you that he died you'll blame yourself. You're sensitive, Sophia. You're so..." He struggled for a word. His eyes stayed at the horizon as if he could find the right word there. "Human."

Sophia thought his statements through before concluding that, like most other times in her life, he was right. The idea that Moriarty was alive and well scared her. That he could creep out from any corner at any moment. It made her feel sick. Even if he was in prison or locked up in a bunker somewhere underground, she knew he could escape. Nothing could hold him back. Not all of the biggest strongest men and women in the world would be able to hold him back.

But the idea that he had died struck her with the same nausea. He was a bad man, a horrid, evil man who had done horrid, evil things but he was still a man. A person. A human with a heart and lungs and finger and toes. Soft skin and hard bones.

She remembered one time when she had went to visit Molly in the morgue with her father. There had been people standing outside crying. Grown adults crying as if they were children. They had leant on each other as if they would fall without the support. At first it had scared her. Adults didn't cry. They shouldn't cry. They were supposed to be brave and strong. She clutched onto her father's hand and waited until they were in Molly's lab to ask why they were crying.

"They just identified their brother's body." Molly told her as her father busied himself with one experiment or another. "He was murdered. So sad." She caught herself then, apologizing to Sophia for telling her the gory details. For forgetting that she was a child.

She imagined that somewhere Moriarty had a mummy or a daddy. A brother or a sister. An aunt or an uncle. Someone who would weep when they found out he was dead. She imagined them outside Molly's morgue, clutching onto each other as greif made them melt into the floor. The image made a lump grow in her throat.

"When you're older..." Sherlock started, bringing Sophia back to where they were. Back to the cold sea that splashed up against her shins. "When you're mentally developed enough to understand properly, then we'll tell you." He looked down at her, probably expecting her to argue back but she didn't. She just nodded. "For now just... concentrate on being a child."

/

Night time was always the worst. Sherlock would lie in the stiff, uncomfortable double bed he shared with Sophia, knowing that it was only a matter of time until she woke up screaming. The nightmares were always the same. Ever since he had kidnapped them, Sophia had nightmares plagued by Moriarty. It would have been naive to think that the holiday could have changed anything. She still woke up in the early hours of the morning, screaming about Moriarty and how he had killed everyone she loved.

It was difficult to calm her down. In her half-awake state she was always convinced it was real. She's scream and wail, begging for her father even though he was holding her in his arms. Molly would come into the room and silently sit down on the edge of the bed next to Sherlock. She wouldn't say anything but Sherlock would wonder if she had come in to calm Sophia or support him.

He soon noticed Sophia trying to put off her bedtime. She'd beg for ten more minutes, one more hour, until the end of the boring programme they were watching. They were on holiday after all, she insisted. They were only going to be there for a week. She wanted to make the most of it.

Sherlock didn't mind too much, anyway. He let her stay up until she fell asleep wherever she was sat but made sure she knew not to get used to it. As soon as they were back at Baker Street bedtimes were to be enforced again. But for now she was allowed to do as she please. That night it meant staying on the beach for as long as possible. She had tried to insist on them sleeping on the beach but Sherlock had drawn the line there. They could stay out on the beach until she fell asleep, he told her, but they definitely wouldn't be spending the night when they had a perfectly good bed a few feet away.

It had been Molly's idea to set up a campfire and make s'mores after finding out, with much shock, that neither of the Holmes' had ever tried them. It had also been Molly who set up the fire and lit it with nothing more than woods and sticks found at the beach and Sherlock's lighter.

"Will you teach me how to make a fire?" Sophia asked, still in complete awe that Molly Hooper could create a campfire from virtually nothing. She held a stick over the fire, careful not the let the flames lick at her fingers, and roasted one of the big-fat marshmallows that Molly had hurried to the shop to buy. "Obviously, daddy's not going to show me how."

"The skill has never been required on a case." Sherlock answered, still sour that Molly could impress his daughter so easily at something he couldn't do. "We live in a flat in London, not a tent in the middle of the forest."

"Did you never go to scouts?" Molly teased before taking a bite of her own s'more. A blob of the white marshmallow dropped out from between the two chocolate digestives sandwiching it. "I learnt to make a campfire in Girl Guides. I have the badge still somewhere. I got most of them... except the sports badge. I've always been rubbish at sports."

"Actually, mother did make Mycroft and I join scouts." Sherlock told. "I was kicked out before I managed to gain a badge." Molly smirked but didn't look all too surprised.

Sherlock watched her as she helped Sophia sandwich her half-burnt marshmallow between two chocolate digestives. When they first met, he could never have suspected how vital she would become. The caring part of her that he had initially detested was quickly becoming the part of her that was most grateful for. She had saved his life on many occasions, not including the incident on St Bart's roof. Times when she had done what Sherlock couldn't or wouldn't. She had said the right words when Sophia was crying. Soothed her when she was hurt or said stern words when she was throwing a tantrum. She had taken her on shopping trips to buy new underwear when she had grown out of her old ones or presents for her friends before birthday parties. She had gone to school shows and presentations when Sherlock was busy with a case. Not once had she complained or asked for anything in return.

"So it was Mycroft then." Sophia announced, snapping Sherlock from his thoughts.

"What?" He asked, wondering if he had zoned out and missed part of a conversation. He did that sometimes but he look on Molly's face told him that he hadn't and she was just as confused.

"It was Mycroft... who saved us." Sophia continued, staring at the fire in front of her. "He recognised the theatre in the photo. If had hadn't... we'd be dead." For a moment, Sherlock wondered what had brought the previous conversation about how John found where they were, that they had had at the hospital, back to Sophia's mind. He quickly dismissed the idea of trying to find out. A lot of the time things popped up in Sophia's mind that would have nothing at all to do with anything going on around her.

Sherlock looked over at Molly, panic in his eyes. It was amazing, Molly considered, that the detective could face evil men, brushes with death, atrocious crimes and other things that would make the toughest of men cry and be so calm but it was a eight year old girl that made him panic.

"Well..." The detective fumbled. He knew he had to answer carefully. This was only the second time she had voluntarily brought up the subject of Moriarty and he didn't want to say something that would cause her damage. Children were strange like that. One thing could traumatise them for a lifetime. One wrong word and, boom, they were a serial killer.

"It wasn't just Mycroft." Molly continued softly so Sherlock didn't have to. "John and Lestrade found the photograph and your social worker was the one who took it on his phone. There were lots of people looking for both of you." There was a moment were the only sound was the crackle of the fire and the crash of the waves. Sherlock shot Molly a look that he hoped seemed thankful. The quiet they rested in was comfortable. Everything about sitting around a fire with Molly and his daughter was comfortable.

"My mummy's dead, isn't she?" Sophia suddenly stated. Molly froze, s'more hovering centimetres from her lips. Her eyes darted towards Sherlock who was staring back at her, just as helpless. John had told him all about Sophia's mother's death and how they were assuming it was Moriarty. He was told of the photograph on the bedside table and the local talks of her loving boyfriend. It was only to be expected that he didn't react in any strong or emotional manner. He nodded, as if he already knew, and continued on his day. No one mentioned it after that, waiting for the right time that never seemed to come.

Molly had been told by Lestrade the day they found her body. He had told her as a sort of 'heads-up' as the body was being sent to St Barts and would be waiting for an autopsy in the morning. Molly went into work early the next day. She didn't know exactly what had compelled her to want to do the autopsy. A morbid curiosity? Respect? Duty?

The autopsy itself was one of the longest Molly had ever performed. Whether that was because of the state of the body which was barely recognisable as a person let alone a woman Molly had once met, or Molly's shaking hands and regular breaks to regain her composure, she didn't know.

She took the rest of the day off.

"Moriarty said that she died. He killed her, didn't he?" Sophia spoke, her voice wasn't emotional. She wasn't distraught or hysterical. The was a numb calmness about her. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Yes." He answered clearly. Molly waited for the young girl to cry or scream. She had seen people identify bodies in the morgue. She had heard parents, brothers and sisters, friends and other family members scream when they realised they recognised the body lying on the table. Those screams stuck with her and played in her mind sometimes.

"How did he kill her?" Sophia asked, looking down at the fire in front of them. With her bare toes she swirled patterns in the sand. If she had looked up from the fire that warmed her cheeks, she would have seen her dad shake his head ever so slightly.

"I'll tell you when you're older, Sophia." He replied quietly. She opened her mouth to protest, a frown already set across her brow, but when her eyes met her father's she knew to let it drop.

"Why, though?" She asked, her face softening. "Why did he kill her? She had nothing to do with anything. That's not fair."

"Before he took us," Sherlock started, his voice calm and slow. "Moriarty tricked your mother. He lied to her and pretended he was somebody he's not. He made your mother think that he loved her so they started a relationship. He pretended that he wanted a daughter himself and asked a lot of questions about you. That's how he knew you'd be going on the trip to the farm."

"When I had to visit mummy in the visiting place...you know, with the social worker... that's the boyfriend she was talking about." Sophia declared, piecing it together for herself. "She really loved him and he killed her." Sherlock could see her mind working behind her eyes. Different assumptions clicking into place. Her views on relationships and trust being warped.

"Your mummy loved who Moriarty pretended to be." Molly interjected. Reached over, she placed her spare hand over Sophia's smaller one. "She didn't really love Moriarty. He tricked her because he's a good liar. He's good at pretending." Sophia nodded her head numbly. Sherlock knew it was going to take years of professional help to sort out the damage that Moriarty had done, but Molly's words were a welcome start.

Sophia didn't speak about Moriarty or her mother after that. Soon after Molly had changed the subject to something trivial and unrelated, she fell asleep in the deckchair she had been sat on. Swaddled in her father's jacket with the hood pulled up and Molly's coat that had been draped over her like a blanket, Sophia looked much younger than she was. Much smaller and much more vulnerable.

"She'll be OK." Molly spoke, pulling Sherlock from his thoughts. He looked away from his daughter, noticing that the flames in the fire had dwindled down and the sky was much darker than he had realised. He also suddenly realised how close he was sat to Molly. They had both moved to the floor, sat on a blanket so that they wouldn't need to shout over the sleeping child that sat in the middle deck chair. "I know that you're worrying." Molly continued once Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Her leg bumped against his as she moved ever so slightly. She didn't seem to notice but Sherlock did.

"My daughter has been through what is looking to be the most traumatic event of her life." Sherlock stated. "You would be telling me off if I didn't worry." A smile flickered across Molly's face. Breif and quick. "What?" Sherlock questioned, not finding now exactly the most humorous moment of all.

"You're so... different." Molly said before catching herself and becoming flustered. Her hands began to fidget at her lap, tugging at the hem of her shirt. "I mean... now. You-you've changed. Not a... bad... change." She paused, regaining control over herself. The sound of Sophia's soft snores filled the silence behind them. Molly took a deep breath before speaking again. "What I'm trying to say is... you're not the same man you once were. Before John... and before Sophia."

Sherlock thought about it. Whilst he still wasn't father of the year, not even close, he had to admit there were some things he had managed to get his head around. At the start, the first day that his daughter had turned up, he had loathed everything about the idea of being a father. But now, after everything that had happened, he realised there were a few things that he liked.

He enjoyed teaching her things. Not trivial, stupid things like tying her shoelaces or how trees grow. No, he left that to the school. He got a kick out of telling her things that she found amazing and interesting. Things about pirate legends or internal organs. The stages of decay after death or how to tell if someone is lying.

In a selfish way, he liked being seen as a hero. It was almost like when John first moved in but much more intense. Sherlock could remove a spider from the bathroom and Sophia would be in awe. When he solved a case, she didn't call him weird or a freak. She didn't tell him he was showing off when in fact, he was.

Everytime he picked her up from school she'd run up to him and wrap her arms around his waist like she had never expected to see him again. It was as if there was nothing he could do that she wouldn't be amazed by or quickly forgive.

Then there was that strange feeling he had developed once she had come into his life. Something that flared up in his chest when he saw her accomplish something no matter now small. When she finally got the hang of playing the simplest tune on her violin. When she was on stage doing an awkward dance routine with a bunch of other little brats. John said that it was pride.

"There's one thing that's never changed." Molly announced, pulling Sherlock back to the beach. He looked over at her silently. Neither of them noticed the young girl behind them shift slightly. Her eyes opening slowly as her limbs stretched underneath the coats.

Sherlock was far too focused on how close Molly was sat. On her hand that had come to lay over his as it rested on his knee. He looked up at her, their eyes connecting briefly before both awkwardly looking back down to their hands. "You survive everything... and so will she."

"I've only survived with help from other people." Sherlock replied, thinking back to the fall, to being shot in the chest by Mary, to his breif exile, to everything that had gone wrong, even the small things. When Sophia got chewing gum stuck in her hair or when he had to deal with John not being able to help out on cases as much. There was always a constant. In almost everything that had gone wrong in his life. There was always the same person there to help. "... from you."

"I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock." Molly whispered.

Sophia saw, in her sleepy state, their heads move ever so slightly towards each other. They stared into each other's eyes, reminding Sophia of all the princess movies she had seen where the prince finally sees that the girl he needed all along was right in front of him. Molly's tongue glided over her lips briefly and in the dim light of the fire, her father looked nervous.

She didn't watch.

She closed her eyes and snuggled deeper under the coats that covered her.

For once in what seemed like forever, Sophia Holmes felt safe.

A/N: Well then, that's that. This story is officially completed.

Bye.

...

nah, I'm just kidding. How could I leave you guys. It's been yearrsssss. Even if you just started reading this and it's been 50 years since I posted it, we have a bond, I'm sure you agree.

ANYWAY, because I'm actua and can't leave this alone, I'm going to post a sequel, chances are it's already posted as you're reading this! Isn't the internet magical. So click on my profile and get reading

I love each and every single one of you. Even those who don't review. You're great.

So, follow me onto the next book of this series (is it a series?) or the next completely new sherlock fanfic I post (because I will)

And on that note,

Goodbye!