A/N - Bring tissues ✌

WARNINGS: Swears, heavily distressing scenes, traumatic incidents, mentions of death, grief...massive apologies but it's all for a reason...

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Birds. Black birds, she thought, maybe crows, maybe ravens. All were a cacophony: crying, crowing, caterwauling. So loud, the small girl thought as she played with one of her thin brown plaits, wrapping strands of hair around her finger as she sat on the wall, observing the flock high up above.

She wondered why she couldn't go home...

"Hey." Said the older boy, poking her purple-trousered leg, "So...what do five year olds do?"

"I'm seven."

"Five - seven - same thing." He waved his hand.

"It's not."

The boy chuckled, staring up at the greying sky.

"How old are you?" The girl asked.

"Sixteen."

"You look older."

"How much older?"

The girl tilted her head as she looked down at the boy, "Maybe thirty?"

"Woah there - that's nearly twice my age."

"It's because of your beard. I thought boys only grow beards when they're old."

The boy stroked the soft baby stubble that had begin to sprout upon his chin. Maybe if he looked older, he could get away with a lot more. He looked at the girl sat up on the wall, and shrugged off her comment. Honestly, he couldn't be arsed to explain puberty to a young girl - she would find out eventually.

"So, your name's Elizabeth?"

"Yes. And only Elizabeth. Not Beth or Ellie or Liz - "

"I quite like *Lizzie*."

"Not *Lizzie*." The girl frowned and then corrected him, "*Elizabeth*."

"Too long and pretentious for a seven year old."

"Maybe I like long." And she would have added pretentious if she knew what it had meant.

"I don't."

Little Elizabeth huffed, "What's your name then?"

"James but I prefer Jim."

"I think James is better."

"Too pretentious for me."

The two stared up at the sky a little longer, their beady pairs of eyes watching the birds gather and separate and twirl and dive. The girl wondered what it would be like to fly; the boy contemplated what the chances were of the Hitchcock movie *Birds* becoming a reality. Young Elizabeth's stomach flipped as she thought about home, about how much trouble her older sister would be in if she disappeared.

"I want to go home - I have to get back."

"No."

"Why no? You don't get it - "

"You're not going back."

"But why? If I don't get back then So - "

Jim had turned to grab her from the wall, setting her down on the pavement harshly. Crouching to be at her height, he leaned in closer to her face.

"We are never going back there." He hissed, "*Never*."

"But Sophia - "

"Sophia wants you gone. She doesn't want to see you anymore. She's sick of you and she hates you for ruining her life."

Her lip quivered, "But - "

"No 'buts'. End of story." Jim snapped, "She wants you to forget about her and your step-father because you were never a part of their family. You aren't blood. You're nothing to her or him, okay?"

Tearfully, she nodded.

His tone changed quickly though, from stern and cruel, to gentle, "That's why you have me though." Jim gently took the bottom corners of her matching violet jacket and zipped her up, "Now, I might not be blood either, but I can be better than them. This is a nice thing I've done, getting you out of there, away from that stupid, mean, old git - "

"That's a bad word - "

"Lizzie, do I look like the kind of person who cares about using bad words?"

The girl shook her head.

Using his thumb to wipe away a tear that strayed from her eyes, he offered her a soft smile, "Don't you think this is better, being away from that place? Away from him?"

Elizabeth thought about this for a moment, thought about how she hadn't been forced to do anything - she had after all, decided to take this stranger's hand and leave with him. Yes, she was being kept from going home now, but maybe that was for the best. Whenever she was around, Sophia would always get hurt because of her, that, Jim wasn't wrong about. Maybe her step-sister really did hate her for this, in which case it would be best to stay away. And her step-father always was a scary man who didn't seem to like her much. Her own mother didn't like her enough to stay with her (according to her step-dad) which made matters worse.

"Am I a bad person?"

Jim's brow furrowed when he was asked this, "I don't know, are you?"

"I don't know."

"Why are you asking?"

"Because no one likes me." Elizabeth elaborated, "Sophia doesn't like me and wants me to leave, my step-dad is always angry with me and my mother didn't love me enough to stay..."

"Well..." Jim considered this, but shrugged, "That sucks."

The young girl was clueless as to how to react to his lack of care.

"What? Does it not suck?"

She shook her head.

"Right, well. It sucks. But you don't need them when you have me." He paused, "Like I said, I'll look after you now."

"You're only sixteen though."

"And?" Jim scoffed, "Listen, there are girls that have babies - *babies*, you know, the things that don't stop crying and whining and fussing - younger than sixteen. How hard could it be to look after a seven-year-old even if I am sixteen?"

The teenager had a point there, "Are you saying you're going to be my new dad then?"

"Tut, feck off, I'm only sixteen."

Elizabeth's jaw dropped when he swore in that accent of his - it made the word sound funny but she still knew what it meant. Her eyes looked like they would pop out of her skull any second at hearing such a bad word though.

"You can't say that to a seven-year-old!"

"Can't I, Lizzie? I think you'll find I just did."

"That's rude though."

"What are you now, my mother?"

"No!" She chuckled now, baring a toothy grin, "Seven-year-olds can't be mums."

"No, I guess not."

Jim glanced around the empty road. They were on a stretch with no shops, trees towering high on either side of them and only one sign a couple of yards down. So early in the morning, there weren't many drivers which meant they had to get a move on while prying eyes weren't around. God knows when the police would be out searching.

"Listen, how would you like some ice cream?"

"For breakfast?"

"Are you really complaining?"

The little girl considered this and shrugged. Ice cream was nice, even if it was for breakfast.

"Right then, come along, Lizzie, we have a mile or two to walk first."

Elizabeth didn't like the nickname that Jim persisted in using for her but for now she tolerated it in order to get this treat she had been promised.

And as they walked, little Elizabeth's mind wondered back to early hours of the day, when she had awoken to sounds of yelling and fighting. She remembered wandering downstairs in the dim light, sleepily rubbing her eyes; she recalled standing in the doorway of the kitchen, hearing a man groaning, seeing the feet of her step-father peeking out from the side of the island; Sophia (in tears) and Jim hissing at each other. When they had spotted the girl standing there, Sophia had told her abruptly to get out and Jim had followed suit. She remembered crying and the sound of Sophia calling the police and that's when Jim had turned to her and said they had to leave.

Still half-asleep, Elizabeth had taken the boy's hand.

* * * * * * *

Inhale...exhale...inhale...

It's said when you die, you relive every moment in your life, you watch every memory your brain has stored like a movie, softly lulling you into the land of the quiet and the dead.

The moments that flashed in her head before death were moments she hadn't dared to remember in years, moments she had no reason to dwell on. She had a sister - how could she forget? In retrospect, the events that led to her life with Jim, and consequently to the grim place here, were greatly suspicious. What had happened back then? She would never know now, she supposed.

Exhale...inhale...exhale...which would be her last breath? Her eyes ached from having squeezed them shut so tightly, tighter still when that shot rang out. It wasn't as painful as she expected, almost like there was no pain at all, like the shock had just disconnected all the nerves in her body. But she still felt the coarse, uneven stone wall against her hands which were pressed flat and stiff against the uncomfortable surface; not once did her legs feel as though they were culled trunks; still, she heard the breaths of others.

Still, she was breathing.

Elizabeth discerned a gentle thud - someone had collapsed but it wasn't her.

Cracking open her eyes, her gaze met with the leader's steely stare once again. In situations like these, when she had been alone, she had no fear. Elizabeth had never been afraid of death itself (Jim had taught her not to be) and at some points in her life, she would have welcomed it with open arms. What she did fear though was what would happen to those around her. If she had to take a bullet for Jim, she would have, same for Shaun, Sherlock, John, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Hanna - and it was what she had tried to do now - she was willing to die for them. So why wasn't she dead now? Where was the pain? And why did his look, full of indifference and loathing, apathy and disgust, fill her with such nauseating terror?

Her eyes acknowledged that his right arm was still raised, frozen there in his own stupefaction, and her look followed the direction in which he pointed his revolver.

When her eyes landed on the woeful sight, she didn't - couldn't - wouldn't believe it.

But when that realisation hit her, it was a pain far worse than all the beatings, stabbings and shootings she had endured. A guttural, mournful, soul-crushing cry tore its way out of her throat as she shoved herself away from the wall with such hysteria that she fell to the floor. Numbed by the agonising sight that lay before her, her legs hadn't the strength to carry her and so she dragged herself despairingly across the gritty floor to the girl who lay by the cell gate, unmoving.

Very few times in his adult life had Sherlock shed grief but the scene that played out before him left him speechless and heartbroken. His watery gaze watched on, pained.

Elizabeth reached the motionless teen, sobbing and wailing louder when she saw the damage to her precious girl who lay face-first in a growing pool of blood and dust. Turning the girl with the utmost care, even though her whole body shook with passionate anguish, she let out a heart-wrenching howl that even made the other guards in the room uneasy. The ex-thief stared at Hanna's two, dark, glassy eyes, still wide-open as though they hadn't even registered what had happened themselves as she wiped the blood from her adoptee's gentle face.

"Hanna...baby...it's okay, it's okay...Hanna..."

Sherlock watched on, a wretched feeling of helplessness coursing through him rapidly as he was held back by the two guards.

"Why - why...?" Sherlock choked quietly.

The leader didn't respond to him though, instead placed his revolver back in its holder and silently (save from the gentle clicking of his bigger gun against his vest) stepped towards Elizabeth and a lifeless Hanna.

Seconds passed as he neared the pair and the second he was close enough, Elizabeth gave another primal shriek, tearing away from the girl she considered her daughter and leapt up at the leader as though she were a wild cat, seeking revenge on a poacher for killing and stuffing its family.

Sherlock tussled with the guards that held him fast as he watched Elizabeth's attempt on the life of the man that stole Hanna's.

She snatched, grabbed, groped, scratched, clutched and ripped at the leader's body and gun, but as she gripped his weapon tightly, attempting to rip the large gun from his torso, he, too, grabbed it and wildly pulled it back towards him, before thrusting it back at the ex-thief. The gun hit her square on the forehead, flinging her back to the floor, kicking up dust as she went. He aimed the assault rifle at her as she lay there, chest rising and falling rapidly, nostrils flaring and damp, dark eyes full of unadulterated contempt.

In fact, the look in her eyes then, Sherlock noticed, was remarkably similar to Moriarty's for, while they appeared frenzied, there was eerie calmess about them.

"I will kill you." Elizabeth hissed with the most unsettling coolness.

There was a click as he readied his assault rifle.

"No! Don't, just don't." Sherlock pleaded, "No one else needs to die."

"That girl," The leader spoke slowly, unmoved by neither of them, "Was Miss Parrish's incentive. Now, Miss Parrish is your incentive, Mr Holmes. Fix the problem she made or she joins the girl."

"Do you know what Moriarty will do if he finds you've harmed her?" Sherlock said.

"Nothing. Moriarty is dead. We may not receive much news about the West out here, but we do receive news concerning our investors."

Sherlock gulped, his throat sore from a lack of moisture and his eyes achey from persistently holding back the floodgates of his own grief for Elizabeth and Hanna. There would be time to mourn later - right now, he had to focus on getting them - her - out. He watched woefully as the seething, suffering woman maneuvered to cradle poor Hanna's bleeding head, her innocent blood seeping into and radiating across his ex-lover's zina dress as Elizabeth delicately shut the girl's glassy eyes.

"What - " His voice shook as he watched the thief weep, pained that he wasn't able to go to them, "What do you expect me to do?"

"Fix it. Get us the missiles."

"Yes, but how?"

The leader raised the gun, aiming it at the softly wailing woman, "I'm confident you'll work out how yourself."

The detective's gaze lingered on Elizabeth who woefully rocked back and forth with Hanna's body in her arms, stroking her blood-matted black hair, desperately whispering for the girl to start breathing again, for her heart to start beating once more, for her to open her eyes like she hadn't been wounded at all. He looked at the leader, his head clouded with heartache, but nodded. He would try to get them out of this still.

"Okay," He muttered, giving a little nod, "Okay, I'll...do what I can."

The guards who held him fast loosened their grip on him and directed him over to the struggling laptop. He still had to turn it on and off to see if that would get rid of the Iranian message. Fortunately for him, this actually worked, however, he still had no idea as to what to do.

"I - uh - Elizabeth?" She didn't respond to him, "Elizabeth, how did you get into the Iranian database?"

The ex-thief ignored him, simply continued to cry silently as she stroked Hanna's hair. Stepping over, the leader raised his gun at her again.

"Tell him how to access it."

"Fuck you."

Instead of shooting, he roughly shoved the butt of his gun in her face. Sherlock yelled at him in furious protest once again as he was held back by the other two guards. Elizabeth had fallen back on the ground, spluttering as her nose throbbed and started to leak thick blood.

"Tell him how or you die."

"Does it look like I care?" She hissed.

He raised the gun again, frustrated with her resistant antics and utterly resigned to the fact she wouldn't help anymore. So close to winning and he had messed this operation up - it was infuriating. Again, the detective yelled in the background to not, yet, Elizabeth returned to caressing Hanna's hair as it was the only part of her that didn't change in temperature, the only part of her that still felt alive.

The gun clicked.

Sherlock roared.

Elizabeth shut her eyes.

Another dreadful shot resounded.

But this time the leader fell to his knees, choking on blood that erupted from the wound in his throat, his hands desperate to stop the flow, but lacking the energy to do so. He fell to the side with a dusty thud, his blood now also mixing with the sandy grains on the floor.

Everyone had watched, stunned. Elizabeth and Sherlock didn't do it. The guards didn't do it. Who did?

A sudden boom erupted from the side of the cell, making the standing seven left in the room shake where they stood. They coughed from the dust that had been kicked up, but the six guards readied their weapons.

"NAQL!" Came a gruff, throaty yell as soldiers burst through the roughly made hole in the wall.

Instantly, Sherlock was released as his guards readied their guns. Without a second thought, he darted over to Elizabeth, sliding to his knees as he got to her. Chaos ensued around them.

"Are you okay?"

"Sherlock, I - Hanna - "

"I know, I know," Sheelock nodded, looking at the girl's body mournfully, "But are you okay?"

"I - "

A soldier approached them, "Mr Ashby, Miss...come with me, quick. More insurgents will be with us shortly."

"I can't leave her." Elizabeth shook her head wildly at both men, "I can't, not here, not - "

"It's okay, I'll bring her." Sherlock reassured, helping her up as another soldier approached them, "Take her, I'll bring Hanna."

"Mr Ashby, I don't think - "

"She's coming with." He snapped, moving to pick up Hanna's still corpse gently as Elizabeth was ushered out.

* * * * * *

Sunbeams blinded them as they were hurried away from the compound they had been held in. Turning back briefly to glimpse the exterior of their prison, both understood how it hadn't been found before for they were in the middle of nowhere and the structure blended in with the landscape far too well. The heat promptly dried the blood on Elizabeth's face and dress although it was not able to evaporate the fresh tears that sprouted from her eyes as they approached a person and group of vehicles. Helicopters also approached in the distance.

Salim waited by an army vehicle for them and rapidly opened the back doors for them both to clamber in. He thanked the soldiers that had escorted them and his relief quickly melted into a soft grief when he acknowledged Sherlock carrying Hanna in his arms.

* * * * * * *

"Are you both okay?" Salim asked quietly as he drove the three of them away.

Elizabeth said nothing, just held Hanna's body, still stroking her matted hair. Where was that orange shock blanket when you needed it?

"We're..." Sherlock was going to say okay but they weren't, not really, "I don't know..."

"We have a medic on standby back at the base. We can organise a...a coffin too?"

Still, Elizabeth didn't respond.

"Thank you, Salim."

The detective looked at Elizabeth, her hair slatternly swept, face and clothes dusty and bloodied, eyes puffy, brow heavy. Her one hand lay on Hanna's stomach as she cradled the girl's head. Sherlock moved his hand to take hers. Only then did Elizabeth break her gaze with the girl to look at him, her eyes full of moving sorrow and quiet rage. Her eyes searched his, he didn't know what for but she must have found it, for she moved to rest her head on his shoulder. Switching his hands and shuffling a little closer, he wrapped an arm around her, holding her close as they both looked at the tragedy that had befallen them.

* * * * * * * *

The ex-thief shuffled into her shabby apartment that she once shared with her Hanna, who was now laid to rest, and gazed around the room. It felt so much emptier and darker than before. Sherlock stood behind her in the doorway, following her lead, waiting until she asked for him or instructed him to go. Approaching the table where Hanna's workbook lay, she ran her fingers over the grimy, makeshift cover, opening it, tracing the letters and the numbers and answers that had been written.

"She deserved better." Elizabeth croaked.

The detective moved further into the room, still still giving her space, "You gave her better."

"It wasn't enough and now she's..." She looked up and away from the book, blinking back more tears, "I killed her."

"Elizabeth - "

"Don't - don't say I didn't because I did - "

"You didn't."

"Please, Sherlock - "

"You didn't pull the trigger. You did not kill - "

She slammed her fists down on the table, raising her voice, and pointed at him accusingly, "If I didn't kill her then you did! You did!"

"Elizabeth..."

She stormed up to him, yelling now, "You didn't have to drag us into this mess, you didn't have to give me the drive, you could have kept it, you could have stayed dead because maybe then she would be alive!" She shoved him, her breath a series of choked sobs. Her eyebrows knotted into an expression of pure anguish and remorse as she covered her mouth, "It - it's your fault - she could - "

Having been shoved, Sherlock, misty-eyed, hesitated for a moment before approaching as she stood there and sobbed into her hands. He wrapped his arms around her gently, just holding her.

"No - no, get away - away - you did this - " She cried, bitterly beating on his chest.

But he still held her, fast and close, until she stopped hitting and pushing, instead clutching and holding onto him for dear life as she sobbed. Her legs went, but Sherlock still held her tight, moving carefully to follow her to the floor as she painfully wailed.

And there the two stayed, Sherlock finally allowing his own grief to spill as he held onto his frail Elizabeth, trying his hardest not to break down entirely too, trying to calm her as best he could by rocking her gently, stroking her hair and placing a delicate kiss on the top of her head as he just held her there in a loving, unjudged, heartbroken embrace.

* * * * * * *

Hours passed since the funeral and since they had returned to her apartment. Elizabeth lay in her bed, holding onto one of Hanna's blankets underneath her own, half-asleep from the emotional toll of it all. She didn't know if she could stay here anymore, not after Hanna. She didn't even think following their original plans would be possible - simply too painful.

Sherlock had left for a short while, just to give her some space, only to return in the evening. He wandered back in with food (vegetables and meat that had been roasted on a fire), setting it down on the table. Glancing at her, he decided to approach.

"Are you hungry?"

She muttered, "Not really..."

"I'll get you a plate."

She moved to sit up, watching him search for some crockery, "I said I wasn't hungry."

"No, you didn't. You said 'not really', therefore implying you are but only peckish."

"Sherlock..."

"It's nice, the food." He said, dishing up a small bit for her now, "Had some before. Simple yet exquisite."

She gave up trying to stop him, "I thought you didn't eat on cases."

"I...finished the case."

"Right..."

He sat beside her, handing her a plate, nodding, wordlessly insisting she eat. For him, so he would stop fussing, she did and together they sat in silence, picking on the food he brought.

"I'm...sorry..."

He looked at her sympathetically, "It's okay. You're hurt. You're human. Humans like finding people to blame, even if they are wrong ones - it's a coping mechanism."

"I shouldn't have said it to you though because it was my fault - "

"We spoke about this - "

"No, it is. If I had been...better...she would still be here."

"And hundreds more would be dead because you gave terrorists access to a missile." He sighed, "It was their fault. They chose to k...they chose to."

She nodded, poking at the food on her plate, "Yeah..."

Again, silence fell between them.

Sherlock observed the woman sat beside him, for once acknowledging that the months they had spent apart and the events of the day had aged her. Bags hung heavy under her weary eyes, her shorter hair seemed lighter (though he acknowledged it may simply have been bleached by the sun), and her body seemed smaller and more frail than before - she was still beautiful though and she always would be to him, no matter what.

"I - um - " He looked away from her, as she looked up at him, "I spoke to Salim earlier and they've cleared the compound we were held in, consequently gathering a significant amount of information against the insurgents. He said they should be able to continue their investigations without my help but...Moriarty's network is still running."

"I imagine it rarely stops."

He scoffed, "Not unless forced, no."

"So you're going then, Mr Ashby?"

"Yes."

Elizabeth nodded, "Where to next?"

"Well, according to the knowledge I've acquired over time, I heard Greece is particularly lovely during September, especially for people smugglers."

"Nice." She paused for a moment, "I didn't forget, by the way."

"Hm?"

"Mr Anthony Ashby."

"Oh..."

"Why did you choose that name?"

"I think you might already suspect why."

"Did I really mean that much to you?"

"Elizabeth, you meant everything to me."

She smiled softly, "I don't think I can stay here...I - can I...can I come with you?"

Sherlock found himself offering a small smile back, "Are you sure you want to?"

Sniffling, she nodded, "Yes. I have nothing left here and honestly, I know things went wrong before but...you really are all I have left now."

The detective moved to take her hand, content with the idea of them spending more time together again, "Have you ever been to Athens, Verity?"