Sophia Holmes and the Empty Hearse (Sherlock's Daughter Fanfic) *Completed*

Chapter Nineteen - The Empty Hearse Part VII

Before heading back to Baker Street (and before John can tell everyone before us) we do the rounds on everyone we know.

First, we head to Barts, hoping to catch Molly before she finishes her night shift. I still can't bring myself to look at the building, and I have to grab dad tight as we pass the paving stones where his body lay. The blood has been wiped away with hundreds of days of rain, and yet I can still see it pooled there around his head; his clear blue eyes looking through me.

Dad checks the sign-out sheet in the locker room and sees that Molly's name hasn't been signed yet tonight. With her shift over in a few minutes, we decide to stay put. Dad, as the Drama Queen he is, pulls me into the shadows so we can do a dramatic reveal, and a few minutes later the locker room door opens again.

Molly walks in and takes her keys out of her lab coat before opening her locker. As the door swings open, the mirror on the inside reveals us and she gasps, turning to look.

"Sherlock, Sophie!" she says in surprise. "I-you're back!" She rushes over and wraps her arms around me. I smile and awkwardly return the hug. "Is it done?"

"It is," dad replies. "Time to change the records. Sherlock Holmes is alive."

Molly nods and lets go of me. "I'm the only one in, I'll do it now."

"Thank you," dad replies.

Molly nods again and moves back towards the door, but stops and looks back at us. "It's good to have you both back."

I smile in return and Molly heads out.

"Who next?" I ask.

"Lestrade," dad replies. "Can you find him?"

"He already knows I'm alive, so I'll call him," I reply, pulling out my phone. I dial Lestrade's number before putting it to my ear.

"Sophie!" Lestrade booms. "Good to hear from you again, was starting to think you'd gone awol again. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, all's good," I reply. "More than good actually. Can we meet up somewhere? I've got something to show you."

"As long as it's not one of Anderson's theories, then sure," Lestrade replies and I smile.

"No, don't worry," I tell him, stifling a laugh. "It's not."

"Good, well I'll meet you down in the car pound in ten minutes, yeah?"

"Yeah, sounds good," I confirm. "See you there."

I hang up and we head up through the hospital to get out, then hail a cab to take us across to Scotland Yard before going round to the car pound beneath the building.

We stick to the shadows again as we walk down, treading softly to avoid our footsteps echoing down the long, empty driveway. Lestrade stands at the other end, his back turned to us as he searches in his pockets for something, probably his lighter.

We move quickly and quietly as we enter the lit car park and move back over to the shadows of an unlit part. Still unaware of us, Lestrade continues rummaging in various pockets.

Dad steps forward and accidentally kicks something metallic, sending it clinking noisily forward. Lestrade looks around but doesn't seem to see us, and he resumes his search through his pockets until he finally finds what he was looking for. Tipping a cigarette out of the pack, he sticks it into his mouth, puts the rest of the pack back into his pocket and then flicks his lighter and raises it towards the end of the cigarette.

"Those things'll kill you," dad speaks up and Lestrade freezes, the flame not quite reaching the end of his cigarette. He stares into the distance while his brain catches up with what – and who – he just heard. Finally he lowers his lighter and takes his cigarette out of his mouth.

"Ooh, you bastard!"

Dad walks forward and I follow him out. "It's time to come back. You've been letting things slide, Graham."

"Greg!" Lestrade corrects him.

"Greg," dad repeats quickly.

Lestrade stares at dad for a long moment, his lips slowly lifting to reveal his teeth. Grimacing, he lunges towards Sherlock and wraps his arms around his neck and pulls him into a tight hug.

I laugh as dad groans – quite possibly because the hug is doing no good to his recent injuries acquired in Serbia - but he tolerates Lestrade's affection.

Eventually he lets go and looks at me.

"This is a lot better than one of Anderson's theories," Lestrade says with a grin.

Dad looks at him quizzically. "Theories?"

I grin. "Anderson had a bit of a break down after what happened and convinced himself you were still alive. He's started up a little fan group and everything."

"So put us all out of our misery," Lestrade says. "How did you do it?"

"Oh you know me, George. I'm not an easy man to kill."

Lestrade lets the name slip slide, but glares at him. "I suppose you're allowed your secrets. So you back for good now then?"

"I was never gone," dad says, before turning and striding away. Lestrade gives me a look and I shrug, amused, before following dad back out.

As I walk, I let out a long and loud yawn before realising I haven't slept in about three days. Dad looks across at me. "We're heading back now, but we still have Mrs Hudson to do first."

"This will be good," I laugh. "Though, let's try not to give her a heart attack."

When we walk back out of the car pound, the sun is out. 8.23, at a guess. Mrs Hudson should be up now.

We take the cab over to Baker Street and dad pulls out his key. God only knows where he's been keeping that for the past six months. He turns it and the door clicks open. The downstairs radio is on which means she's cleaning, but I can't hear the hoover which means she must be doing the dishes.

As we creep inside, I hear the tap turn off and the radio being turned down. As dad reaches towards the handle of the second door, I see Mrs Hudson's silhouette through the translucent window. Dad turns the handle softly and pushes the door open. As It gets wide enough to reveal us, Mrs Hudson begins to scream hysterically, waving what appears to be a saucepan in the air with one of her hands. 

"I'll talk with her," dad says quietly. "Get yourself off to bed." 

I nod gratefully at him and head up the stairs. The last thing I want to be doing right now is explaining again why I was away for so long. The wrath of Mrs Hudson can wait until the morning.