Title: A Story Unfolds: His Heart

World: Sherlock (Set after Series 3, no 'Moriarty returns', disregards Series 4 for now)

Main POV: Mycroft Holmes, may sometimes vary.

Rating: M for Blood, Gore, Adult Themes (of all kinds), and Strong Language

Beta: Myself (I do triple check for mistakes but if any, point them out :))

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, but I do own Elizabeth.

Author's Note: Hi-ho, Here it is, chapter four! Bit of a wait, I know. Apologies on that one. But alas! I have come baring a chapter! Just a shout out to everyone who has favorited, followed, and also reviewed, thank you guys so much! I really wasn't expecting a whole lot so it's been a nice surprise :) Hope everyone enjoys the new chapter, will put a warning down below, and I think I'll do it for every chapter here on out. But, that being said READ THIS PART: I just want to mention this story will touch upon the more darker side of things, I won't go too much into it, unless I get some positive feedback. I understand it's not everyone's cup of tea, hence the warnings I'll put below. Don't be shy, leave me a review or PM if it's something you'd prefer I don't write too deeply into it. Sexual assault, WILL be mentioned and touched upon, IF I decide to go down the route. But it IS a VERY big possibility, that I will. For, I like to make my stories as realistic as possible. Again, tell me what you think :)

Edit: Sorry guys not an update, I was fixing some grammar etc!

WARNINGS: VERY BRIEF MENTIONS OF POSSIBLE SEXUAL ASSAULT, MENTIONS OF PHYSICALLY ASSAULT, MENTIONS OF BLOOD

Mycroft turned his head towards the bedroom window, rain-splattered harshly against it, a great binding, white light flashed throughout the room, followed seconds later by a loud deafening rumble, before it settled down again and nothing but the harsh rain against glass could be heard.

With a sigh, Mycroft rolled himself entirely towards the window. His left hand ran down the empty side of the bed, he grasped at the sheet, another flash of white went through the room. The gold ring on his left finger shined brightly before the light receded and turned it dull once more.

Mycroft wasn't a sentimental man; emotions were not something he dwelled upon, ever. And yet tonight, the very heart people said he didn't have, felt like someone had grabbed it and decided to see just how hard they could crush it without killing him, repeatedly. It left he gasping for what little breath he could. Is this what dying felt like?

Emotions, he hated them, he understood them for the most part, but he chose to turn his back on them. It made his life so much easier when petty things like feelings weren't brought in, at least, until, she came along. She tore down the very walls he had carefully built up, showed him that caring could be an advantage.

Mycroft scoffed and turned onto his back, his ringed hand still clenching tightly at the sheets.

Caring is not an advantage.

The proof, as they say, is in the pudding. If he had never cared, then he wouldn't feel these things he had no desired to feel. He wouldn't be laying in bed at two in the morning wishing for a different course, another chance, just one more minute.

He took advantage of something he believed would be there until he was grey and old. But it seemed, life had pushed him down and spat in his face, laughing cruelly at him as he struggled to stand up. That he was destined to grow old alone, with nothing but his mind to keep him company, until that too, left him. He felt empty, and his heart felt cold as ice. And while he knew logically that his heart was still beating, why did it feel like it wasn't?

Mycroft struggled against the feeling to weep at the loss he had so recently suffered. Crying would not change anything. Crying never changed anything. It was human nature to die, it was the one thing a human was guaranteed to always do. Would his tears save them from that fate or even change it?

It wouldn't.

Even though he knew this, he was losing the battle to a war he had already lost. He cursed his perfect memory, for all he could see was her smiling face, the way she comforted him after a long hard working days. The warmth that once filled both the house and himself was slowly leaving every day, and yet, the man inside his head, his heart, chased after it. Desperately.

Caring was not an advantage.

Neither was love.

Mycroft turned his head back towards the window, watching as the rain pelted against the glass. Remembering a different time when a warm body was pressed against his own as they watched the rain fall, surrounded by such peace, it made him long for it once more. He squeezed his eyes shut as he took in a deep shuddering breath and felt the first tear slip pass his eye. His hand came up and wiped it away. He opened his eyes and stared in something close to disbelief at the wetness on his fingers. Surely, he had better control than this?

"Daddy?"

A small voice came from behind him, Mycroft turned towards his bedroom door, a soft glow from the hallway light showed the outline of a little body before the door shut with a soft click. Mycroft reached over and flipped on his bedside lamp, its light illuminated the face of his three, nearly four-year-old daughter, traces of fear and tears could be seen. In her arms, she held tightly to the little stuffed black bunny that her uncle Sherlock had given to her for her third birthday. Its right ear had a small golden hooped earring, something Elizabeth had demanded when she, herself had gotten her own pierced. Squashed tightly to her chest –and her bunny– was an old withered, tattered book, that no matter what, she refused to give up.

"Daddy," she started bashfully before another flash of white and sudden rumble made her squeak in fear and dive into her father's arms, bunny and all.

Mycroft tightened his arms around her as another, yet closer, rumble filled the room. An amused Mycroft looked down at the youngest Holmes "I thought you said you weren't scared anymore?" He asked, running his fingers softly through her dark brown curls. Silky to the touch, just like her mothers.

Elizabeth burrowed herself further into her father's shirt, "M'not daddy, I-I just couldn't sleep."

Mycroft chuckled softly as her hands gripped him tightly as another rumble of thunder hit their ears. He didn't need his deducing skills to tell him that she had lied when she said that storms didn't scare her, to make herself seem fearless and brave. No doubt she was hoping to impress Sherlock that she wasn't scared anymore.

Elizabeth adored her uncle, she always wanted him to tell her about all manner of things he deduces from his fellow students at university. Who stayed the night with who. Who cheated on what test. Silly things that Sherlock found meaningless but nonetheless indulged his niece with. That was when she wasn't following her father around like a little duckling. Something that always made Sherlock smirk and call him mama duck.

"Clearly," with a soft look and a fond smile on his face, he muttered: "Would you like to sleep in here with daddy, darling?"

He could feel her nod against his chest, with another chuckle, Mycroft settled the two of them into bed once more. Elizabeth snuggled up against him, her head laying on his arm as he took and moved her book with the other.

"Daddy, can we read it again?" she asked him as he went to set the book down. Mycroft paused, it was relatively late, and while she really should have been sleeping, he figured that neither of them would fall asleep any time soon.

"Just this once." He told her sternly, she nodded, a big grin overtaking her face.

Mycroft settled himself more comfortably on his back, his daughter moved and laid her head on his chest so he could use both his hands.

"Squire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island…"

Several chapters later, Mycroft put the old book down. Elizabeth slept soundly on his chest, gently he moved her to his side, her head resting on his arm once more. She let out a small noise before snuggling in closer, her bunny squished tightly between them. Mycroft turned and kissed her head lightly, not wanting to wake her.

Caring was not an advantage, yes, but perhaps the love he felt for his child was.

Mycroft picked up his bourbon and tossed it back, papers were spread messily over his desk. On top of them, laid a rather large plastic bag filled with his daughter's belongings from the accident. He felt very much like he did that night nearly eight years ago, his heart felt hollow and cold.

His personal phone rang and had been for at least ten minutes. A quick glance had told him it was Sherlock, even a few of them were from John.

How long ago was it when he told his brother his niece was missing? Four, five hours? It wasn't long after his brother –followed by Dr. Watson– and soon the DI Lestrade, left, that Mycroft had gotten a rather chilling message.

It had been sent to his personal phone, a single picture followed seconds later by four words. It made his blood run cold, and not for the first time since hearing that Elizabeth was missing did Mycroft feel extraordinary fear. He could do nothing but stare in horror, and if he were any other man, he would have collapsed to his knees.

Seconds later, or perhaps it was minutes, Mycroft regained some sort of self-control, and truly looked at the photo.

It was taken in a somewhat dark room, empty crates used for transporting wine as well as beer bottles sat in the corner along with empty boxes marked CASHEWS and NEW ZEALAND RED LEAN STRIPS, the floor was filthy, covered in dirt, grime, and water. The wall was half brick, half concrete, chunks of the walls were missing and from the looks of it damp. It looked like a basement, if not for the stream of sunlight coming in somewhere from the left of the photo. A window? Possibly, but there was too much light for it to be a window. So a door, an opened one. There weren't any pipes in the picture so where did the water come from?

Mycroft furrowed his brow, perhaps a place accessible to water? A river? The ocean? A stream?

The picture could have been taken bloody anywhere, if not for the corner of what looked to be the British flag. It had been kicked out of the way, but clearly not all of it. So they were still in England. That brought a sense of relief to Mycroft.

His eyes roamed over the photo once more before stopping at the figure who laid slumped on the ground. Dark hair laid scattered, in curly wet clumps, clothes slightly torn, skirt lifted two inches too high, Mycroft swallowed hard, he looked away, briefly, eyes closed tightly and exhaled deeply before turning his eyes back.

Another glance told him nothing of the sexual nature had happened, his mind whispered darkly, and unforgivingly: yet…

Clothes covered in layers of filth. Head turned away from the camera, arms tied tightly behind them. Bruising on their collarbone, arms, and legs. A dark patch on her right side, hidden by the lack of light showed something of an off colour taped to her shirt.

Elizabeth.

His mind supplied, heart, dropping to his stomach, he felt like he was going to be sick. His sweet, poor child. How had this happened, why had this happen. He'd give anything to switch places with her. Unable to look at her anymore, Mycroft swiped to the message:

COME AND FIND HER.

It wasn't long after that Mycroft had called for his car, ordering them to drive to his office. He gave his phone to Anthea and ordered her to take it to their best hackers and to locate where the message was sent from while also getting their people to find what was clearly a storage room of some sort of establishment, mostly like a bar or restaurant near water of a kind.

When they had arrived, Mycroft left the car without another word, ignoring all the people who scurried out of his way, like scared little rabbits. He would later be told that he had marched through the building looking positively murderous. Whispers would soon float around that they preferred their boss with no expression than the one he had worn.

Upon entering his office, Mycroft made his way to his cabinet filled with different kinds of spirits and liqueurs, his office door slammed loudly behind him, making it clear he was not to be disturbed. Grabbing both a glass and his expensive bourbon, Mycroft turned towards his desk, one, two steps and he paused. On it, was a large plastic bag.

And that's where Mycroft found himself sitting several hours later, the bottle of bourbon half gone and his mind buzzing in different directions, that's what the off colour patch was, his mind supplied.

His phone buzzed again, the screen lit up for a few moments before it stopped, seconds later it started again. With a dreary sigh Mycroft reached out and picked it up, he stared at the screen for a moment before clearing his throat, pressing a button and lifting the phone to his ear.

"What, Sherlock?" He drawled, eyes moving towards his desk.

For on his desk, next to the plastic bag was an old tattered book that laid open, the same book he had read to his daughter all those years ago, and many times since then, the same book that was found in the car surrounded by smashed glass, scattered pens, and paper. The very book his daughter adored but no longer read in fear of it falling apart in her hands, and yet, still carried with her everywhere.

Treasure Island, the book that was covered in blood.

So here we are, let me know what you think in a review below. Loved to hear any thoughts on it, keeping character I hope :)

And if you skipped the Author's Note above, I heavily suggest you scroll up and have a quick read.

Fav and all that jazz ;)