Disclaimer: I only own the ocs and the storyline, everything else is Doyle's, Gatiss' and/or Moffat's.

Let Her Go.

It was a warm day, as Elle drove her metallic grey BMW X5 northward towards the city. Her window open, blowing her hair into her face, she tried to think of it like any other day out. Parking around the corner from Baker Street, she turns towards the back seat, an urn sitting firmly in the middle seat, help in place by the seat belt. "Alright, sweet heart, not much longer now, I promise." she smiles sadly towards her daughters remains. Grabbing her charcoal grey overcoat and her handbag, she steps out of the car carefully, cautious not to trip on the uneven pavement in her tan sandalled heels. Looking back once more, making certain that the urn still sat safely out of the reach of anyone who might think it a good idea to attempt to steal it, she locks the SUV and walks away.

Breathing slowly, Elle knocks on the front door of 221, and waits. To say she was waiting patiently would be far too kind. Moving her weight from foot to foot, she anxiously looks around, searching for a sign of life from within the building. Eventually, she hears the hobbles of Mrs Hudson, along with a cry "I'm coming! I'm coming!" before finally, the door opens. "I'm so sorry, it's my hip" Mrs Hudson starts before noticing who is at the door. "Oh, Elle, dear!" the elder woman takes her into her arms, holding her tightly, not noticing the slight wince on Elle's face.

"Hello Mrs Hudson" Elle forces a smile as she steps away from her. "I don't mean to be rude, but I'm meant to be picking Sherlock up at midday, and it's 11:59, you know how he gets"

"Oh, of course dear" Mrs Hudson's smile falters slightly, realizing why Elle was here, "come inside" she ushers Elle into the small entry area, closing the door behind her. "I'll leave you to it" she attempts to give a reassuring smile, but it comes out as more of a grimace.

Walking up the staircase, Elle idly wonders if she'll ever get to walk up them without the weight of depression on her shoulders, shaking her head she realises that after today she would have no reason to come here again. Sighing to herself, she enters the shambles that were the lounge. Books were thrown around with random objects randomly popping out. It seemed the only clear spaces were the seats where John sat reading the paper and Sherlock sat fiddling anxiously with a pen in his fingers.

Clearing her throat, she looks directly at Sherlock, "ready?" she asks, her voice more shaky than she had intended.

Abruptly brought out of his thoughts, Sherlock turns towards her, a look of confusion evident on his face. "What are you doing here?" he asks sharply.

"What do you think?" she replies exasperatedly, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

"You're meant to come on Thursday" he replies, confusion causing him to frown.

"It is Thursday, Sherlock. Get dressed" she orders with a sigh. Obviously this wasn't going to be as quick as she had hoped. "Actually, when was the last time you had a shower?" she asks, as his smell wafts off him towards her.

"That would be Sunday" John supplies when Sherlock doesn't answer.

"Ok, shower. Now" she demands, grabbing him by the arm and practically throwing him in the direction of the bathroom.

"Hello, John" Elle sighs looking towards the exhausted doctor.

"Hey Elle, how are you going?" he asks carefully.

"As well as is to be expected. I presume he's causing you even more hell than usual?"

"Oh, that's one way to put it" John chuckles slightly in agreement.

Elle places her coat and bag on Sherlock's recently vacated chair, revealing a 1950's style peach off the shoulder dress. "I'll go fetch him some clothes" she sighs walking towards Sherlock's bedroom for the first time since helping him move in.

Delicately placing a pair of black trousers, underwear and socks on his bed, Elle starts to look through his shirts, finally settling on a dark navy silk shirt, she places it with the other items. Turning to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, wearing only a white fluffy towel, she moves away from the bed. "Do try to hurry, I don't want to leave her in the car any longer than necessary" she states, almost emotionlessly, not looking directly at him, before walking around him and back to the lounge where she gathers her items and waits.

Quickly, Sherlock joins her, wearing exactly what she had picked out, for once not rebelling against her choices at all. Biding John farewell, the pair leave the flat and silently enter Elle's car, both aware of the overwhelming weight that the small green urn in the backseat seemed to hold over them.

It takes only 15 minutes of silence until Sherlock breaks. "That dress, you wore it the last time we went to Cornwall" he words it carefully.

"Yes, I did. It seemed appropriate to wear it to... to send her off" she stutters slightly, a stray tear falling out of sight.

Looking over to her, Sherlock notices Elle has adopted an outwardly emotionless, cold visage, one he knew to always be fake. There was no point in time when Elle wasn't being governed internally by her emotions, but she had learnt how to control the appearance of said emotions a long time before they had met, for what reason, Sherlock had never asked.

The hours driving were spent in silence, excluding the quiet hum of the radio playing a mix of 80's music that Sherlock knew Elle to be partial towards. After four hours of awkward silence, they finally arrive at the small beach. Turning off the car, Elle takes out a large picnic basket from the boot of the car, along with a rug, motioning for Sherlock to take the remains of their daughter, encased in the small blue urn. Placing the blanket on a patch of grass, Elle bustles around, setting up a nice lunch of sandwiches, fruit, salad and tarts along with a bottle of red wine. When she is finally content with the layout, she quickly pours herself a glass of wine, not even offering Sherlock one. Lost in their memories, neither speaks, however, this silence wasn't uncomfortable, unlike the one on the way there.

Slowly becoming more inebriated, Elle's cold exterior quickly fades away. Shoulders starting to slump, head hanging lower, she takes off her shoes and lays down on the blanket, taking in everything around her. The smells, the sounds, the feel of sand under her left hand, she didn't want to miss a thing, knowing these moments were the last she would ever have with her daughter, even if she wasn't really with them anymore. Eventually, realizing neither had any interest in eating, and Sherlock refusing to have any more than one drink, knowing he would need to drive them home, they pack up the small picnic.

Walking up a hill towards a small cliff, Elle in bare feet, they stand at the edge holding the small urn. Taking Sherlock's hand in her own, Elle faces him. "I don't know what to say" she mutters quietly, tears starting to fall down her face.

"I don't think there is anything to say," Sherlock replies, looking tired, worn out. "All I can think of is to say 'goodbye'".

Elle nods, placing a small hand on the lid of the urn. When he too places a hand on the lid, easily covering her own, they open it, letting Grace's ashes fly away into the ocean with the wind. A silent 'goodbye' dying on their lips as they watch the remains of their daughter drift away. Rooted to the spot, they stand there until the darkness falls. Eventually, Sherlock ushers Elle back to the car, tears still streaming down her face. The sound of her sobs slowly soften as Sherlock drives them back to Baker Street and he notices she has fallen asleep.

Careful not to wake her, Sherlock carefully picks her up and carries her up the stair of 221b, placing her delicately on his bed and tucking her into the blankets. It was late when they returned, John having decided to take an early nights sleep to give them privacy in case they were to return. Sherlock slowly moves around the apartment. Finishing off a half empty bottle of whisky, he decides to go to bed also, for once, the idea of sleep comforting him, numbing the pain that he was trying so hard to hide.

Moving quietly, he gets into his bed, careful not to wake the woman beside him, he quickly falls asleep, hoping that tomorrow will be easier.

Waking in the early hours of the morning, Sherlock turns to see the other side of his bed empty. Not surprised, although possibly a little annoyed, he checks the entire apartment to see if Elle has left a note as she used to do when they had begun dating. Finding nothing, he falls back onto his bed with a sigh, only to hear his phone signal a text message.

An unknown number sent a solitary word: "Goodbye."

A/N: Well folks, that's it. Sorry that the entire thing is SUPER short, however... there will be a sequel. To be honest, I don't like calling the next part a sequel, as I intend for it to be much longer than this was, so perhaps I'll call this the prologue. Anyway, originally I was going to have it all together, but then this part was longer than expected and the feel is very different between the two parts, so I decided to cut this off here and continue on in another story. The second part will be called 'The Life I Call My Own'... or at least, that's the title for now. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this depressing short story, I promise the next part will be more uplifting, however, it was important that you know where the characters are coming from before I go on. I hope you liked the introduction to Elle, especially as she will a very prominent figure in the next part.

Thank you so much for the lovely reviews, follows and favourites! I really appreciate them. And don't think that just because this part is over that I don't want to receive any more reviews, I adore them!

Thanks again,

~Alive~