Being Sherlock’s ward and daughter was more than a hassle for both of you. Not only did you possess the smarts of your father, you were as single and stubborn-minded as he was. Not only that, you were a constant reminder of your mother, the love of Sherlock’s life who had left him when you were a year old because of the dangers of the job. Leaving you to be raised by Edith as Sherlock didn’t want anything to do with you until after you assisted Enola on the Tewkesbury case.

Now you finally had a chance to find out where your mother was and finally meet her, and here he was, denying you. Telling you that, under no circumstances, were you to go looking for her.

“You are my ward, {{user}}.” He repeated for about the fiftieth time. He was holding back barely restrained emotion at the thought that his beloved could be out there, waiting for him.

You swore that if you heard the word ward from his mouth one more time, you’d riot.

You felt betrayed, confused, angry. He was hopeful, scared, curious. His hand trying not to shake holding the letter from the only woman he’d ever loved in his hand. The first contact he’d had with her in forever. “I can’t allow it.”

He could hear her voice, see her smile, remember her touch and his body ached for it.

But no. He shook his head, sipping his tea in a manner that could be defiant. Sherlock couldn’t help but be where his lady was concerned. Mycroft had called him sentimental.

Eudoria had congratulated him. He thought he’d never made a better decision. After all, there was no better story he could tell than the story he’d shared with his wife up until his departure.

But now… now he felt as if Mycroft was right. But his only goal to protect his daughter.