Ok, the last chapter. Never thought it would take a year to write —it was clear in my head, but life is a constant surprise (and, sometimes, a nuisance). I'd have to thank Ms. Adrienne Tyler, for making me notice that if I'm pushing people all day about writing their own stuff, then I should probably finish up writing mine. As "casting" for this chapter's OCs: Julianne Moore, and Domnhall Gleeson.

It should have been a cold, rainy day. In his mind, it was the only thing that made sense, even if it was such a commonplace. Instead, it was sunny, warm, a little humid. This ritual was thought to give everyone closure, but it was also reopening old wounds. The Holmes' parents were still processing all the new information about their children, and made a conscious effort of being there —for the children their sons were, for the lost childhood of Victor, as a penance for Eurus. They stood, firm and silent, at the back of the small group of people present in the memorial, with Mycroft standing a couple of steps behind them. That would be another wound that would take time to heal: the surprise and hurt to learn that Eurus was still alive, but hidden from them; the confirmation of her involvement on Victor's disappearance; the certainty that locking her up was their only choice at the time. That quiet, useless rage to the late Rudy, for choosing the most convoluted route while dragging Mycroft into all that craziness. There was still a long conversation looming over them, waiting to happen.

Mrs. Trevor, standing in the front of the church, was still a strong presence. Sherlock had been recovering some of the memories of those long afternoons at the Trevor's, with homemade ginger snaps and milk, tales being read and silly songs being sung by that kind, wonderful woman. While his own mother was brilliant and loved to share her puzzles with both Myc and him, Mrs. Trevor always had a "sunny disposition", and her dimples had been inherited by Victor, as well as her squared face, and her fiery red hair. The William that was —the William that was not Sherlock, of course— had learned to be a just a child, to roam free, and to love fairy tales thanks to the warmth she showed to both of "her pirates". Her smile could light the world.

All that happiness and warmth was long gone, but her resolve, her inner strength, just shone harder. Her facial features had become more chiselled, as if suffering had sucked her up. By her side, supporting her, was a lanky redhead, with a long face that was almost a carbon copy of the late Mr. Trevor's features: translucent eyes, prominent cheekbones, straight nose, strong eyebrows —only younger, probably six or seven years younger than Sherlock… The baby that came to give some comfort to a broken family.

Both had been kind, but distant. They had accepted the condolences from all family and friends with grace and ease, but their reaction to the Holmes siblings was as uncomfortable as one could expect.

— To be honest… I'm grateful for all your efforts in speeding things up. And I'm also grateful for you being so concerned with solving this cold case. It is good to finally putting our dear Victor to rest… But… I'm pretty sure you can understand the mixed feelings we are having.

— I know, Mrs. Trevor. I just wanted to let you know how truly sorry I am about all this. Victor was lost to us all, but we are also too close to the source of all this pain to do nothing more than apologize and respect the distance —that was Mycroft, as usual, doing his best to keep it diplomatic, and being interrupted by Sherlock.

— Mrs. Trevor… I… I wanted to let you and…

— George.

— …to let you and George know that this was the mission of my whole life. All that I'm now, all I've done, is the memory of searching for Redbeard… for Victor. I wish that everything would have turned out differently… But Victor and you will forever be an essential part of who I am.

— Thanks, Billy. You were always such a sweet boy… It is good to know that some of the memory of my lovely boy lives within you —said Mrs. Trevor, kissing his cheek— Now, if you excuse us…

Listening to those words provided a strange sense of closure, but being called "Billy" after all those years proved more difficult than he had imagined. Again, memories that seemed lost for good, displaced to make room for "useful" information, flashed in front of him. He gave up being William, Billy, after leaving Musgrave and starting a new life in boarding school: "Billy is such a childish name… Can everybody please call me Sherlock now?". The Sherlock he was used to be was everything little William was not: cold, distant, heartless, calculating, even rude. That was what Mycroft meant by that cryptic phrase of being "the memory of Eurus". His parents were the sole recipients of the shadows of that William, as a carefully crafted act that helped him maintain distance and appear "saner", more mature… Even when they were vaguely aware of his 'health issues' caused by 'overworking' (that was the story Mycroft and him had crafted about his time in rehab).

That Sherlock was irretrievably lost, as much as his sister had been during the delirious game she prepared for them both. Right now, he was beginning to learn who this person, this William Sherlock Scott Holmes, was. His sister's game had found a way to bring him back, too. She loved that softer side of him, in her own twisted way… That was what she was searching for that night, when she presented herself as Faith and they walked together sending Mycroft a message, sharing fish and chips…

He found himself at the back of the church, after walking silently, lost in thought. Mycroft had gone back to the spot where their parents were standing, leaving him alone, after slightly squeezing his arm… "Affectionate Mycroft" was such a strange occurrence that he noticed the feeling in his arm for a minute after it happened. That distracted him from perceiving the two silhouettes that came to stand beside him, one on each side.

The first one to take his hand —the right one, softly, carefully, just sliding her fingers in between his— was Molly. She was aware of not clutching too hard, remembering that he had just smashed them a week and a half ago. As he turned his head to look at her, their eyes met for what felt as the first time. In a way, it was. He pressed her fingers a couple of times, just as a slight sign of affection. Molly discretely wiped the tears of her eyes, and leaned in Sherlock's shoulder.

— It is still not OK… But we are healing. And I guess we can work it out together —she said, almost whispering.

— Thank you, Molly… We will —he hummed, and then gave her a small kiss in the crown of her head.

John put his hand over his left shoulder. There was no need for words –just a half smile and a nod from his friend, the only one capable of closing the circle: saying goodbye to his childhood one and only sidekick, while finding himself standing between two of the people that care most for him in the whole world. He isn't used to that. The man he is now is still learning the meaning of both using his brain and his heart, and letting himself be hold by others in times of need. Maybe that was the lesson Eurus had reserved for him, after all.