A/N: And we come to the end of it, four more chapters then I expected later. . I thank all of you for the amazing response this has received! Wow, I can't believe the amount of reviews and support I've gotten- I'm proud and flattered. Reviews make my life, haha! For those of you wondering, perhaps, about the loose ends here- this is meant to be done in a series of short fics and one shots. Further stories will fill in gaps and blanks, as well as delving further into the boy's pasts as well as Watson's, and their futures.

I once again thank KCS for her (somewhat belated, through no fault of her own) permission to use and abuse Alfie; I'm thrilled someone I respect and admire so much not only enjoys my work but let me use an OC of hers and her friends. ^^

Also, said KCS informs me that she sees something of Bones McCoy in my Mycroft voice. 0.o While this is unintentional, it tickles me in all the right ways, and I had the dopiest grin on my face after hearing it. Oddly enough, it feels appropriate- Bones often plays the Tired and Tolerant Older Brother Figure to Jim and Spock, and he takes absolutely no BS- and poor Mycroft is the Tired and Tolerant Older Brother who I see as also taking absolutely no bullshit. They both strike me as being protective and possessive as well.

If anyone wishes to play in this world, please, feel free; if there are any questions, just poke me.

My condition is only this; please send me the link if you do anything with this universe. Thanks!

Crash!

Slam, THUD!

"Sherlock-William-Watson-Holmes!"

"Not my fault!"

"Lier!"

John Watson's existence has changed immeasurably. After two months, he is no longer merely a half crippled ex-military doctor, but a father, something he never thought he'd get to call himself again. Not after his wife died. Not after his daughter died.

But now he has two very much alive, and very much not infant children currently stampeding through his house- and a third that's not his but might as well be.

With the progress of time, Sherlock has not gotten much bigger. He will always, John thinks, be rail-thin; but he's going to get some height, much like Mycroft predicted. He's a wild one, that child; smart as Watson perceived and every bit as curious as a kitten. He wants to know how everything works, why everything does what it does, and why people do what they do. He was never once shy-from the moment he was strong enough he was a litany of questions and comments.

Schooling bores him out of his dark-haired little head, however. He had a devil of a time even convincing the boys that schooling was yes, necessary, no, not too expensive, and yes, going to happen, like it or not, Sherlock Holmes, and get down from that bookshelf-

Mycroft is considerably calmer then his brother. Considerably larger, too, once given the chance; the boy fills out rapidly and doesn't share his younger brother's troubled relationship with food. (Privately, John is concerned when he notices the way Sherlock seems to simply disregard food; according to Mycroft, even before he was a bird like eater, but with his body trying to recover and recuperate, he needs nourishment.)

Mycroft, on the other hand, takes great pleasure in food and eating, and seems almost desperate at first to make up for the time he was deprived of both. If John isn't careful, the boy will quickly become overweight, yet for the moment, he's just barely at the weight a bigger child like himself should be. Mycroft is tall, too, and built heavily. In fact, at the moment, he looks more healthy then his slimmer younger brother.

In many other ways, he's the same; inquisitive, but not the sort that will go racing about outside or climbing trees (though he has, twice, climbed up to the roof to haul Sherlock down, and shown surprising skill in it) and far more content in book-learning and studies to teach him anything he does not yet know. He's far above others his own age, schooling wise, and just as observant and clever as his younger brother- even more so, actually, from what John can see. He's fairly sedentary, and while Sherlock is eager and enthusiastic, accepting John as a part of the family with the ease of a seven year old and the desperation of an intelligent young man denied affection; Mycroft is wary and untrusting even two months later. But he's progressing; slowly, he's progressing.

Alfie and Sherlock now swing down the last four steps, and Mycroft is mere steps behind them. He snags the back of Sherlock's shirt as they get to ground level, yanking him off balance.

"Do I want to know what broke?" John asks, looking up from the book and sending the tangle of boys a glance.

"A wind-ow!" Mycroft's voice ends in a sharp growl and he promptly flips his little brother over his shoulder and drops him onto a nearby sofa.

"You broke a window?" Mrs. Hudson's going to kill them. And then me.

"We didn't break a window, we just sorta.....cracked it....." Alfie's voice trails off. John groans, putting his head in his hands.

"Alright, that's it. Alfie, out. Go home. No, don't give me that look, go home." He's fighting to keep the amusement from his voice, but Alfie isn't stupid, and can pick up on it easily. He grins unabashedly at the man, and John pinches the bridge of his nose.

Sherlock perks up from the sofa, gray eyes twinkling under his mop of hair. "You're a bad faker, Watson." He informs with a grin of his own. He's never referred to him as 'doctor' or 'Mr'. It's always just been Watson. Mycroft is trying to break him of the habit; Watson can't bring himself to care.

"I may not be able to stay angry, but Mrs. Hudson can." He reminds.

"At least you don't have to be here for that." Sherlock says, and Mycroft tickles his ribs once-resulting is a snorted laugh and a kick to the leg- before standing up.

Alfie agreeably heads home after being given a few sweets to take with him and it's up to John to herd his boys upstairs, Sherlock wide-eyed and almost hyper awake (yet another unusual quality to the boy) and Mycroft already yawning. Mrs. Hudson won't be back for another hour or so yet, which gives him time to clean up and put the two of them to bed.

He can't believe that he has to consider that as part of his daily life now.

He limps up after them, listening with a wry smile to the sounds of Sherlock's voice ringing off the walls; Mycroft's deeper, calmer voice sounds out in echo.

He leans on the door frame of the extra bedroom which has become their bedroom, the two boys apparently oblivious to his presence. They are in the middle of a rather violent pillow fight, poor Sherlock being absolutely pummeled by his bigger sibling, and he smiles to see them acting like children, like the boys they are.

It's about time they had the opportunity.

It won't last; he knows that. There's still the process of speaking at the trail of the murders and kidnappers; while their mother willingly and unflinchingly gave up custody of her two boys, neither one seems to have dealt with it yet. It's more like it never even happened, and that, John knows, is far from healthy.

They are far from 'okay'.

"Alright, you two, eno-oof!" He grunts as a pillow hits him clean in the stomach, and instantly Mycroft freezes, looking for all the world like a puppy caught with his master's best shoe in his mouth. John raises a brow, looking at Sherlock-who is perched on the headboard- and then down to the pillow now at his feet.

He picks it up, slowly. Sherlock gets down, and crawls across the bed to Mycroft, biting his lower lip and watching John with those wide gray eyes of his. John lifts the pillow, hefts it-

-and it catches Mycroft full in the face.

Sherlock yelps in surprised delight, Mycroft ends up sprawled over the bed, and just as John is busily laughing at them both he finds himself double-teamed. He lets Sherlock take him to the floor and promptly begins the gentlest of wrestling matches while Mycroft watches from the bed, legs tucked up as if to get away from the danger zone.

So of course John has to reach up and haul him down.

When Mrs. Hudson returns, the house is far too quiet for her comfort. She does not hear the sound of the two children, and the place is spotless, which makes her all the more concerned. She troops up the stairs quietly, listening hard for muffled giggling or hushed voices; but still, there is nothing.

Upstairs is dark, and she pauses, worrying her lower lip. She knows that the danger is not completely gone, regarding the boys- suddenly, she's stricken with worry. What if something happened? What if those horrible men had gotten loose, come back, hurt them?

She pushes open the boy's bedroom door, very slowly. What she sees inside makes her clamp a hand over her mouth, the other pressed to her chest. Tears spring, unbidden, to her eyes, and a smile curves up her lips.

On the bed, seven year old Sherlock Holmes is curled into the tiniest ball imaginable in the crook made by John Watson's shoulder and side. His little fist grips Watson's sleeve in a loose sleep-hold, and his head rests on the man's arm. On the adult's other side is Mycroft Holmes, head on his ribs, one leg thrown over the older man's.

And between them, John himself is sleeping peacefully, smiling in his slumber, free arm situated around Mycroft. The bed is destroyed. The room is destroyed. Bits of pillow litter the floor. Someone spilled something in a corner, and one window is badly cracked, the drapes down.

But as Sherlock makes a content little sighing sound and burrows into John's ribs, she can't be angry. The journey, for these boys, is far from over; but they are no longer alone in it.

Maybe they never were, she thinks, someone must have been watching out for them. And him, too. He needed them and they needed him, and the Good Lord saw fit to bring them together. He does indeed work in mysterious ways. She whispers up a soft prayer of thanks- and for strength, too, for them in the next few months- and backs out of the doorway, shutting it gently behind her.