A/N: Final chapter, but of course not really "the end." :-) Just the end of this particular episode in my larger project. As I mentioned before, the developments here, taking place in late October, will cause me to have to revise my other story "First Christmas" which was posted last month. I'll get to work on that and have it up as soon as I can. (This is what happens when you don't carefully plan out a large project ahead of time. Apologies!) Thanks to everyone who has supported this story! Let me know what you think of this final chapter.

The Adventure of the Swinging Snitch - 9

Mycroft got out of the car and held the door. He shook my hand.

"Goodbye John, and thank you."

"Thanks, goodbye."

And then the black car slid off, leaving me with my burden of knowledge.

I stumbled into the clinic, hardly even aware of my surroundings. In an odd way, I was sort of glad to have my whole shift in front of me, before I would face Sherlock again. It gave me time to process what I had learned.

My first reaction, I am sorry to say, was to wish I could unlearn it. Maybe this was a bad dream and I would wake up to find I still lived with the Sherlock I thought I knew: a brilliant, quirky man that did not have a terrible tragedy hidden in his past. As soon as I became aware of my thoughts I was ashamed of them. If I wished it were a bad dream, what was it like for Sherlock and Mycroft? No, I had to accept reality for what it was: my friend and flatmate continued to suffer, would always suffer (to some extent at least) from the murder of his mother.

As I went on through the day, I came to see how more and more of the puzzle pieces that made up what I knew about Sherlock started to form a coherent pattern. His need to keep his brain occupied, his almost desperate need to unravel puzzles, his former drug habit (alluded to but never openly discussed), his disinterest in forming attachments, calling himself a sociopath without a heart, his close but tense and tangled relationship with his brother - all of these elements began to fit together in a way that, for the first time, started to form a more complete picture for me.

I recalled the nervous collapse he experienced after the incident at the pool with Moriarty. Moriarty had forced him to see that he did care. I remembered a trembling Sherlock, frantic over almost getting me killed, and then watching how quickly he rebuilt the walls of (seeming) indifference again - probably out of terror that he simply can't afford to care for, and lose, someone else who matters.

For awhile I felt a little hurt that Sherlock never told me the story, and that I had to hear it from Mycroft. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that was silly and unfair. After all, I had never shared with Sherlock the darkest moments of my life, why would I expect him to do something I wasn't willing to do myself? Glass houses and all that.

As my shift began to wind down, I started wondering what, exactly, I was going to do with my new knowledge. I felt that I had gained some important insight, but what to do with it? What would Sherlock even tolerate coming from me? How was he going to treat me, now that he would know that I know?

My mind went back to the evening a few days ago, when we went out to Angelo's and then for our walk around the city. He had seemed so relaxed and happy, for him at least. We were almost like a couple of normal friends having fun together. Would things ever get back to that point? I tried to be optimistic. After all, Mycroft had said that Sherlock had been worse than this before. If he could recover from worse, he could recover from this, right?

It was time to leave. I was putting everything away and getting ready to leave when my phone beeped. I had a text. From Sherlock.

Coming home?

Yes, want me to bring dinner? - I texted back

Sure

What you want?

Dont care

Sherlock was communicating. I took it as a good sign.

I stopped at our favorite Indian place and then hurried back to the flat. As I climbed the stairs I couldn't help but wonder what I would find.

I entered the sitting room to find Sherlock pacing nervously. He had made a dramatic appearance change from this morning: he had obviously showered, shaved, and put on one of his trademark suits. I remembered Mycroft's parting words to Sherlock from that morning and smiled.

"Hey," I said.

"Hey," he replied.

I went into the kitchen and found another surprise, it was clean. The most dramatic difference was that the failed experiment of several nights ago had disappeared, although it had left what looked like several nasty chemical burns on the surface. I set the food down and started getting out dishes to serve it on.

Sherlock followed me into the kitchen, hands in pockets, and watched me getting stuff ready.

"Here," I said, "dish yourself up some food." I handed him a plate and a serving spoon. "You want to eat in here or you want to watch telly?"

He didn't reply, but started putting food on his plate. I handed him some cutlery, and then he sat down at the table.

I dished up my food and got the tea kettle going. Sherlock was busy rearranging the food on his plate. Once the tea was ready I sat down and started eating. I still didn't have the faintest idea what, if anything, I should say.

Sherlock finally broke the silence. "John, I know Mycroft told you about our mother. It's ok. You can ask me about it...if you want."

I paused. "Sherlock, I really don't know what to say, except that...I'm so sorry. I know that doesn't help, but I just want you to know that...if there's anything I can do, ever, just let me know."

Sherlock nodded, not looking at me. He was still fascinated with the food sculptures he was making on his plate.

"I'm sorry I never told you," he said finally.

"I understand why you didn't. It's ok. There's nothing to be sorry for."

He glanced at me briefly, then back to his plate. There was another pause.

"Sherlock."

He looked up.

"You are amazing."

He looked puzzled.

"The way you solved the Sutton case. Everything you did. You figured the whole thing out start to finish under those circumstances...If I hadn't seen you do it myself, I could hardly believe anyone could do it...Nobody but you could have done that." I shook my head.

Sherlock had gone back to studying his food.

I continued, "You are the most extraordinary person I know, and that's saying a lot considering I know Mycroft. But he has minions, and technology, and top secret clearance...You do it all on your own. Everything you accomplish...it's all you. It never ceases to impress me."

Sherlock looked back up at me, his cheeks slightly flushed. We looked at each other for a moment.

"Thanks, John," he said thoughtfully. "But you know...I don't do it all on my own. Not anymore."

He gave me a slight smile.

I smiled back.