A/N: Woo and update! This is the final chapter in this fic, though probably not the last thing I will write for this universe. Thank you to everyone who has been reading this, I appreciate it more than you can imagine. Thank you for the wonderful comments you've all left on this. Thank you for being patient with me as I wrote all of this. You guys are the best, really. Again, I have German in here. If any German readers see it and are horrified by my less than perfect grammar, please tell me so I can fix it. Danke!

Also, I'm moving everything to my new AO3 account. I have the same username (inatrice). I will probably continue to post new things here as well though, so. Yes thank you again, it's been fun!

John paced feverishly in the cabin of the small private jet. He'd been flying for about 6 hours and, Mycroft promised, would be landing in London in about 2. He could hardly keep still. He had killed James Moriarty. He had fucking killed James bloody Moriarty. And now Sebastian Moran was at his flat about to kill his family. A fire burned in his chest. If only this jet could move faster. Then Sherlock and Lana would be safe. He needed them to be safe. Otherwise this would have all been for nothing. He would have betrayed the trust of the only man he loved and probably scarred his daughter for life.

With a frustrated cry, John threw himself down into a seat. It would take too long to get from the airport back to Baker Street. He would be too late to save them. He was already too late, he could feel it.

Sherlock willed himself to stay calm, to keep his breath even, to keep his thoughts centered. Lana was watching him, bright blue eyes pleading and tear-filled.

"What do you want?" Sherlock growled.

The man's nose twitched and a murderous glare broke out over his face. "Your soldier boy took something of mine. I'm just giving him what he deserves."

Everything about Sherlock paused.

"What?"

The man laughed, the sound full of mirth. "Yeah, your Johnny? He's alive. Faked his death." The blonde took in a shaky breath and shifted his grip on his gun. "And then he went and …"

"Who the hell are you?" Sherlock demanded, a blind fury rising in him. Surely this man was lying. He'd buried John, the dental records had matched. He had seen the man fall to the ground.

"Sebastian Moran. Pleasure's all mine." He cocked his gun, eyes blazing, lips twisted in a cruel sneer.

"No please stop!" He shouted, unconsciously taking a step forward. His hand stretched out toward them, fear making his blood turn to ice. "God please no, not Lana."

Moran paused, an odd expression on his face. "Are you expecting me to show you mercy?"

"The child, please, just the child." Sherlock made a conscious effort to keep his voice even. "Take me instead."

After a moment's hesitation, Moran released Lana. The little girl ran as fast as she could away from the man. Sherlock dropped to his knees and crushed her to him, relief flooding him. His baby was safe. It didn't matter if he took her place. John was alive, yes he believed this stranger, somehow. He would to keep them safe, he had to.

Moran rose to his feet and glanced away. Sherlock kept his eyes on the other man and carefully pulled out his phone. He pressed it into Lana's jacket pocket. "Be careful, darling." He whispered to her in German. "You know what to do when there's trouble." Sherlock silently prayed that this Moran character didn't speak any German. He was silently pleased that he had taught Lana.

"Ja, Papa." Lana responded quietly. She was afraid, but they had run through this procedure so many times, Sherlock was sure she could do it. He might not make it out alive today, but he needed to make sure his baby girl did.

"Good girl," Sherlock said in his most comforting tone, back in English. He ran a hand over her dark hair and pushed back his fear and his sorrow. "Now go downstairs into Mrs Hudson's flat. Your favourite show is starting soon." Lana nodded and he kissed her forehead. He hugged her to him once more. "I love you so much, sweetheart."

"I love you, too, Papa." The little girl said quietly. Sherlock pushed he gently toward the door.

Sherlock turned back to the intruder as he heard Lana's steps on the stairs. Moran watched him with a strange look. "You really have changed."

"Sorry?" Sherlock's heart began to pound. If this man was going to kill him, he wanted it done quickly.

"Boss had said, you'd turned soft. Well, boring is what he used." Moran glanced over his gun.

"Boss …? Oh!" A few things clicked in Sherlock's brain. "You're Moriarty's sniper. The man who gets his hands dirty."

"I was!" Moran snapped, throwing his hands to his sides, eyes blazing with murderous rage. "Now I'm just a gun for hire again."

Sherlock paused. "John killed Moriarty?"

"He sure fucking did." Moran growled. "And now I need to take something of his. 'S only fair. You'll do I s'pose, though the kid would probably have stung a little more." A hysterical giggle bubbled out of the man. "Though who's to say I can't kill her after I've finished with you? Take everything away from the soldier doctor."

Rage began to burn white hot in Sherlock's veins. "Leave her out of this! She's just a child!"

"Please," Moran scoffed. "Those sentiments are for the movies, you arse. This is real life and sure as fucking hell ain't fair."

Sherlock took three steps toward the man. Moran raised his gun and Sherlock's chest bumped into it. "Have you no mercy?" He could hear sirens in the distance, and though it could be for anyone in the city, it sent a thrill of hope through his spine. Perhaps if he stalled just a little longer.

"None." Moran growled, eyes aflame again. "Boss made sure to burn that out of me as soon as I was hired."

The next moment happened too fast for even Sherlock's brain to comprehend. It was all instinct, something he was very much not used to. Sherlock's hand came up and just barely managed to push the gun off of his chest before it was fired. He grabbed Moran's wrist and twisted and yanked until he heard the other man cry out and a sick snapping of bone. The gun fell to the floor. Their bodies twisted and slammed together. Sherlock attempted to get a hold of Moran but suddenly there was a flash of a blade and then a hot blinding pain in his abdomen. He cursed aloud and collapsed himself on top of Moran. Maybe he could just get him pinned, keep him here until the Met showed. He knew Lestrade would make Lana's call a priority. If she had even managed to call.

Moran struggled under him, spitting curses. It seemed their fall to the floor had turned his blade against him. The world grew cold and black. Sherlock didn't fight to stay above the fuzzy silence that was dragging him down, down.

A man came flying up the stairs. There was a high pitched screaming. There were hands on him, he was being moved. He tried to speak, to tell the hands to leave him here because the blackness was blissful and please just finally let him rest, but what came out was something different all together.

"John,"

And then there was nothing.

John sat hands over his mouth, eyes raw. He felt like he was going to start crying again, but he'd run out of tears about half an hour ago. The slow steady beeping of the heart monitor was driving him mad but kept his hope alive at the same time. Darkness had fallen over London about two hours ago and John had been awake for nearly twenty-two hours. He was exhausted but there was no way he was going to leave Sherlock's side. Not now, not ever again.

The guilt that hung over him as he watched Sherlock lay, looking crumpled and defeated and dead, was over powering. This was his fault. If he hadn't left he could have protected Sherlock. If he'd have been more careful while he was away, if he could have somehow listened closer, looked at clues closer, he might've been able to prevent this.

But here he was, in the hospital, back in London. To be completely fair, Moriarty was dead and Moran was being held somewhere as well. It should have been a victory but, for John, this price was far too high.

The beeping of the heart monitor sped up and there was a breath from Sherlock before he shifted. John's heart leapt with happiness and dread. He hadn't even planned out what he was going to say to Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. He squinted against the harsh hospital lights and looked around in an almost drunken way. He froze when his eyes hit John.

"Hey," John whispered to him, offering a small, apologetic smile.

"You…" Sherlock seemed disbelieving. The heart monitor pumped out an erratic rhythm. "You're alive." John started to speak, but Sherlock's expression turned livid. "You're alive."

"Yes, Sherlock and so are you." John answered quietly.

"Fuck you, John Hamish Watson." The detective spat.

John tried not to let Sherlock's use of the expletive phase him, nor the horrendous insult – which he wholly deserved – get his spirit down. He didn't attempt to say more. Might as well let Sherlock get it all out now.

"I watched you die, you bastard." Sherlock continued, eyes blazing with a fury John had only ever seen turned on those who had hurt the one's Sherlock loved. "I had to identify a mangled corpse and believe it was you. How the hell did you manage that anyway? The dental records matched, John. The dental records! You left me alone with a baby. How the hell could you do that? You know I can barely keep myself alive. How could you?" Sherlock's voice broke and he looked away before rubbing angrily at his eyes. "How could you?"

John hadn't been expecting anything quite that emotional from the detective. The morphine must be affecting his thoughts. "Sherlock, I'm really sorry." The other man scoffed bitterly. "Really! You don't know how sorry I am. And disgusted with myself. It seemed like the only way I could keep you out of danger and make sure Lana was safe."

Sherlock turned a murderous glare on him. "Please."

"Hey! You were about to do the same thing from what I can remember!" John shot back, resentment rearing its ugly head. "How the hell is this any different?"

Sherlock slammed his eyes closed and put his fingertips to his temples. "I wasn't going to fake my death, you fucking berk. Where did you even get that idiotic idea from?" His eyes snapped open and then to the door way. John hadn't thought it possible, but Sherlock's expression turned even more homicidal. "YOU!"

John turned to see Mycroft standing in the door way, looking serene and unattached as he held a tear-stained Lana on his hip. She shied away from Sherlock's bellow.

"This was all your doing, you son of a mother fucking bitch!" Sherlock shouted.

"Such language in front of a child, dear brother." Mycroft tutted. John winced, knowing that was the absolute worst thing to say.

Sherlock let loose a feral scream and launched himself from the bed and at Mycroft. Mycroft let out a surprised cry as Sherlock's fist connected with his jaw. Lana screamed. John leapt between the brothers, pushing them apart, Sherlock still hurling insults. The morphine had left Sherlock clumsy and he teetered backwards, but John caught him and held him back from attacking his brother again.

"I hate you!" Sherlock said to no one in particular. "I hate all of you."

"All right, yes we know." John said soothingly. He reached over to Sherlock's IV and let more pain killers into the drip. "C'mon, you've been stabbed. Get back into bed before your stitches pop out, love."

"Don't you dare talk to me like that, John Watson." Sherlock slurred, finally slumping against John's grip. "I hate you. I do."

"I know." John said, rubbing circles into Sherlock's back and taking in a shaky breath. Christ it felt good to have this man pressed against him again. "I hate me, too, Sherlock." He helped the detective get back in the hospital bed. "Can I check your stitches?" He asked quietly.

Sherlock only nodded.

John pulled up the hospital gown to see the stitches were still in place, though the skin around them was an angry red from the outburst. He looked over the rest of Sherlock as well, making sure he was comfortable as possible.

"Daddy?" A small voice came from the door way. John turned and looked at his daughter for real. She was nervous, her small hand at her mouth and the other arm clutching tightly around Mycroft's neck. Her eyes were as big as dinner plates but they held a flicker of hope. John felt his throat close up and his eyes stung as his body could produce no more tears.

"Oh, my Lana. Baby girl." He took a step toward her, but Sherlock caught his sleeve.

"No! John! Please don't leave. Not again." He mumbled, only half conscious. "Please."

"All right," John muttered. He sat down in his chair again and slid his hand into Sherlock's. He shifted to look back at his daughter and held out his other arm. "Come here, love."

Lana slid out of Mycroft's grasp and stepped toward her father, head bent forward nervously. John scooped her up as soon as she was close enough and crushed her to him. "Oh, God, I've missed you." He mumbled into her hair, voice cracking. After a few heart beats, Lana began to hug him back.

"I missed you, too, Daddy." She said. "Will Papa be okay?"

John leaned back and ran a hand over her hair, tears spilling from his eyes. "Yeah, he should be, yeah. Gosh, you've gotten big."

Lana put her hands on John's face, wiping the tears from his cheeks. "Why do you look different, Daddy?"

"So the bad men couldn't find me." He told her seriously. John imagined he looked like shit. He hadn't even looked in a mirror since he'd landed about six hours ago, hadn't showered or shaved or even calmed his hair.

Lana's brow furrowed. "Will that bad man come back?" She asked. "He had a gun."

"No." John growled, anger twisting in his gut. "I won't let him. I promise you. And I'm never leaving. Ever again."

The baby nodded, satisfied for now. She leaned back into him. "I told you Daddy would come back, Papa. I just didi't know when."

John laughed weakly, squeezing Sherlock's hand and hugging Lana tightly to him again. He closed his eyes and began rocking gently, more to comfort himself than anyone else.

Mycroft left them without a word.

"Careful!" Sherlock spat. He had his arm tight around John's neck. John was helping him up the stairs and back into 221b.

"Yes, all right. Sorry." John mumbled, shifting his grip on Sherlock's torso.

"Schneller, Papa!" Lana called from the top of the stairs. She was positively bouncing with excitement. "Schneller!"

"Ja, bitte." Sherlock answered, breath coming painfully.

It had been a week and the doctors had finally let Sherlock come home. John was finally starting to look his old self again, though his hair was growing out awkwardly. He thought about just shaving it all off and starting fresh. He was beyond ecstatic to be home with Lana once more. He hadn't realized how much he had missed her. She had become more articulate while he had been away. And more confident and infinitely sassier. Sherlock must've rubbed off on her. Lana, it seemed, had forgiven John whole heartedly for disappearing and sending her world into chaos. She climbed all over him when he sat on the couch and constantly begged for his attention, which he lavished on her as much as possible.

Sherlock was a different story altogether. The man was distant and cranky when John had visited him in the hospital. One time when John was coming back to Sherlock's room after getting coffee, he saw Sherlock and Lana giggling together on Sherlock's hospital bed through the window. They had looked so happy. John had paused and watched them wistfully until Sherlock glanced up and his happy expression fell away almost immediately, replaced with an uncomfortable hesitant one. John's heart had fallen and he nodded awkwardly, pursed his lips and had headed back to the cafeteria.

In all honesty, John was very afraid Sherlock would never fully forgive him or fully trust him again. He beat himself up about that every waking moment of the day. He still hated himself for being convinced to leave his family the way he did.

The two of them topped the stairs and Lana squeaked in delight. She ran up to Sherlock and slammed into his body. "Papa!"

Sherlock let out a pained groan and John pulled Lana off of the taller man. "Hey now!" He said sternly. "What did I say? Be careful with your Papa. He's still in pain, love."

Lana ducked her head forward and looked up at Sherlock through her eyelashes, bottom lip pushed out only slightly. "Es tut mir leid, Papa."

Sherlock's face was still contorted in pain but he managed to say, "Es ist okay, aber vergiss es das nächste Mal nicht."

John's grip tightened on Sherlock's shoulder. He felt a twinge of jealously. Sure Lana and Sherlock had spoken German before he left, but they seemed to have grown so much closer through the language. It was something he was very much not a part of, glaringly so. He didn't understand a lick of German and that seemed to be Sherlock and Lana's only form of communication now. He sighed heavily, trying to let the annoyance and feeling of abandonment roll off of him. He deserved this didn't he? "All right. Who's hungry?"

"Me! Daddy!" Lana ran around the living room. "Daddy can we get Udon noodles?" She ran over to John and leaped up expecting to be caught. John caught her with a grunt, glad his reflexes had been honed in his time away. "Please, Daddy, please?"

Sherlock chuckled good-naturedly as he watched them. "She's certainly hyper tonight." He commented lightly.

"Well, both of her fathers are finally home." John replied, stroking Lana's hair. "Like we're a real family again." He smiled warmly at Sherlock.

Sherlock's lips twitched and he looked at the floor. John felt his heart clench. He wanted to throw himself to his knees in front of Sherlock and beg his forgiveness. He figured it was the least he could do. But he was much too proud for that and Sherlock would hate the act itself, so he refrained, but just barely.

John smiled back at Lana. "Yes, love. Udon sounds lovely." He glanced at Sherlock. "Think you can make it to the couch on your own?"

"Yes." Sherlock snapped, keeping his eyes away from John. "I would've had to if your adventures abroad had gotten you killed." The detective grunted and hobbled his way to the couch.

John stifled a gasp. "I know I've told you hundreds of times, but I really am sorry, Sherlock. So bloody sorry."

"Yes, thank you John." Sherlock hissed as he lowered himself on the couch. "Please do repeat yourself again. That will fix everything." He took out his phone and started scrolling through a news app.

Anger roiled up inside of John. He put Lana down gently and told her to go ask Mrs Hudson for some honey for the tea. He waited until she was out of earshot before he rounded on Sherlock. "Hey, fuck you. I'm trying really hard to be good to Lana and to you." He took a step closer to the couch, trying to catch Sherlock's gaze, but the detective's eyes were glued to the small screen in front of him. "I know I fucked up in a bad, bad way." John continued, trying to keep the pleading edge out of his voice. "I know it's not going to be easy for you to forgive me, if you ever will. I wouldn't forgive me. Hell, I don't know if I would have forgiven you if you had left to do the same thing. But please, can we be civil for Lana?"

The bridge of Sherlock's nose twitched and his lips set themselves in a defiant manner, the only signs that he had heard John, but he didn't reply. John's shoulders drooped and he scrubbed his hands over his face in defeat. "Okay," He said quietly, turning toward the sound of Lana's footsteps on the stairs. "Yeah, I know I should have expected this. If it counts for anything, I still love you, Sherlock. So much it hurts."

John took Lana into the kitchen and helped her put the honey away and together they ordered dinner.

Sherlock listened as John paced in the living room. He had been contemplating on letting John sleep on the couch, but the bed smelled of John again. He must've been sleeping here while Sherlock had been in the hospital. As much as he hated to admit it now, John's scent was nearly driving him mad. It made the cold spans of the queen size mattress near unbearable. Slowly, gently, he pushed himself to his feet. He pulled on his blue dressing gown and hobbled into the living room. Time to get this over with.

"I'm surprised your time away didn't make you lighter on your feet."

John started and whirled to face him. "Christ, Sherlock. Sorry. I'll try and be quieter." He started moving to the couch; face slightly flush, bags under his eyes more pronounced, tired lines deeper than he'd seen them before. Sherlock's eyes twitched as he realized just how hard John was taking everything.

"Are you coming to bed or not?" Sherlock asked quietly. He stared at the floor, refusing to let John see the surrender in his eyes.

It took John a moment to react. "Are … are you sure?"

"Hurry up before I change my mind." Sherlock hissed as he tried to sweep his way back to the bedroom. He wasn't going to change his mind, but he didn't want John to know. Sherlock's newest scar tissue twanged at his attempted flourish and he clutched his stomach. Bloody hell.

John's hands were on him in an instant. "You okay? Did you take your medication?"

"Yes, yes." Sherlock mumbled, pushing John's hands away, trying to look as though he recoiled at the stark concern in John's tired voice.

"Sorry," John whispered as they started moving toward the bedroom again.

"I told you to stop apologising, you twat." Sherlock snapped. "You know how much I hate repetition."

"Yeah, tedious, I know. Sorraaaghh." John bit his lip in an effort to keep the dreaded word escape again.

John's hands fluttered around Sherlock as he lowered himself into bed, hissing at the discomfort in his abdomen. "I'm fine. Just get into bed."

John did so in silence, which Sherlock was grateful for. The feeling of John's warm body next to him was nearly sinful. God how he'd missed it. The world seemed to be shifting back to its normal self, like things were beginning to clear after a thunderstorm.

"You left me alone." Sherlock said to the darkened room. He felt tension slam into John's body. "You left me in charge of such a fragile life that I cherish more than I should be allowed to. It's a miracle we made it as long as we did." Sherlock's hands ran through his hair. He hadn't meant to start spilling these words. They were raw, emotional, everything he really did not want to be right now.

"You would have figured it out, eventually." John said softly. John rolled onto his side and Sherlock could feel the hesitation in the other man's arms and hands. John wanted to touch him yet wasn't sure if he was allowed. Sherlock wasn't sure if he wanted to be touched. It would break any kind of resolve he had. "You are Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock tried not to react to the smile he could hear in John's voice.

"Would you really not have forgiven me if I had disappeared?" Sherlock asked tentatively. That thought bothered him somehow, sat wrong in his brain.

"Of course I would've forgiven you." John said instantly. "I would have been very angry at you, but probably not as long as I should have. I can't stay mad at you Sherlock, as surprising a concept as that is."

Something in Sherlock's chest shifted. Honestly, how long could he stay mad at John? John who loved him so purely, so completely. John who gave him companionship he never knew he craved. John who gave him an audience, comfort, and now Lana. John was irreplaceable and precious. He rolled onto his side facing John. "You're an idiot."

John chuckled. "Now who's the one repeating themselves?"

"Shut up." Sherlock reached out his arms and snaked them around John, pulling him close, throwing a leg over John's. He breathed in John's scent, reveling in the sense of home it brought. And oh God how he had missed this warmth in his bed. He pushed back a sob as John's arms wrapped carefully around him. He could feel John's body catch and his shaking breath was hot on Sherlock's neck. It struck Sherlock how much harder John's body felt. He could feel the more sculpted muscle through their thin t-shirts and the thought of seeing John exposed flooded his mind.

"God I missed you so much, Sherlock." John stuttered, voice raw, cutting into Sherlock's brain. "Every night was torture away from you. Every day was hell not being able to see you or Lana. I nearly made myself sick worrying about you two."

"Another reason Mycroft made a poor choice when he took you away." Sherlock told him.

"At least I killed Moriarty and two of his high profile henchmen." John said, nuzzling his face into Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock shuddered before he could control himself and hugged John closer. "Yes. And I'm so proud of you. You've made the world a safer place for us, and I can't resent you for that, no matter how stupid and idiotic the circumstances were." John let out a laugh that sounds more like a sob and a few heart beats later Sherlock could feel wetness on his neck. He ducked his head forward and pressed his lips to John's shoulder. His eyes rolled back involuntarily at the bliss of having John on his lips again. "Don't you ever dare even think about leaving again."

John pushed himself away and cupped his hands on Sherlock's face, pressing their foreheads together. Sherlock felt his breath come short. Oh God, John. "No never. I promise, I swear to you." John told him. "God Sherlock. I will fight tooth and nail to stay by your side. You and Lana. I will never leave you alone again."

Sherlock couldn't help the smile that broke out across his face. He didn't care that he should still be mad; all that mattered was that John was here with him, in his arms, breathing his air. He crushed his lips to John's and it was like a breath of fresh air. John was just as he remembered. Stubble stung his chin, John's marvelous tongue mingled with his own. They tangled together, pulling closer, closer, until Sherlock groaned at the pain in his abdomen. John loosened his grip and contented himself by running his hands through Sherlock's hair and oh it was heavenly.

"Papa? Daddy?" A small voice came from the doorway.

Both men started at the sound and John wrenched his head around. "What is it, darling?" John asked. Sherlock loved how soft John's voice always was when he addressed Lana.

"I had a scary dream again." The little girl confessed. She held her favourite stuffed pink kitten tightly.

John slid out of Sherlock's grasp and held his arms open to his daughter. "Come here, love. You can sleep by us tonight."

Lana padded over and John lifted her up and onto the bed, placing her between himself and Sherlock. Sherlock wrapped an arm around the little girl as he felt warmth fill him to the brim. Everyone he held dear in this little rectangle of comfort. He planted a kiss on the top of Lana's head. "Better now?"

"Yes, Papa." She answered shyly, curling around her kitten.

John kissed Lana's forehead. "It's late. We should all sleep." He tiled his head toward Sherlock and pressed a kiss on the detective's lips.

Sherlock returned the kiss, letting bliss settle over him. He was happy again, so happy. "Yes. Here together, a real family again. Just like you said, John." He felt John smile against his lips and Sherlock settled himself down in contentment as they all drifted to unconsciousness.