Sarah takes John to the train.

"No Sherlock?"

John wrinkles his nose. "Nah. He's pants at goodbyes anyway."

She smiles and takes his hand as they wait on the platform. Sarah wonders for a moment how they look together-like newlyweds? Like a couple that's been together for years and years? For her part, John's hand in hers feels like coming home, and she squeezes his fingers.

John squeezes back and continues. "I asked Lestrade to give him some cold cases to chew on."

"You're worried about him. Four days without you."

"No, I'm not, I'm just…"

She looks over at him with a facetiously receptive expression. Yes, John, tell me all about how not worried you are.

He relents. Admits. "Concerned," he says.

She turns her head to look across the empty track. "I'll keep an eye on him." She doesn't have to see his face to note his surprise.

"Think he'll let you?"

And in that moment she finds that she does. She and Sherlock have been filling in the puzzle together over the months, and they're nearly done. Just a piece of sea and sky left to go.

She goes round Baker Street in the afternoon and has tea with Mrs. Hudson, and they chat easily as they sit, half-waiting for the madman to appear. He does, in the middle of their second cups, the door banging shut, swift steps sounding as he ascends.

"Think you ought to go up?" Mrs. Hudson asks, and Sarah shakes her head.

"We haven't finished our tea," Sarah says. "Plus, I think he needs a few minutes to untwirl himself, don't you?"

Mrs. Hudson laughs like a dying owl, and Sarah can't help reflecting giggles back to her.

Once she settles, her eyes are bright and she looks over to Sarah with acres of fondness in her gaze. "It's so wonderful that he has both of you now."

Sarah smiles at how much Mrs. Hudson adores Sherlock, at what a family of oddballs they've all become.

"We all have each other, Mrs. Hudson," Sarah replies. "You, too."

And now Mrs. Hudson is near tears and Sarah feels a pang of guilt, but, of course, Mrs. Hudson makes it all right.

"We're family, Sarah. That's what it is. The family we've chosen."

She pats Sarah on the hand and stands, fussing with clearing away the tea things, and Sarah feels her touch, her words, resounding in her chest like the bells of St. Paul's.

Sarah steps into 221b without knocking and finds Sherlock sitting in front of the fireplace, hands steepled, staring at John's armchair. He doesn't look at her, doesn't move, so she comes around to him. She balances herself along the arm of John's chair rather than sitting in it, and finally Sherlock's eyes dart up to hers.

"Checking up on me?"

"A bit."

"Giving him detailed reports?"

"Only if you start shooting things."

Sherlock smiles a little at that, though he attempts to hide it. "You can tell him Lestrade tried, but I've already solved the three cold cases he had for me."

She smiles. She will never stop being impressed by him. She runs a hand over the back edge of John's chair. "Seems wrong to sit in it, somehow. I mean, I know he wouldn't care, but still."

"Sentiment," Sherlock dismisses, but she notes he also doesn't tell her to go ahead and sit in it.

"Yes, well. Mrs. Hudson was out of biscuits and I'm starved. You?"

"I don't have any biscuits."

"Are you hungry, Sherlock?"

"Not particularly."

"Well, I'm going to make some soup from what's edible in the fridge, and then I might stick around and watch some mindless telly."

"You miss him," Sherlock says.

"Not yet," she answers, sliding off the chair's arm to stand. "Probably around Saturday night I really will," she says as she walks over into the kitchen. "But for now, mostly it's just Thursday and I'm hungry."

She rummages through the fridge, and she can hear him get up, the sounds of his fingers flying over the laptop keyboard drifting in from time to time.

Sherlock puts down his bowl of stew, only having eaten the beef and the carrots. He settles back against the couch, drawing his dressing down around him. "This is ridiculous."

Sarah, already reclined, says, "And wonderful."

"A band of superheroes arguing like children, and we're supposed to believe they end up saving the world?" Sherlock grumbles.

"Shall I choose something else then?"

"Whatever else is on is more than likely even worse."

"All right, then." She sets her own bowl down and leans back against the sofa, lifting her sock feet up onto the low table. After ten minutes of wriggles and flops, Sherlock ends up lying on his side, his legs tucked around Sarah. She has one hand on his ankle, her other arm coming to rest along the curve of his hip, and Sherlock is gripped by the urge to keep her. His eyes travel away from the screen to the armchairs that frame the fireplace and he wonders how he could have been so slow.

Sarah's favorite color-green? SH

Yes, but you probably already knew that. Why? JW

No reason. How's the conference? SH

Small talk? Now I know you're up to something. JW

And now I know you're bored. See you Sunday morning. SH

My train's not until 3. JW

Right. SH

On Friday, Sarah comes back to 221b from the clinic ready to sink into a heap and order take away, and she toes her shoes off at the base of the coat rack straight off. Finding herself alone in the flat, she pads over towards the kitchen to rummage through the menus. Halfway there, she freezes.

A green chair sits between the red and the grey.

Wordless, Sarah nearly tiptoes over to stand in front of it. Its velvety upholstery is a deep forest green, the nap of the fabric waving over the tufted back, the gently winged sides. On the deep seat rests a square silk pillow, patterned with twining vines and bright leaves.

Her fingers reach out, pet the rolled arm, slide to the pillow and grasp an edge. She brings it up into her arms and then she is folding herself into the green chair, tucking her feet up beneath her.

She thinks of Sherlock shopping for chairs and cannot picture it firmly in her head, and yet the proof surrounds her, holds her in its embrace.

She hugs the pillow to her belly and lets the flood wash over her, tears falling unchecked as her fingers caress silk and velvet.

When Sherlock finally comes home, she makes tea and he makes a fire. He asks her question after question about rare infectious diseases as they sit, he in his chair and she in hers.

On Saturday, Sarah brings over bags and boxes and Sherlock doesn't help as she goes up and down and up and down the stairs.

Sunday morning, early yet, the light still weak and grey in Baker Street. John stands very still, eyes on the dimly illuminated bed in his room.

Their room, now.

The empty boxes, the third chair, this tableau before him-even he could deduce it.

Sarah has chosen to move in, has chosen them. And Sherlock helped her choose.

John watches as Sherlock breathes against the bare skin of Sarah's belly, the hem of her shirt bunched up under his face where he has nuzzled it out of the way. He sees where her fingers rest at the nape of his neck, half-buried in inky curls.

John toes off his shoes, climbing into bed along Sarah's left side. She turns her face towards him, eyes blinking open slowly.

He can tell from the look in her eyes that she sees it; the stupid, overwhelming happiness inside him doubtless readable on his face, despite the low light.

"Hey," she says softly.

"Hey," he says, and his voice cracks around the word. He dips his chin and nuzzles against the warm skin of her neck. He wiggles his right arm down between their bodies. His left hand goes to meet hers, their fingers twining together through Sherlock's hair.

Sarah kisses the top of his head. "Welcome home."

John feels Sherlock's breath, a warm flutter against his forearm.

He feels Sarah's arm cradle his shoulders, drawing him in.

Home.

Notes:

Not possible to thank everyone adequately for all the love and support I've received over this story. Thank you forever to my betas, Jude and Armada, and thank you to everyone who graciously answered my questions about asexuality, and thank you to everyone who has read, kudos'd, commented, reblogged, recc'd... I am full of love and gratitude for you all.