And here we are, at the final chapter/epilogue. Not much to say, more notes are at the end, so let's just get right into it!

Mrs. Hudson made her way up the stairs to Sherlock's flat with a cup of tea in her hands, wary due to the fact that she hadn't heard a peep out of him yet, and it was already mid-morning. Usually those dreadful nightmares meant the boy did not get nearly as much sleep as he should, and she would almost always hear him roaming about by this hour. She had been at her sister's the day before, and hoped nothing had happened to the poor boy.

As Mrs. Hudson gently nudged the door open, she caught sight of the sofa. She shrieked as she dropped the cup of tea, shattering the delicate cup.

A bruised and bloodied Sherlock and a man she knew to be dead jolted awake with wide eyes in a way that would be comical in other circumstances.

John untangled himself from Sherlock's tight grip, standing near the woman for fear she may collapse. A supposedly resurrected man would be quite a shock to anyone, not to mention someone of her age.

He awkwardly coughed. "It's good to see you again, Mrs. Hudson."

At John's words, Mrs. Hudson seemed to remember herself, and put her hands on her hips as she eyed John up and down.

"You are looking much too thin, young man. I am going to clean up this mess I've made, and then you will be telling me exactly what is going on here," she said in a shaky voice.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson."

"And the same goes for you, Sherlock Holmes. Don't think I've overlooked that state you're in!"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied.

As Mrs. Hudson turned to collect cleaning supplies from her flat - because God knows there were none to be found here - she grabbed John by the elbow, hauling him down the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson, I know it's hard to believe, but it was all a trick. There was a lorry, and-"

"That is not what I'm talking to you about right now, John. I don't know half of what you boys manage to get yourselves into, or why. I'm just going to tell you that whatever happens, you are never to do that to Sherlock again. I'm sure you must have had a very noble reason, dear. You wouldn't do this to him on purpose, nobody loves that man more than you do."

"Mrs. Hudson-"

"Oh, yes, yes, I know, dear. I'm simply telling you that you absolutely broke that man when you left him, and I never want to see him like that again."

"You and me both, Mrs. Hudson."

"Good. Now run along, I'm sure he wants to keep an eye on you at the moment."

Lestrade pulled up to 221B to check on the brilliant consulting detective. It had become something of a duty, these routine visits. He knew that lovely landlady of his was keeping Sherlock fed and sleeping, but Lestrade couldn't bring himself to just forget the man he owed so many solved cases to.

This was the young, lanky drug addict Lestrade had lifted from the gutter, forced to get clean, had been with him every step of the way when there was nobody else there to stay with him. The man who had shown that brilliant spark of genius, that thrived at the crime scenes he eventually brought him to. Lestrade could never forget the first time he had suggested Sherlock come with him, to see if he could make anything of the puzzling murder case. The young man had begun to make cautious observations that soon became a flood of deductions that nobody else had been able to see. And he was right, completely and utterly right, but that wasn't what Lestrade recalled so vividly. No, it was the look on Sherlock's face as the deductions flowed out of him, that wild grin of triumph and joy.

"What a freak. He's practically getting off on it," sneered a then-new member of the forensics team.

The grin immediately fell off Sherlock's face. A brief look of hurt flashed across his face, but was quickly replaced by cold indifference. As he had turned to leave, Lestrade pulled him aside.

"Sherlock, that was...that was something else. I have a feeling we'll be calling you again. Would you mind?"

Sherlock had smirked almost shyly, a faint shadow of the grin he had once worn. "Not at all."

That had been nearly five years ago. Sherlock had not been to a crime scene since his loyal blogger had died. But Lestrade could not possibly abandon him now, not when Sherlock was lower than he had ever seen him. What he wouldn't give to see that insane smile of glee again…

When he knocked at the door, he was surprised to see Sherlock open it. Usually the man could not summon the will to leave the sofa.

What he was more surprised about was that the man was in horrid shape, covered in cuts and bruises.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!"

"I'm fine-"

"What the hell happened? How did I not know?"

"My brother handled it-"

"'It' being?"

"Moriarty."

"Sherlock…" Lestrade's voice trailed off when he saw a figure appear behind Sherlock at the top of the stairs. Before he had fully registered what was happening, Lestrade was up the stairs and had punched John Watson in the nose. As he pulled his arm back for another swing, Lestrade noticed that John did not make any move to defend himself, simply presented his face for whatever punishment Lestrade decided to inflict upon him. But suddenly, wiry arms wrapped around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides.

"Don't," Sherlock muttered.

After a minute, Lestrade relaxed, and Sherlock released him.

"Sherlock, go...somewhere. I need to talk to John."

"If you touch him-"

"I won't, Sherlock."

With a warning glare, Sherlock turned and stalked to his room as Lestrade watched, shocked that he had actually listened.

With a sigh, John gestured to the living room with the hand not clutching his bleeding nose. The two men sat in silence for several minutes.

Finally, Lestrade breathed out a shaky sigh. "Do you have the slightest idea what you did to him? He barely ate, barely slept, and when he did manage to he woke up screaming. Because of you. And now, after you damn near killed him, you have the nerve to just come waltzing back into his life."

He looked up to see silent tears running down John's face. "Look, I'll never forgive myself. Not if I lived forever. And I'm not saying I wasn't at fault, but I honestly did not have a choice. Mycroft just told me one day that he knew of Moriarty's plan, that he would have me fake my death and go into hiding. It was not my choice. I would never have chosen that. Never."

Lestrade's head fell into his hands. "Jesus…I don't know...I just don't know. I understand, but...I can't forgive you. Not yet, at least."

"I get it. I don't forgive myself either."

Lestrade huffed out a humorless laugh. "And what happened to Sherlock? How did he get himself hurt?"

"Moriarty kidnapped him right under Mycroft's nose, God knows how. We found him within a few hours, and killed Moriarty. He's dead. Sherlock's alright, just some bruising and mild lacerations. He was more affected by the, er, shock."

"You?"

"Yeah."

At the sound of a door opening, the two turned to see Sherlock emerging from his room.

"I've given you two more than enough time, and now I'm bored."

And if that wasn't a statement Lestrade had never thought he'd miss.

"Well, if you're so bored, we have a case we could really use you on, if you're interested?" Lestrade tentatively asked.

Sherlock hesitated, looking at John, who gave him a small, encouraging smile.

"I'll be there."

"Thank God. I hate to admit it, but we've needed you these last few months."

For the second time in his life, Lestrade caught a glimpse of the wild smile from five years ago.

When they arrived at Scotland Yard, Sherlock bolted ahead of John and Lestrade, who both entire ride over, he had been all but bouncing in his seat, like a child promised a lollipop.

"Think he's missed this?" Lestrade joked.

"Maybe just a bit," John smirked.

"Now listen, don't get me wrong. I'm still pissed at you. So, so pissed. But you've...cured him. He's nearly himself again. And I'm grateful for that."

John said nothing, just gave Lestrade a smile that could easily be mistaken for a grimace of pain.

As the two men talked out front, Sherlock was already weaving his way through the familiar hallways to Lestrade's office. It had been so long, much too long, and he had missed this place terribly.

Lost in his thoughts, he nearly collided with the two people he least wanted to see at this moment when they rounded a corner. Anderson and Donovan first looked shocked, and then infuriatingly smug.

"Well, if it isn't Scotland Yard's freak." Donovan remarked. "So who'd you insult enough 'til they punched you? Feel like I should buy them a drink."

"It takes some nerve showing up here," Anderson sneered. "We may not have hard evidence, but I'm still not convinced you aren't just murdering for the fun of it, trying to pass off this genius act."

They had begun to back him into a corner, like hyenas slowly closing in on their prey.

"Leave him alone."

All three turned to see an extremely pissed off John Watson.

The blood drained from Donovan's face, and Anderson looked as if he may topple over at any second. They looked as if they had seen a ghost, which to be fair, they rather had.

"He is not a fraud, and you damn well know it. So leave him alone, go do something useful, and let him solve the case you were all too stupid to figure out rather than torment him like a bunch of children."

The two seemed to be frozen in place for a moment, and then scurried off, unsure of what they had just seen.

"Thank you-"

"Don't thank me. Anyone would have done the same."

"No, they wouldn't, and you know that."

John shifted his weight awkwardly to one foot, and then the other. "So, how about we take a look at that case?"

"Good idea."

As they headed off to Lestrade's office, Sherlock smirked.

"What's so funny?" John asked.

"Nothing, just… how much do you want to bet Anderson's convinced he will be murdered by the furious spirit of John Watson tonight?"

The two snorted in laughter.

"Sherlock, we can't giggle, it's a police station."

It wasn't long before the press discovered that John had returned from the dead. And, with a little help from an influential minor government official, began to run off headline after headline.

BLOGGER'S DEATH FAKED

MORIARTY WAS REAL

FAMOUS DETECTIVE IS THE REAL DEAL

John smirked as he saw the small smile on Sherlock's face as the detective read the headlines. Sherlock's reputation was back, he was back to being London's wonder of the world.

But though John didn't know it, this wasn't what brought Sherlock so much happiness.

It was seeing the proof, in print, that John was really, truly, actually alive. Sherlock knew he was being ridiculous. For God's sake, the proof was right there, John was in the same room as him.

Still, he could not contain that little burst of happiness at each new headline.

Though Sherlock was clearly better than he had been before John's return, things were not perfect by any stretch of the imagination. He would still suffer from the occasional nightmare, waking up screaming or sobbing. But now, Sherlock would wake up to John holding him, stroking his hair, murmuring soothing words into his ear.

But Sherlock was back at cases, with his loyal doctor by his side. Went to Angelo's for dinner. Almost back to how things had been before.

One night, as Sherlock thumbed through a massive book of poisons and John typed up his latest blog entry, the doctor turned to Sherlock, starting to ask a question.

"Sherlock…" he stopped himself.

But now he had Sherlock's attention. "What?"

"Never mind."

"No, what were you going to say?"

"Nothing, it's just...I was expecting you to be, well, angry. That I lied to you. But you've just been, I don't know, calm about the whole thing."

"I'm afraid I don't know what your question is."

"Why aren't you angry, Sherlock? It's fine if you are, in fact, you should be. You have every right to be furious at me right now."

"John, don't be ridiculous. You coming back was a miracle, I have never been so grateful in all my life. You can't honestly think I would risk losing you again, just after I got you back?"

John looked up at Sherlock to see that the man had begun to shake imperceptibly. "Sherlock? Let me make this very, very clear. The only reason I will ever leave again is if you ask me to. You are allowed to be angry at me. You don't have to worry about me leaving. Scream, yell, whatever you do, I'm not going anywhere."

"So you want me to be mad at you?"

"I don't want you to hide anything from me."

"Fine. It was cruel of you to leave me alone for a year. To make me cry at your grave. To make me believe that the one person who had ever understood me had left." As Sherlock spoke, his voice began to waver.

"You're right, it was cruel of me. And you cannot begin to understand how sorry I am."

"I'm more angry at my brother. He's the one that took you away. You said it yourself, you didn't choose to leave."

"I didn't."

"Right then. Happy?"

"Are you?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes, John."

"Alright."

"Good."

John sighed. "Cup of tea?"

"Thank you."

"Why? I make you tea multiple times a day-"

"Not for the tea."

"Oh. You're welcome. And Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you."

And that's a wrap! I really hope you've enjoyed this fic. One last time, thank you for all the reviews, messages, favorites, and follows. You are all such lovely people. :)

If you didn't see on my tumblr, I will be doing an alternate version of Chapter 5 at some point, and it will be posted on my tumblr. The post explaining why is on my tumblr (link in my profile, if that doesn't work username is corinneshaden) and can be found with the other fanfiction updates, which are just under the "update" tag on my tumblr.

I also plan on writing more Sherlock fanfiction, I have a few ideas floating around on my computer that may or may not develop into anything. So keep an eye out for those, I'll be posting all updates on my tumblr! :)

So once again, thank you so very VERY much for all the support this fic has received.

Thanks!

-Corinne Shaden