Wow, its been a really long time since I updated. Terribly sorry about that. Between losing my muse and work, and other life interruptions, its been very difficult to get this written. Also, considering the long wait, and compared to past chapters, this is insultingly short. Again, so sorry. I hope you guys enjoy the end of Subconscious Comfort. I appreciate all the support and reviews. Every one of them made my day and I would read them often for encouragement. Especially Tamuril2, they are a hoot and bring much needed laughter. Thank you all so much. I hope this epilogue is what you guys were hoping for. Take care and let me know!

Epilogue

Where John found the strength, to not only lift, but to physically carry his tall and lanky friend, heaven only knows. However, the doctor supported his burden, as if it were the most delicate flower that ever graced the earth, all the way back to Mycroft's home. He set himself down on the couch, gently cradling his friend to him. The exhaustion from the flashback had set in, and Sherlock was now in a fitful rest. The thrill of pure, unhindered recognition took a backseat to the increased worry.

Mycroft ushered his uniforms out the door, sending one for refreshments; Mrs. Holmes tutted. After a fond look and an affectionate rub to Sherlock's cheek by his mother, the older lady went to relieve the agent from the task that she was better suited for. The politician stiffly made his way to the large window that faced the woodland they had returned from, putting forth a great effort to ignore the scene behind him.

Mycroft stared outside the window, taking furtive glances at his baby brother. It hurt to see the vulnerable form. He was supposed to protect his sibling, not set him off. The politician grimaced, their 'family' was going to lecture and scold his actions when they found out. Good heavens, two shrill voices and two trained, volatile men… Perhaps he should make his escape while they were unaware of his transgression.

Lestrade stood sentry, hovering nearby his friends, keen eyes flickering between the two brothers. John had Sherlock taken care of, all snug and at peace. However, Mycroft needed tending to. Anyone, with even a fraction of Holmes skills of observation, could see the guilt exuding from the very pores of the government official. It wasn't difficult to conclude that what occurred was either, Mycroft's fault or Mycroft perceived it as such and placing self-blame.

Conflicted with the desire to give a protective presence and talking some sense into an idiot, Lestrade bounced from foot to foot. With one last backward glance at the resting duo, Greg stepped behind the contemplative man.

Hands slipped into his trouser pocket, mirroring Mycroft's stance. The hair on the back of the stout man's neck stood upright as Lestrade breathing broke into the silence. 'Patience is a virtue,' they always say, and thus was rewarded.

"He came in as I was reviewing the video from the terrorist that escaped."

It was the answer to the unspoken question and the detective merely nodded. There was no need for chastisement; it was blatantly obvious that Mycroft was already berating himself. "It triggered his memory, it scared him, and therefore, he ran off…" he summarized, unnecessarily. Mycroft nodded affirmation.

"Well, what's done is done. He's safe now and it would seem back in his right mind. Buck up, we have a new battle to fight and you have a criminal to catch. Sherlock has more than earned, heck, we all deserve better than our own self-pity."

"You're right, of course," he responded, composure falling back into place. " I- Perhaps…" he hesitated. "Sherlock would do better, now, back in your care," he admitted, turning back to the window.

Lestrade nodded. There was no need to comment further. He stood firm, hands in pockets, for a moment longer, before returning to John and Sherlock. Mrs. Holmes sat a tray of drinks on the coffee table and turned to hover over her son, petting his curls as she sniffed into a handkerchief.

The bundle buried against the good doctor's chest, huffed a lengthy breath as he relaxed deeper in the cradling arms. Lashes fluttered open, then closed again. Sherlock snuffled as his left fist rose to rub the sleep from his eyes. Lids peeled open and pupils focused on John. Sherlock's hand lifted up, and fingers danced over his friend's cheek, brows furrowed in disbelief.

"John?" voice lilted in awe. "Are you actually here? Is this reality or just a figment of my mind?"

"I'm here, Sherlock, and very much alive and real."

"John!" Sherlock cried out with joy. The wearied body jolted up, energy and life renewed, and wrapped his blogger in a 'bear hug'. He pulled back, one hand still grasped firmly on the soldier's shoulder, searching out another figure. "Dad!"

"I'm here too, my boy," Lestrade grinned as he reached out to the struggling form trying to get to him. "So is your brother and mum."

Sherlock nodded lazily. "Mrs. Hudson? And Molly?" he questioned. The sound of whining and clacking behind the closed doors caught his attention.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but, nevertheless, allowed the culprit in. "Both are safe and well; enjoying a pleasant evening in, I'm sure."

Shinzie rushed passed the politician and hopped on to the couch, frantically pawing at her owner's legs. The puppy's tail wagged excitedly as she shoved her cold, wet nose to every inch of the detective she could reach. Sherlock's fingers tangled in her coal fur, scratching absentmindedly, calming the tense air.

"Are you feeling alright, darling?" Mrs. Holmes asked from where she stood nearby.

"Yes. Yes, fine," he answered. He removed himself from John's hold with all the grace of an over-excited toddler. He lowered himself beside his friend, arm to arm, thigh to thigh. The closeness spoke loudly of the desperate need to affirm the realness of this scenario; that this wasn't all some dream or hallucination.

The lingering silence was thick, slightly awkward. No one knew exactly what to say or where to begin. Precipitously, Sherlock lowered his gaze to his lap and fidgeted against the doctor, adding space between them. When Lestrade went to touch him, he flinched violently.

Greg sat back in a squat in alarm at the unwarranted reaction. Sensing something very wrong, Shinzie began to growl and bark, the fur on her tail stood straight up. Fearful of the displayed warning, the officer backed away, pulling the Holmes matriarch with him.

Mycroft cocked a brow. "Something the matter, Sherlock?" His hand rested on his phone, ready to call for aid if necessary. He couldn't guarantee that Sherlock would still have a pet if it snapped and bit him. Mycroft was very aware of the damage that losing Blackbeard would cause his baby brother and hoped it would not come to that end.

"I-I don't know…"Raven locks whipped about as he shook his head with vigor. Eyes squeezed shut and fists clenched, confusion, fear, and frustration rolled off the young man in waves. Tiny crescent moons were beginning to form on the abused palms, from the nails pressing into the ivory skin.

"What is it?" concern emanated in the tone.

"You – This," he struggled to articulate. He tugged at his curls, abusing his skull. His eyes remained squeezed tight and Shinzie growled for every flinch an attempted touch caused the cowering genius.

"Sherlock?"

"Just stop it!" he snarled in response; eyes popped open wide in surprise at his own outburst. "This isn't real," he quivered. "Just stop lying. No more tricks."

The others looked to one another, bemused; even Mycroft had a grimace of concerned confusion. How were they to fix demented memories? Sherlock was full of corrupted thoughts, unable to differentiate between truth and faux. Could time even heal that?

Stress wore the young body, mind, and soul. In didn't take long for a gentle snore to break the silence. Features relaxed in sleep and little wisps of curls fell across the glistening forehead. They heaved a collective sigh of relief and settled in for a long night of determining the next course of action.

~SH~SH~SH~

Sherlock woke up on a cloud. The white and fluffy textures cradled him on the edge of a beautiful dreamland. No pain, no fear, just pure bliss. For a brief glimpse of time, the genius wasn't concerned in the slightest about what awaited him on the side of reality.

The heavenly scent of bread and eggs wafted into his nose, triggering his mouth to water. The pink tip of his tongue darted out, seeking out the delicious taste of the food he was smelling. The closer he came to wakefulness, the more alert his senses became.

Classical music, he identified as one of Beethoven's pieces, drifted to his ears, muffled by the walls. Sleep crusted lids peeled open again, to find milky white sheets with the sky blue comforter. His eyes traveled from the bed cloths, across the room, meeting familiar sight. The sunlight shining through the window caught his attention next. He hesitantly pried his weary body from the marshmellowy haven. His fatigued form stood gazing into the outside. He recognized the room as his old bedroom at Mycroft's home and the exterior as the Holmes Manor grounds. The birds were irritatingly cheerful so early in the morning. Sherlock heaved a sigh, mentally preparing himself for the other shoe to drop.

Quiet footsteps creeped out of the bedroom door and continued down the hall. He followed his nose and ears, to where he knew a group of people were congregating; waiting upon him no doubt, if his door being unlocked was only indication. His hunched figure peered around the corner. He was right! They were gathered around the dining hall table, feasting upon eggs and biscuits with gravy. Upon closer inspection of the people, Sherlock froze as memories filtered through his chaotic mind. He knew these people.

Sherlock struggled against the dissonant images; flashes of: a domineering terrorist hovering over him, taunting him as Sherlock cowered from the raining blowsHis flatemate, detective, and pathologist trying to behead him; Lestrade rocking him back and forth after a particularly bad nightmare, Mycroft humming along with "Baby Mine" on Dumbo with Sherlock wrapped around his brother.

'What's real and what isn't?'

The detective tugged at tufts of hair in agitation. Pressure on his wrists and a distinct keening noise had his eyes springing wide open. John was crouched in front of him, effective stilling his arms. Lestrade was at the doctor's side, gently extracting tangled fingers from the mess of curls. Mycroft stood in the background, ever watchful. It took a moment to register that he noise he was hearing was coming from him, even still. He quietened abruptly and allowed himself to be maneuvered up by his elbows.

Together, John and Lestrade herded the man into the dining room. A cup of tea and a plate of eggs and toast were set before him. The others retook their places at the table and restarted their conversations, as if nothing had happened to interrupt before.

Sherlock looked down at the meal and back up to the three men. "What-" he croaked; clearing his throat, he tried again. "What had you been watching? Why was that man talking to me?"

Mycroft sighed; he looked down and patted his face with the napkin clenched in his fist. "Eat, Sherlock." Upon Sherlock's protest, he continued. "Eat. Everything will be explained to you." He waited 'til his little brother took a tentative sip of tea and tucked into his eggs before he began. The government official pushed his chair back from the table and made long strides toward the tall window behind Sherlock's seat.

Hands intertwined behind his back, he started, "You were on a mission, Sherlock, when you were captured. We were unable to extract you immediately. Even so, after gathering Intel, I managed to send in a rescue party; unfortunately, you had already suffered a great deal. However, most of the terrorists were either terminated on sight or arrested. All, but one, that is. Your primary interrogator made a hasty retreat before we found him, leaving a video behind in his stead." Mycroft turned back to face Sherlock, unsurprised to see breakfast forgotten, or the unmasked fear written across pale features. "Rest assured, little brother, you are in no danger and I will find this miscreant. I do believe I can speak for the good doctor and detective inspector, that we will not allow harm to come to you again, so long as we can help it."

Sherlock ran a hand through his bed head of raven locks and sighed through his nose. With pinched lips he nodded, moderately satisfied with the explanation he'd been given. There was no reason to doubt it. Even if there were, what difference would I make? He clearly wouldn't know the difference for the time being.

After a prolonged silence jad settled over them again, John cleared his throat. The action had the desired effect of gaining Sherlock's attention/ The Dr. gave a pointed look at the food, then his friend, and nudged the plate towards him. He cleared his throat again, using his fist to muffle the sound.

"I'm fine," came the well-rehearsed line, even as the fork in hand was used to swirl intricate designs in the soggy eggs. The subdued expression suggested otherwise, but lucidity was an improvement there in of itself. The silence lingered over them, none quite sure what to say. Sherlock placed the utensils back down, no longer hungry and looked to his flatmate, "When will be going home?"

John's head snapped up to meet the expectant gaze. There was a vulnerable longing behind the dulled orbs. "I – well, I suppose today, if you want."

"I do." He nodded his head once as if assuring himself of his certainty. He made to remove himself from the room, but Mycroft's voice stopped him. Sherlock turned back to face him.

"I have taken the liberty of restoring your good name. When the time comes, should it ever, you will be free to return to your work without worry of recrimination."

Sherlock nodded his thanks and returned to the sanctuary of solitude in his bedroom. He needed to regroup his thoughts, clean up his mind palace. He gave a wry smile; it was good to be home. Now, if only he had his violin.

~SH~SH~SH~

After a few arguments and the customary jabs between the Holmes brothers, Sherlock entered into 221B Baker Street. John followed suit, arms laden with a mixture of home cooked meals from both Mrs. Holmes and Mrs. Hudson. The motherly women joined efforts to fatten their boys up. Sherlock, for the most part, ignored the mother henning, but indulged their culinary efforts.

Sherlock headed straight for his beloved instrument and set to work playing a beautiful piece by Beethoven. The peaceful melody, combined with the delicious scent of biscuits filling the flat, gave John a sense of life before the great 'fall'. He was disillusioned to hear the occasional slip of a note from when Sherlock's hands would clench or tense. It was obvious things weren't back to normal. There was work still to be done before they were anywhere close to being ready to let Sherlock be alone, and even more before they could return to a semi version of life before. Regardless, big steps had been made. They were finally home, with music, food, and friendship. Greg would be back after work, Molly would be bringing Shinzie in the morning, Mycroft was man hunting a terrorist, Mrs. Hudson was cooking and Sher-

"John. Stop staring at me in awe, like the day we met, and start some tea," Sherlock demanded with his usual domineering attitude, whispering a soft "please" as an afterthought.

John smiled, indulgent, and turned to do as commanded. Yes, his best friend was acting like the posh idiot he knew and loved. Things weren't right, yet, but they would be. Yes, they would be.

Thank you all again! Please review and let me know!