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EPILOGUE:

Forever loved

This story began one Christmas morning, fifteen years ago. Jane and Sherlock were not together, but they were very good friends indeed. Jane was married to another man, but she was expecting a child no one could imagine at that time was going to be Sherlock's daughter. Jane was almost seven months pregnant when, that Christmas morning, sitting at the Holmes' living room, she believed she could forget who had been and what had done the man she was married to. She believed she could forget and ignore his past.

But she couldn't.

At the moment, she believed she could and she forgave Matthew Morstan, or whatever his name was. For Jane later she knew his first name was 'Alexander' and not 'Matthew'.

Jane remembered that morning as if it had been yesterday. She woke up before anyone else, or that's what she thought. She put on her dressing gown, her sleepers and brushed his hair and teeth and downstairs she met Sherlock. He was taking his medicines and she, as the doctor she was, checked he was taking all his pills.

"Should I forgive him?" She asked after a long moment of silence. Immediately after a cup of tea for Jane and a cup of coffee for Sherlock, they decided to go on and walk all around Mr and Mrs Holmes' vast garden. Jane had her arm hooked with Sherlock's for support as her prominent belly made walking difficult at times.

Sherlock said nothing for a moment. "I don't know."

Of course he knew the answer. Sherlock wanted to scream and tell everyone who Dr Morstan really was but he just couldn't. He knew he had only scratched the surface: Matthew Morstan was more than everyone believed or could ever believe. Yet, he knew he would break Jane's heart and that was the last thing he wanted.

And what infuriated Sherlock the most was the fact that Jane was carrying his child. It was unfair. It was unfair enough that that man was still lying next to Jane every night. It was unfair enough that she was still wearing that wedding ring.

Sherlock knew he should have stopped that wedding. He should have said something and stop it. Of course. Had he done that, he would have spared Jane all that suffering. But she was expecting Morstan's child and that, Sherlock knew, would always keep them together. Because Sherlock knew that if Morstan was to disappear from the world, Jane would never forget him. No. No when she had his child. And that, Sherlock knew, he could never break - that connection he knew they would ever have.

Had Sherlock known that fifteen years later that child was going to be his and that Jane was going to forget who Dr Morstan had been, he wouldn't have believed it.

Jane gave him a weak smile. "Come on, say it."

"You shouldn't." Sherlock finally admitted. "He had lied to you from the very beginning of your relationship. He did not only gave you a fake name but he also faked a whole life story. He took advantage of your strange tendency to feel attracted to psychopaths, sociopaths, killers, criminals of all the sort, boring teachers, members of the medical staff and schizophrenics." The detective looked at his friend. "And that's me, hello."

"Don't say that, Sherlock."

"It's true. And he shot at me."

"I know. I don't feel like forgiving him," Jane admitted. "Eighty percent of me wants to kill him and the twenty percent left wants to just..." She trailed off when she felt Sherlock's hand taking hers and their fingers laced together. "He's the father of my baby. And I love him and I can't help it."

Sherlock remained silent.

"I'll just have to deal with it, right? After all, he's what I like and that's why I chose him."

"I won't let Magnussen hurt you."

Jane gave him a smile and both walked back together to Sherlock's house where everyone was already up and waiting for breakfast to be served.

Fifteen years later, Jane and Sherlock were married and had two children: a fourteen year old girl who practically devoured every book within her reach and a five year old boy who was far too much like his father. Fifteen years later they were again at Sherlock's parents' house and it was a very lovely Christmas morning when Sherlock woke up before everyone else and looked at the woman lying next to him on his bed.

Jane was lying on her side, facing him. She had a hand tucked under her head and another under the covers. Sherlock paid special attention to her face. Jane looked so peaceful in her sleep Sherlock wished he could see her dreams. He often wondered, when she woke up with a smile, what she had been dreaming about and if he had been in her dreams.

The detective looked at the lips that had been his the previous night. His eyes fell on her arms, which he had felt around him the previous night. Then, his eyes ventured to her body underneath the covers, that body he made love to the previous night. His piercing eyes met her breasts and he remembered her breastfeeding their children years ago. And finally, he looked at her neck and at her chest and remembered all the times he had pressed his face against her and felt her heartbeats in order to come back and made the dark shadows go away.

He wished he could woke her and ask her to hold him again. The detective wished he could press his head against her chest, there, between her breasts and press kisses to her skin and listen to Jane's soft whispers. Come back. Come back. He's not real. Come back.

But she was sleeping.

It could wait.

"How are you feeling?"

Jane was sitting in the living room. She had a blanket covering her legs and she was just reading another one of those boring magazines about women and pregnancy. She looked pale and weak. "A bit sleepy. Couldn't sleep last night."

"Thinking whether you should forgive him or not?"

She nodded. "Where's he?"

"Outside."

"Could you tell him to come in?"

"You're going to forgive him."

"I don't have any choice, do I?"

Yes. You can get a divorce. Come and live with me again. He doesn't deserve you. He doesn't deserve the child inside you. I can protect you. I can do it, Jane. Just let me. Jane, I love you.

Sherlock noticed Jane was looking at him worriedly and that he had not said all the things he wished he could.

Outside he found Morstan looking at the horizon. It was cold and he wasn't even wearing a jacket. Sherlock didn't need to look at him to see how nervous the man was. He knew Jane was to tell him soon whether she forgave him or not.

The detective looked at that man and wondered what Jane had seen on him. He had spent hours and hours staring at his ceiling at night, thinking what Dr Morstan had that he did not. Sherlock wanted to know what Jane saw on him, what she liked of him and why is that she loved him so much.

Ah, yes. A top trained assassin. Sherlock forgot that bit. It was so painfully obvious it made Sherlock sick. It was unbelievable that no one ever discovered who Dr Matthew Morstan was. Not even Mycroft saw it, when he had men on Jane and kept a close eye on her.

That man, Morstan, was very clever.

"You think she'll forgive me?"

"She shouldn't. You're a liar."

Matthew chuckled. "She will then."

"Just go inside."

It was true the walls of his house were very thin. Sherlock didn't need to glue his ear to the nearest wall to listen to them. Jane forgave him and they kissed. She cried and he listened to Morstan's comforting, soothing words and all his promises. Sherlock knew there was no room for him there and that that baby, which was coming soon, and his friend, Jane, were not only his any more.

Had Sherlock known in less than an hour Jane was going to become a widow and that the child she was carrying was going to be his, he wouldn't have believed it.

Fifteen years later, Sherlock was in his bed with Jane and she opened his eyes and met his. She gave him a sleepy smile and yawned widely. She stretched her arms and pressed the covers further against her.

"Morning." She gave him a quick peck on the lips and tossed to lie on her back. "I wish we could stay in bed all day long."

"We can, actually."

"Not at your parent's. What time is it?"

Sherlock threw an arm around her. He rested his head against her chest and pressed a kiss to her skin between her breasts. "Stay with me."

"What's wrong, Sherlock?"

Sherlock said nothing and Jane understood. She rubbed his back and pressed kisses to his forehead for a long while.

"Come back."

He wondered how he survived for thirty years before Jane came along. He used to hate women. Now he could barely survive a day without one, without his Jane. Sherlock could barely survive a weekend when she left and returned to her old town to check her brother was clean and doing well. He could barely survive when she worked but now that she was fully dedicated to their family, he didn't need to worry any more.

It broke his heart seeing her crying for a man who did not worth it. Jane ran to him and hugged him tightly. She cried and cried and it didn't matter what he said, Sherlock could not stop her tears. When she hugged him, Sherlock felt her pregnant belly and he also felt her daughter kicking. He had never asked Jane to let him feel her baby kicking or moving, but this time her baby was kicking and Sherlock realised it was the most beautiful thing he had ever felt.

When he told her Matthew killed Magnussen and, consequently, he was killed for it, Jane cried as Sherlock had never seen her doing it before. She cried more than when he faked his death and Sherlock was jealous. Morstan, or whatever his name was, didn't deserve Jane, the child she was carrying, the love she felt for him, her tears, and her sadness.

Jane deserved more. The detective knew he could give her all the things she needed: he could be her husband, the father of her daughter which was now fatherless, and Sherlock knew he could also love Jane deeply, without lying.

"I was going to kill him," Sherlock confessed. "That's why I asked him to bring his gun. Magnussen's men wouldn't have killed me knowing my brother is the British government."

Jane said nothing but cried in his arms for long minutes.

Sherlock didn't want to say this but he knew he had to.

"He said he loved you. He made me promise I was going to take care of you and your baby."

Fifteen years later, that baby he promised he was going to take care of was sitting across him. Her blue eyes, definitely Jane's, were focused on another book while she had breakfast and told her grandparents all about school. Her long, golden hair, Jane's, was braided and her glasses were not keeping her beautiful eyes from sight, but they enhanced their colour.

"What are you reading this time?"

"The Hobbit," Sophia replied, closing the book and finally focusing on her breakfast. "I'm reading it to Misha."

"We never finished it."

Sophia smiled. "You can read us the last chapter tonight."

"Of course."

The Christmas after Morstan's death, they were again staying at Sherlock's parents. This time Jane a lovely baby girl. This time Mr and Mrs Holmes had to get childproof things for their son's daughter. This time mummy woke up and found his son feeding his baby a bottle and signing to her lullabies she would have never imagined her son knew.

This Christmas his son was wearing a wedding ring. And mummy saw his son kissing the woman he said the year before was his friend. This time she was his wife. Now his son had two women to look after.

This time Sherlock was finally in peace.

And ever since then, mummy and daddy Holmes welcomed their son, his wife, and his daughter every Christmas. Ever since then they became 'grandma' and 'grandpa'. Now mummy had someone who could help her cooking her favourite cookies. Now she had a little granddaughter to spoil and give a new doll every year. Now dad Holmes had Sherlock once again back home, and Mycroft too, and their detective son's protégé too, who turned out to be quite a nice chap.

"Presents, presents, presents!" Sherlock saw his son rushing to the stairs with his pyjamas still on and his dark mop of curls all messy. "Daddy!"

No one could stop Hamish that Christmas morning when he was three and mummy Jane and daddy Sherlock said he and Sophie had to wait until after breakfast to open their presents. Grandma and grandpa Holmes said they could open their presents and have breakfast later.

Now, two years later, the children were calmly having breakfast, but very deep inside, both parents knew, they were impatiently waiting for everyone to finish their coffees, teas and whatever they were having in order to go and tore the wrappings and reveal their presents.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Misha?"

"Open the presents with me!"

"Okay," Sherlock sat with his son under the three and both watched the presents. "Which one should we open first?"

Hamish looked at the ones he had been told were his. "This!"

He chose a blue wrapped one. He tore the paper and revealed a box with little plastic soldiers to play with. Just what he asked Father Santa for Christmas.

Five year old Hamish thanked uncle Billy and then took a small box and handed it to his daddy. "For you!"

"Hmm..."

"No deduce!" Hamish scolded him. "Open it!"

Sherlock had to try very hard no to deduce. It was a small sized box which contained an equally small object within. But what could it be?

And there it was.

It was a framed picture.

Nut not any framed picture.

It was a picture of a newborn Hamish lying on his daddy's chest. It had been taken back in Baker Street. Hamish was just a few days old and he was sleeping on Sherlock's chest. The detective was lying on the sofa. His big, warm hand was holding his son. And he was also sleeping.

Both looked in peace.

"You like it?"

"Yes, Misha. I love it. Thank you."

The gifts exchange continued. They took pictures, they laughed, mummy gave him another sweater Sherlock was definitely not going to use, his father gave him another horrid tie and Mycroft gave him, he had to admit, a very useful set of tools for his job. Jane gave him a new shirt and his daughter a book about crime in London. He and Jane gave his mother things for her kitchen, a book about history to his father, they got Mycroft a new umbrella, they gave their son different toys and their daughter some books and some cash for her to get whatever she wanted.

Then, lunch was eaten, tea was drank and suddenly, it was dark and everyone was going to bed.

"'Thank goodness!' said Bilbo laughing, and handed him the tobacco-jar'." Sherlock finished reading. He closed the book and looked his son had fallen asleep and that his daughter was the only one listening to him.

Sophia took off her glasses and threw her arms around his neck. "Will you read us 'The Lord of the Rings'?"

"Yes." Sherlock smiled at his daughter and wished she could, somehow, be fully his. His daughter, biologically speaking. But blood never mattered. Not when he loved Sophie as if he were his daughter and when she loved him so much. "Get some sleep, princess."

They had never told Sophia who her real father was. They were never going to. Sophia never suspected and never would. In the years to come, she would never suspect because to her, she simply looked like her mother and her brother looked like her father. It was a secret everyone involved was taking to their graves.

"Night, daddy. Love you."

"Good night, Sophia," Sherlock pressed a kiss to her forehead and turned off the lights of the room his children occupied every time they visited his parents. "I love you too."

Downstairs, it was only Jane and Sherlock who were still awake. They sat together in the kitchen, and discussed whether to stay for New Year's or go back to London.

"A missing diamond," Jane commented while she went through Sherlock's mails. "Seems interesting. We could back. I don't know how's Mrs Hudson's doing with Gladstone. Will call her tomorrow first thing in the morning. Ah, Sophie forgot to pack more socks, god, I don't know what she's got into..." Jane noticed Sherlock was lost, looking elsewhere. "Hey, you okay?"

"Hmm?"

"Have you taken your pills?"

"Yes."

"Headache?"

"No."

Jane preferred to say nothing. "D'you wanna go back home?"

"No. The kids like it here."

"Okay. Going to bed. Coming?"

"Yes."

Before following his wife, Sherlock turned and watched him sitting on a chair, smiling at him, laughing at him, mocking him.

James Moriarty was there. He had that macabre smile and he was wearing that dark blue suit with that skull tie and Sherlock wished he just could forget him, kill him, made something to make that man disappear.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned but then, he looked back. Moriarty was nowhere to be seen.

In their room, he took Jane in his arms and pressed a kiss to her lips and then to her forehead. He never told her he could still see Moriarty. He kept on taking his medication and going to the doctor's. Jane looked after him as no one ever did.

The detective saw Jim every time, every where: when he picked up his children from school, around his flat, when he woke up, when he went to bed, when he was in the middle of a case, when he was talking to his doctor... Sometimes they were having dinner all together and he was trying to listen to his daughter's account of her day and Jim would sit next to him, laugh at him, and mock him.

It was hard to ignore him when he could see him every day, all day long. But Sherlock learned he had to ignore Jim. He learned to look away and ignore him. He learned to love his children, his wife, live his life and ignore James Moriarty haunting presence.

Sherlock knew he would see Jim forever. His mind was cursed. He was bound to suffer his presence forever.

"You know what?"

"Hmm?"

"It's been fifteen years."

Sherlock smiled. "Fifteen years," he repeated.

"I love you."

"I love you too. There's been no day without loving you."

Jane gave him a sweet smile. "I'm a bit tired."

"Me too."

"Let's sleep."

The end.