Epilogue: October, 2041

John peers out the kitchen window at Annie, listless in the rocking chair on the verandah and looking out at the sea. It hurts to see her in pain and know there's nothing he can do to make it better. He misses the days when a kiss and a plaster, or a mug of hot chocolate, could cure all her ills.

It doesn't stop him from trying.

He takes the tea tray and carries it out. John gives her a smile, sets the tray down on the small rattan table, and settles in his mismatched Adirondack chair beside her.

"Here we are, then," he says, playing mother. Annie's always liked her tea sweet, with lemon rather than milk, and John is prepared to indulge her in this for as long she wants if it will alleviate even a little of her loss. She takes the cup with a grateful smile, closing her eyes as she sips.

"Mmm," she murmurs. "That's delicious. I really do need to talk Sherlock into letting me take a jar or two home with me."

John snorts as he stirs the milk in his own cup.

"You don't have to talk him into anything. He'd give you all the damned jars if you asked."

Annie smiles and glances down the path to where Sherlock is crouched, explaining some bit of wildlife esoterica to a rapt young boy.

"He might at that. Although, ever since Mikey… "

John's laugh rings out, and Sherlock glances over at them, squinting in the sunlight before turning his attention back to the towheaded boy beside him.

"I didn't think he'd ever forgive you for that," John says, shaking his head with a rueful smile.

Annie nods, taking another sip.

"It was worth it just to see the offended look on his face at the hospital," she says conspiratorially. "Besides, like I told him, he was named for Paul's father."

John cocks his eyebrow, and Annie laughs - a rare, welcome sound.

"Well, maybe not just for for him."

"Mycroft didn't stop lording it over Sherlock for months, you know. If ever anyone was in danger of being completely disowned, it was you."

"Sherlock could never disown me - he likes me far too much. Besides," Annie says with a grin. "As far as he's concerned, it's 'Michael' and always will be."

John laughs, then looks out again to find his two boys, young and old, heading hand-in-hand towards the shallow rockpool below. The sight brings back memories of long-ago family trips to the Sussex seaside and the quiet rapport that had blossomed between Sherlock and his daughter. He knows Sherlock hates his impotence in the face of Annie's loss as much as himself, venting it in the only way he knows - by walking an interested listener through his unique understanding of the world. As for Mikey, while he loves his gruff Granddad John and always has, he's as besotted with Sherlock as Annie ever was - especially now that Paul's gone.

"He'd do anything for you," John says softly, then looks up to find Annie's eyes filling. His face crumples in sympathy; then Annie's shaking her head and rubbing her eyes with the pads of her fingers as she'd always done as a child.

"It's okay, Dad. You know me - always crying these days."

John rummages in his pocket for a tissue, holding out a ragged specimen she recoils from.

"No thanks - I'm fine, really. It just happens. You know."

He does.

When Annie's car has long since faded from sight, and John's tidied their room (an addition to the cottage put in by mutual agreement, for visitors and those times when things got a bit too cosy), he settles on the sofa next to Sherlock and lays his head on his shoulder with a tired sigh. Sherlock responds in kind, tilting his head - now more grey than not - against John's, taking his wrinkled hand and stroking it with his thumb. They're quiet for a time; when John speaks, the words are a familiar refrain.

"You're not allowed to die."

It's something he says from time to time, on those rare nights when the old melancholy comes. Sherlock nods and gives John's hand a gentle squeeze.

"I won't," he lies, and gathers John close in the light of a dying fire.

The End