This is it! It feels very anticlimactic! I hope you enjoy this little epilogue, and that it's not too lame! I will speak more after :)

It is quiet in Mycroft's house, only the occasional creak of a floorboard and the chiming of a far-off grandfather clock can be heard. Sherlock stands, on slightly smarting feet, in front of a mirror, full-length, dragged into his room by a grumbling John. He breathes in deep as he pulls the jumper until it settles properly on his body. Then, he examines his reflection in the mirror.

He is all sharp angles, and bones too defined under pale skin, but at least some of this is disguised by the long sleeve and high neck design of most of the clothes Mycroft has so graciously paid for him to have tailor made. Jumpers, pullover shirts, and jeans make up the main percentage of Sherlock's new wardrobe, but there are some button downs, similar to those he had favoured in the past, thrown in there too, along with some smarter trousers. Unlike Sherlock's previous wardrobe, however, none of these clothes are tight-fitting, instead they fit in a looser way, still perfectly designed for his body, but disguising the thinness of his frame.

Sherlock tilts his head as he inspects the thick, grey jumper he has just adorned, pleased with its fit. He nods before pulling it over his head and immaculately folding it and placing it into his travel case. They leave for Cornwall in the morning.

Sherlock's initial idea of the Sussex coast as the location for their 'holiday' had proved a little tricky for Mycroft to organise, as a lack of what they desired, a quiet home with access to a nearby village but essentially isolated, was available in that area. With a little research, and a trip on Google street view, which John had found incredibly exciting, they had settled on Cornwall. Although not the least populated county in England, Cornwall has many benefits for them; more rural areas than urban, most houses holiday homes, therefore empty for most of the year, thus it will give them the isolation they crave whilst also offering them a taste of village life that will hopefully not contain any malicious psychopaths.

He looks around the room, shucking on his dressing gown, but keeping his jeans on, trying to gain a semblance of normality, and notes that there is not much left for him to pack. Not that he had much in the first place. The Monet painting is wrapped in extremely secure packaging, layer upon layer of bubble wrap and then a metal enforced carboard material Mycroft had spoken at length about, but Sherlock could not bring himself to listen to. Sherlock has tucked his Monet book in his suitcase with his new clothes, and now he is waiting on John's return from 221B for the rest of his books to be packed for the journey.

Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed, hands shaky and sweaty; the silence still gets to him, and whilst he is alone and John isn't even in the house, his brain is playing havoc with his sense of rationalisation. He glances towards the door of the bathroom, and the darkness that emulates, almost like light, even though it is the complete opposite, from underneath the door and around the door's edges. Anything could be lurking behind it, his brain tickles him with, like an irritating itch. Moran could be behind there. At this, Sherlock flinches, and he is on his feet before he knows it.

No, he is being ridiculous, Moran is not behind that door because Moran is dead. Perhaps he should check, though? Sherlock takes cautious steps towards the door, afraid that his traitorous brain might be right. He sighs, and loses patience with himself, and strides forward, slinging the door open with false confidence born of frustration. His heart skips a beat.

There is nothing there.

Sherlock growls low in his throat. Of course, there is nothing there, Moran is dead; he has scared himself for no reason. He steps back, leaving the door open so there can be no second doubt, muttering at himself for how stupid he is being. If only John were here.

"John, dear, do make sure he eats!" Mrs Hudson pesters John as he packs books into a box, all carefully selected by Sherlock to accompany them on their holiday. They leave behind them the bare shelves of the bookcases in 221B, and dust plumes in clouds with each vacancy, the items having barely been touched in three years.

"Yes, of course, Mrs H." He placates.

"I know I'm being silly John, but, oh, it's just he was gone for so long and now he's back it's hard to see him go again! Well, both of you, if I'm honest; it'll be so quiet here, once again!" Mrs Hudson chokes up, and immediately John discards what he is doing to put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

"Mrs H it's not permanent! We're only staying down there for as long as it takes for Sherlock to feel ready to get back in the swing of things. Look, you can come visit. Or, there's the phone, and I've shown you how to Skype call so there's also that." John reassures her, feeling a little guilty that Mrs Hudson will be left all alone, especially since their departure follows five years of absence from Sherlock and two years since John had moved out to live with Mary. Mrs Hudson will definitely have to come visit.

"You're right John, I know, I'm just going to miss both of you so much!"

John makes a sound of sympathy and pulls her in for a proper hug. They remain that way for a few minutes more, before Mrs Hudson pulls away and pulls out a handkerchief and wipes at her eyes.

"Mrs Hudson, I'm so sorry. I didn't realise it had upset you so much we're going away." John says, running a hand through his hair.

"I'm just being silly, John. Don't worry about me." She waves him off, and John doesn't want to push her so he just resumes his book packing.

"Sherlock didn't want to come, then?" Mrs Hudson asks after a while, and John shakes his head.

"No, I think he's got it into his head that living here is…. like some sort of reward for getting better. It's the same with his old clothes, he doesn't want them because I don't think he feels he deserves them, because he feels like he isn't the same man he was before all this shit." John explains, his frustration and his helplessness bleeding through. John does not see what Sherlock does; he seems the same man that had drawn him into his world all those years ago: someone strong, someone clever, and he knows Sherlock's attitude is unhealthy, but making him realise this without seeming too domineering is tricky.

"But that isn't right, is it?" Mrs Hudson says, sounding deflated.

"No. Of course it's not. But, it's hard to try and get him to see otherwise; he needs a professional. I think if I were to try and change his opinion of himself then it might come across with too much pressure." John says, the reason for Sherlock's first attempt with a therapist coming to the forefront of his mind. He grimaces.

"Make sure to look after yourself, too, John." Mrs Hudson says, squeezing his upper arm briefly.

John smiles at her, and covers her hand with his own. "I will, Mrs H. Don't worry."

She smiles at him, before startling suddenly. "Oh! Stay right there, John. I have something for Sherlock." She wanders off, heels clacking against the floorboards, descending the stairs to her flat and leaving John alone.

John stands there for a moment, hands on hips, taking a breather. He feels exhausted, and is looking forward to this holiday more than he possibly should.

The past two weeks since the deaths of Mary, Moran and Moriarty have been busy, to say the least. John has never seen Mycroft eat so little, and he is sure the man has lost weight. If it wasn't for the presence of Gregory Lestrade, John is sure the man wouldn't have slept, either, but the detective inspector has been very persuasive.

For John and Sherlock, it has been a convalescence of sorts. Sherlock has suffered in the aftermath of the show-down at Baker Street, and it wasn't as if the deaths of those who had hurt him would cure him of the trauma he had taken away from those five years, and so John has been prepared every time Sherlock looks spaced out, or suffers from a nightmare, preventing Sherlock from seeing or hearing things that might trigger him. John is, essentially, doing the best he can. He just hopes it is enough.

For himself? Well, two weeks is incomparable to two years, but he is getting through it. At least he can be with Sherlock and hold him like one would their close partner without feeling that he is doing Mary a misjustice, as she had given him and Sherlock her blessing. It makes it easier for John to compartmentalise their relationship as all that it was and had been, not focussing on what might have been if certain events hadn't occurred. John wonders if, seeing as he and Sherlock have ended up together in a pseudo-fairy-tale ending, it was fate that his and Mary's relationship would be all that it had been, and nothing more.

John will now look to the future, he and Sherlock had promised each other that is what they would do. Therefore, he catches himself before he gets lost in the past and continues packing books into the box until all that's left behind are the bare shelves. His work here is done.

"I have something for you." Mycroft says, as Sherlock settles onto the couch. His older brother turns to pick up a black box that had been resting on the coffee table and hands it to him. He watches like a hawk as Sherlock fumbles with the lid and lifts it. Inside, resting in a nest of silk and tissue paper, are the expensive bottles of shampoo, conditioner, moisturiser, and aftershave he had used 'before'. Sherlock picks up the shampoo, flipping the lid and taking a sniff. The rich, slightly fruity odour of the shampoo makes Sherlock feel as if he has been slapped back into the past; it reminds him of coming home from late night cases and taking a shower to get the grime of the city off of himself, and of waking to the smell of this shampoo in the morning, lingering on his pillows. It reminds him of his old self, and he feels slightly nauseous.

"I thought, perhaps, it might give you a semblance of normalcy." Mycroft explains, and then gestures to Sherlock. "If you would like, I can also offer you the use of my barber? He is very good."

"No, it's fine." Sherlock cuts him off, running a hand through his hair. He knows it is overgrown and that he really should have a haircut, but the thought of blades near his head like that….it makes him shudder. "But, thank you. For the gift." He is unsure if he will use these gifts, but he appreciates Mycroft's efforts nonetheless. Mycroft nods, and the two fall into a comfortable silence.

"Oh, Her Majesty the Queen would like to bestow you with a knighthood, for your actions against a threat to the State." Mycroft says, as casual as if he were speaking about the weather.

Sherlock shakes his head. "No. I'm going to have to turn it down." He does not care for public declarations of recognition.

Mycroft sighs in what Sherlock presumes is relief. "Good. That saves me a lot of covering up; makes it harder to keep the Moriarty incident hush when a knighthood is involved."

Sherlock nods in agreement, but does not say anything.

"I'm not sure how long I'll be able to hold Mummy off this time." Mycroft says. "Especially now she doesn't have to suffer the capital in order to come and see you."
Sherlock winces. "How much does she know? How much do they both know?"

"They were, of course beside themselves when they first heard of your disappearance. Father packed them off the America in order to get away from all the… gloominess. I think he has been fighting to keep her there now that they know you are back. As for how you are doing health-wise… I just said you've been better, and space is what you need before you can be reunited."

Sherlock couldn't help scoffing a bit. "That's very simplified."

Mycroft smirks a little, too. "Yes, but, you know how mummy worries."

Sherlock sighs and nods. "Alright. I will warn John that we should expect her at some point."
"I've put together a security team for you. It is led by a very competent agent. Gregory recommended him to me, actually, when he saw the list of names. Apparently, he used to be a Police Officer. His name is Toby Gregson."
Sherlock does not recognise the name, but just nods along. He squirms a bit where he sits. "Mycroft…thank you. For everything." It is less than Mycroft deserves, but it is all that Sherlock can give him.

Mycroft's cheeks flame red, but he simply nods and says, "Of course, little brother. Although, there is one last thing."

He walks over to a cabinet that date back to the 1920s, going by its design, and carefully opens the doors, bending down to pull something out of it. Sherlock watches with curiosity, but once Mycroft rises it is obvious what it is that he is handling. The shape of the case gives it away instantly, and, aside from John, this is the one thing Sherlock had missed most in those five years: his violin.
"I took it from Baker Street once John moved out, to keep it safe, you understand, in case of a break in. But, I must return it to you now."

He places the case on Sherlock's lap, and Sherlock undoes the clasps and lifts the lid with shaky fingers. He sucks in a deep breath as he sets eyes on his Stradivarius. He places a hand over the strings, and experimentally plucks at one of them; it is out of tune, and this pleases him, as he would not want anyone else to touch his violin. The bow is also tucked in there, along with a block of resin, and satisfied Sherlock closes the lid back up. He will play it when he is ready.

"Thank you." He repeats, and Mycroft smiles back at him, a rare, open-faced smile.

"You are most welcome, Brother Mine."

The next morning, Sherlock looks around his room at Mycroft's with an ounce of sadness at leaving it behind. He will miss its large windows, and the fireplace, and the expensive quality of the bed and its sheets. He will miss the view of the garden from the window, even though he knows the view from their new living quarters will be just as impressive. Still, they are not the same, and this room he knows he will miss, even if his time here has been bittersweet.

His belongings are gone, already packed into the car waiting for them downstairs. The only thing left in here are the pile of books gifted to him by Mrs Hudson, having been brought back by John the day before. Each and every one is on the subject of Claude Monet and his artistic career, and he plans on breaking into them on the journey.

There is a knock on the door, and John enters, smiling. "Hi, you…." He begins to say, but trails off as he takes in Sherlock. Sherlock, who crosses his arms a little self-consciously over himself at John's gaze; far from the striking figure he posed five years ago, today he is dressed in jeans and a navy-blue roll-neck jumper, paired with some suede brogues. "You look…" John starts, and Sherlock tenses. "…gorgeous."

Sherlock blushes, and lowers his gaze to the ground. "I'm not sure about that."

"Well, I am." John comes forward, and runs a hand through Sherlock curls. "You look like a Romantic poet with this style. I like it."
Sherlock smiles, and meets John's gaze. "You look…."

John's smile widens, expectant. "… Yes?"

"Like John."

John laughs, and Sherlock huffs a bit at his lack of poetic ability. "You couldn't have done a better job, Sherlock." John congratulates, and pulls him into a slow kiss.

"You ready to go?" He asks when they have pulled away. Sherlock takes one last look around the room, one last look at the view out of the window, and nods.
"Yes. Let's go."

"Have a good journey." Greg says, as he shakes John's hand.

John chuckles. "Oh, I think we will in the luxury of one of Mycroft's Jaguars."

Greg chuckles, too. "Have a good time, mate. I'll text you soon."

"Thanks, Mate. You take care of yourself." John grasps Greg's hand tightly before letting it go.

"You too, and Sherlock, obviously." He jokes, and John smiles and nods.

"Think I'll get a kip in in the car, seeing as Sherlock has committed himself to reading the entire literary collection on Monet during the journey." John says as he gestures to where Sherlock is arranging his items in the back of the car, his back to them. He stands up and turns when he hears John talking him about him, though.

"Hmmm?" He asks, and John just waves him off and says, "Nothing. Don't worry."

"Have a good holiday, Sherlock." Greg says, turning to shake Sherlock's hand this time, who receives the gesture with a small smile.

"I would leave now in order to beat the rush hour traffic." Mycroft advises as he comes out of the house, checking his watch.

"Right, let's get going then." John says, and, without a flicker of indecision, he holds out his hand to Mycroft, who shakes it with a tight nod. "Look after him." He says in a low tone that Sherlock will hear regardless.

"Of course." John says. "You don't need to tell me that."

"No," Mycroft concedes. "But I will anyway."

John smiles and steps back, putting a hand on Sherlock's back. Mycroft and Sherlock's goodbye is nowhere near sentimental, John didn't expect it to be, and the two brothers simply nod at each other before they all spring into motion.

"Let's get going then." John says, and he starts to usher Sherlock into the car.

"Gregson will meet you down there," Mycroft says. "Be safe."

John nods and pulls the door to the car closed. Mycroft and Greg are left on the pavement, and they watch, stood side by side, as the car pulls away and down the street, out of sight. Mycroft pinches his cheeks, and Greg gives him a knowing look. "I know you are worried about him going away, but he will be fine. You know he will be, he's with John for god's sake!"

"You know I do not like to feel like I have no control over a situation. Why, oh why, did they have to choose Cornwall? Being roughly five hours away, it isn't as if I can give them immediate protection or attention if something happens."

"But nothing will happen." Greg reassures. "And Gregson is down there, too, with his small team; he's a good bloke, it'll be fine."

Mycroft raises his gaze to stare at the end of the street, where the car has long since disappeared, but he likes to imagine he can still see it, out there is the busy streets. 'It has to be fine.' He thinks. 'It has to be.'

Much to John's amusement, not even an hour into their journey and Sherlock is asleep, head slumped against John's shoulder, the first book in his pile open in his lap. John chuckles very quietly and gently pulls the book out of Sherlock's slack grip. He presses a light kiss to Sherlock's head, and the turns his attention to the book Sherlock had been reading. Well, if he's got a long journey ahead of him, then he might as well learn some culture.

Not even an hour after that, and John is also asleep, head resting against Sherlock's.

In the deep depths of a Government prison, Janine Moriarty sits, slumped against the wall of her cell. There are no windows down here, and she wonders if Mycroft Holmes is violating any of her human rights by not allowing her access to natural light. She shrugs; it doesn't matter, she'll get him back soon. She already has a plan. It's been formulating for the past two weeks, her resolve hardens every time the image of her brother's dead body swims to the surface of her brain, normally during rest and sleep, and she grits her teeth and holds her nerve and tells herself it will all be worth it in the end. She might not be necessarily proud of the actions she will take from a moral standpoint, she has always had more of an understanding of empathy than her brother ever did, but if Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes want to play dirty, then she will do so, too. They will sure as hell know about it soon.

Janine can't wait to get her revenge.

Wow, what a vague and unimaginative sorta cliff-hanger! To justify myself, I decided they would move to Cornwall instead of Sussex because it would be easier for me to write about it, as i've been holidaying there all my life, and seeing as i'm just about to start university, and will therefore not have as much time to write, it just makes things easier.

So, it is done. Thank you, to every single person who has supported me, in whatever way, by just clicking on it, giving it a favourite, following, or leaving a review- every single thing has made writing this for you my pleasure, even if it's been a long journey (over a year!) with gaps between content, this has been amazing. I will reply to any outstanding messages soon, but for now, look out for more content from me (whenever that'll come out!) and i will see you for the sequel for this sometime in the future, too. I think i might just do a small interlude in between, as well, of just Sherlock and John being domestic- would you like that?

Thank you.

TheBritishBourbon x