A/N: Finally, the long-awaited conclusion. And no, I'm not writing a sequel!

Saving Grace

By Navigatio

Chapter 24: Acceptance

John's breathing had gone sharp and fast. His jaw worked silently for a moment, then he said in a quiet voice, "I might have known."

Sherlock raised his hands placatingly, "Now John—"

"I should have known," John repeated scornfully, his voice rising in pitch and intensity. "I should have known. The two of you—"

"Sherlock didn't know," Mary interrupted. She was still staring longingly at Gracie, who watched her warily. When Mary took a step forward, Gracie grabbed a tiny fistful of John's shirt and tucked her face in against his collar.

"Well, not at first, but I did suspect—" he began, but Mary cut him off.

"He didn't know," Mary said firmly. "I promise you." She took another step toward Gracie, who began to whimper.

"You should understand that your promises mean little to me at this point," John said tersely. Gracie's face screwed up, and her whimpering turned to a thin wail as she apparently picked up on her father's mood.

Sherlock looked back and forth between John and Mary anxiously. This wasn't going nearly as well as he had hoped. He had known John would be angry; he hadn't expected him to be. . . contemptuous.

"John. . ." he started, but broke off when John suddenly put Gracie into his arms and pointed toward the doorway.

"But John—"

"Just go upstairs and wait, all right?"

"Oh. Erm. . . yes. Right."

Mary, eyes still fastened on Gracie's back, stepped to the side to let them pass. She didn't make eye contact, but Sherlock could see the pulse jumping at her throat.

Sherlock climbed slowly up the stairs, listening as he went, but he heard nothing, not even a whisper. They were obviously waiting for him to be out of range before starting their row. Or maybe there wouldn't be a row. John would simply point to the door and order Mary out without a word, and she would go just as silently. He thought he would rather prefer the shouting.

When he reached his bedroom, Sherlock sat down on his bed with Gracie, who had stopped wailing but still sniffled piteously, on his lap. Even in the quiet, he still could hear no sounds coming from downstairs. He expected that from up here he would at least be able to hear the intonation patterns, particularly if they were shouting. The absence of voices was worrisome. Perhaps they had skipped the fight and gone straight to snogging? Unlikely, but what did he know of how married people behaved?

If John and Mary reconciled (if? WHEN!), then John and Gracie would move out. Mycroft could fix everything for her, seeing as he owed her for saving his life not once, but at least twice. Sherlock could have the downstairs bedroom back. No more slogging up the extra fifteen steps several times a day. No more soggy risotto and burnt fettuccine alfredo. No more pockets full of dummies and baby toys. . . Gracie's thumb slipped into her mouth and her arm wound itself around Sherlock's neck, where her fingers twisted into the curls at his nape. Her body was so light, barely a feather, and her limbs suddenly seemed so fragile, so perfect, so defenceless. His throat tightened at the thought of losing her. John and his "real" family would move out and he would be alone again.

Or perhaps not. Suddenly the sound of voices floated up through the floorboards: not shouting, but tense. First Mary's, then John's immediately following. He couldn't make out John's words, only his tone, which was quietly furious. Sherlock's anxiety spiked and he found his breath coming quicker. What were they saying? He had to know!

Very quietly he slipped off his shoes and crept out to the stairs, where he sat on the top step with Gracie on his lap. Her face tucked in against his chest, arm still wound around his neck. She had gone unnaturally quiet and still. From here, he could make out most of the words, John's better than Mary's, which were quieter although no less tense.

"Who knew about this?" John asked sharply. "Who did you tell instead of me?"

"Sherlock didn't know." Mary answered immediately. "I didn't—"

"What about Mycroft?"

"He may have guessed. . . I sent him an anonymous. . . trying to kill him."

"And then you let me think you were leaving me. Do you know what that did to me?" John spat, his voice filled with venom.

"I'm so sorry, John. I did what I had to . . . you and Gracie," came Mary's pleading voice.

"Who was he?" John said tightly. "Who did I just kill?"

"My brother," she replied evenly.

There was silence for a moment while John apparently digested this bit of information.

"He was my handler. . . . blackmailing me to try to get me to . . ."

"Why didn't you come to me, Mary? I could have explained that photo." John's voice was sharp as a knife.

"I knew you hadn't been involved in a. . . but it didn't matter. . . He would have found some way to twist it. . . he wouldn't stop."

"I could have helped you, Mary. Why don't you trust me?"

"I do, John!" Mary cried in an anguished voice. "I love you and Gracie more than life itself! Everything I did was to protect the two of you!"

"I loved you too." Despite the words, John's tone was still hard, bitter. Sherlock felt his stomach clench at the use of the past tense. Breathe in (wheeze). Breathe out (wheeze). Absently pat Gracie on the back while remembering his inhaler was still in the corner of the sitting room somewhere. Damn.

"Can't that make it all right?" Mary asked in a broken voice.

"It's not all right, Mary. What you did is not all right."

Sherlock felt his arms tighten around Gracie's fragile back. Her thumb was still in her mouth, but she wasn't sucking it anymore. With her ear against his chest, she must be able to hear the pounding of his heart. He felt. . . how did he feel? Molly would tell him that he needed to put it in words, but he didn't think there were words that could capture the turmoil in his heart. Breathe in (wheeze), Breathe out (wheeze), with the air squeezing past the solid lump in his throat.

Sherlock's next breath broke with a sob. No no no! He needed to be quiet so he could hear what they were saying. He pressed his lips hard together and buried his face in Gracie's strawberry curls.

After a moment, he realized that the voice downstairs had stopped. He lifted his head and looked down the stairs, to find both John and Mary standing in the doorway, pale faces turned up toward him, Mary's hand over her mouth and John's arms tightly folded. Oh, they must have heard him. Not good.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock gasped around the lump in his throat. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

With a glance at John, Mary started up the stairs. Gracie, who had been snuggled in against him, pulled back and craned her body around to see what was going on. As soon as she spotted Mary, she began to bounce energetically up and down, babbling "muhmuhmuhmuh."

Mary stopped three steps down, her face hopeful but guarded, as if approaching a wild animal that may bolt. Gracie watched her with bright eyes, and then suddenly her arms flung out, fingers opening and closing in a "gimme" motion. Sherlock heaved himself up off the stair and closed the distance between them to push Gracie awkwardly into Mary's arms, where she stared silently into her mother's face with her mouth open in a little o.

Mary's eyes filled up, but the corner of her mouth quirked upward, just a little, before she pressed her face in against Gracie's curls and inhaled deeply. And John. . . Sherlock anxiously cut his gaze to John's face and found that his eyes were suspiciously shiny. Did that mean. . .?

A long moment passed where John simply stared at Mary and Gracie, expressionless. Sherlock's heart banged almost painfully against his ribs. A giant hand was squeezing his throat. Breathe in (wheeze). Breathe out (wheeze).

Finally John's face crumpled and he opened his arms. Mary immediately cried "Oh, John!" and moved into them, with a contented-looking Gracie squashed comfortably between them. Sherlock found his view clouded by moisture.

"Lovely," Sherlock intoned, impatiently palming away the tear that overflowed down his cheek. "Now then, your things are mostly in storage as John was too sentimental to bin them. I suppose most of them will—" (pause to muffle cough in sleeve) "fit in here, if you don't mind being a bit squished. This place could do with a woman's touch—"

He felt the firm pressure of John's hand on his shoulder, forcing him to sit, and then John's fingers were against his throat while Mary's encircled his wrist. Right, well, his inhaler was just downstairs. Perhaps one of them could fetch it for him, as he hardly needed two people to take his pulse.

"Nebulizer?" Mary asked in a clinical tone.

John gave a sharp nod. "Yes, nebulizer, definitely." Oh, lovely, now he had two nursemaids.

Both Mary and John turned and headed back down the stairs, with John's hand cupped under Mary's elbow, leaving Sherlock sitting on the top step watching them. Gracie peeked back over Mary's shoulder back at him, grinning toothily.

"Nice shot, by the way," Mary said in an undertone to John, head turned just enough that Sherlock could spot a proud half-smile on her face.

"I learned it from the best," John replied just as quietly.

"Are we all right?"

"No." John sniffed and rubbed at his nose. Sherlock's stomach gave a lurch. "We're not all right. But maybe we will be." His arm slid around Mary's waist, and she moved her head to rest against his shoulder.

Ah, yes, much better.

When they were nearly at the bottom of the stairs, John and Mary both called back at the same time, "Come along, Sherlock."

Sherlock clambered to his feet and struggled down the stairs after them, making liberal use of the handrail for support. Yes, indeed, come along. Mary had his heart in her arms. How could he help but follow?

A/N: Thank you all so much for sticking with this story all the way to the end! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. I would love it very very much if you could write me a quick review. They make me very happy!