Epilogue

One lone fluorescent bulb – the last of its kind in a room otherwise full of LEDs – flickers slightly, and he knows it won't be long before that one is gone, too.

The flickering is distracting, and he blinks, trying to ignore it. He almost misses the woman in charge – Mrs. Acton - hair pulled up neatly in a bun at the nape of her neck and wearing a freshly pressed skirt suit, frowning at him in concern as she speaks. It makes her look older than her fifty-odd years.

He's wearing a new shirt, and the collar is not quite broken in yet.

He's not a fan.

He raises his eyebrows in question, and she clears her throat. "I said, thank you for coming in today, Mr. Holmes."

As if he had a choice.

She smiles politely at him and folds her hands primly over her knee as she sits on a stool at the edge of the room. "We'll begin whenever you're ready."

In another part of London, not so far off, John Watson takes a seat for his 2:00 therapy appointment.

Ella Thompson relaxes into her chair, her familiar pad of paper balanced on the knee of her crossed legs. "So. It's been-" she flips the notebook back a page – "four weeks?" She smiles at him, unassuming.

John shifts slightly in his seat. "Uh – yeah. Sorry 'bout that. Rosie caught the bug that's been going 'round school, and then we had that case, the one in Cornwall-" he looks up, just a bit guilty, but Ella's still smiling at him.

She shakes her head. "No need to apologize, John. It wasn't meant to be an accusation, just an observation. We can drop back to once a month, if that suits you better, now."

John hesitates for a moment, and Ella adds – "but it's entirely up to you."

When he's still gathering his thoughts, she continues. "How are you?"

John looks up, nodding distractedly. "Fine, fine thanks." He smirks to himself, and Ella tries again.

"Rosie feeling better now?"

"Oh – yeah. Yeah. Much better, thank you." There's a pause, and then, as though he's remembering his manners – "And you?"

Ella smiles at him. "I'm doing very well, John, thank you – but we're here to talk about you."

"Right. Right." John shakes his head.

After another slight pause, Ella prompts him again. "How are the dreams?"

Sherlock clears his throat and nods to the room full of faces. Some are eager, some skeptical, a handful bored – all seats are full, and the rest of the room's occupants gather around the perimeter, waiting patiently on him to begin. He's resigned and ready as he'll ever be for this interrogation.

"What do you do, Mr. Holmes?"

"I am a Consulting Detective."

"What does that mean?"

"I solve cases – from both private parties and Scotland Yard."

"But you're not a police officer?"

Sherlock snorts, resisting the urge to roll his eyes surprisingly well. "No."

"My father is a police officer."

"How – nice for you."

"He's a sergeant."

"Mmm."

"He says-"

But thankfully, Sherlock does not find out what that particular sergeant-father says, because he's interrupted by another line of questioning.

"Mr. Holmes, how many cases have you solved?"

John sighs, and for a moment, stares at the wall behind his therapist. He quickly refocuses, however, and sits forward slightly. "Good. Still good. Haven't had a – a bad one in months, now."

"That's great." She makes a note on her pad of paper, but the pen pauses, and she looks up at him, eyebrow slightly raised. "You are still sleeping, right?"

"Oh – yeah. Yeah, of course. Lost a little bit this past week, but that wasn't – dreams. Sherlock," he continues, explaining as much with the expression on his face as with his words. "Sherlock worked us overtime in Cornwall in order to get us back by Thursday evening."

Ella nods. "Still burning both ends of the candle, then?"

John smiles fondly. "Only when he needs to. Molly had a conference in Glasgow over the weekend, we had to be home by Thursday."

"And you?"

He raises an eyebrow in question.

"Not burning yourself out, are you? How are you handling – parenthood?"

The single is implied, and he straightens, and his expression is one of serious contemplation. This is when he starts talking more. After the first few minutes of their session - when the old habits of reticence and putting on displays of strength fall away, when the awkward back and forth of his early days with her is gone – this is when he starts talking.

And this is where she can see the most that he's changed.

Sherlock draws in a slow breath through his nostrils as he thinks. "I've lost count."

"But if you had to guess-?"

"Seven hundred thirty-six."

There is no small reaction to this statement, and whispers spread throughout the room, until -

"Do you solve murders?"

"Yes."

"Bloody ones?"

"Murder does frequently involve blood, yes, but not always."

"What kind of murder doesn't involve blood?"

"Don't be stupid, Daniel. There's no blood if you're poisoned."

"I'm not stupid, Nadia. Some poisons do make you bleed. Out your nose or mouth and stuff. Right, Mr. Holmes?"

He blinks. "That – is correct, actually. And as for your previous question -"

"Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Acton interrupts, leaning forward, gaze sharp. "Perhaps you'd like to tell us how you solve so many mysteries."

Gone is the man who bites back words and chokes on the lumps of hard bitterness in his throat. Gone is the man who withholds forgiveness, who wrestles with his anger on a daily basis – who would as soon shout and throw a punch or take a shot than deal patiently with an offense.

Here, instead, in Ella Thompson's sparse but pleasant office, is the man that Mary thought John Watson was – the man she knew he could be. Still passionate – still loyal – still fierce and unwavering in his search for justice, still adventurous, still setting the highest of standards for himself and his friends; but - he is not quite so quick to doubt the intentions and humanity of those in his life – especially of one friend, in particular.

In other words – he trusts.

"-and, she – she handled it – like a queen. My little girl handled it like a queen. Honored- " he clears his throat – "honored her mum, and Molly, and Mrs. Hudson – she made them all special on Mother's Day. So," he continues, looking – a bit ruefully – at the woman across the room from him. "So you were right, really. My wife – my wife died. She died, but she's not – gone. Not completely. I mean-" he hastens to correct, seeing Ella raise an eyebrow in question – "I mean, I don't see her anymore. Not for - years, now. But – her memory. You know. Anyway. And I'm not – alone, in raising Rosie. She's got-"

John blinks rapidly for a moment, and a grin breaks out. "She's got – an impressively devoted uncle - "

"I apply the sciences of observation and deduction." When Sherlock is met with blank stares – and a pleading one from one face in particular, he continues, clasping his hands behind his back. "For example-" his gaze meanders about the room, until it narrows on one particular individual. "I can deduce, Mr. - Collins, is it? - that you play cricket, based on the wear of the soles of your shoes and the callouses on your index fingers and thumbs, and those same callouses tell me that you are a better wicket-keeper and fieldsman than you are a bowler or striker. You're gripping the bat too hard. You may also want to get your eyes checked, you may need prescription glasses. Astigmatism may be affecting your ability to focus on the ball."

Timothy Collins looks at Sherlock in awe, but the man in question has already moved on. "Ms. Bakshi, your favorite class is art. Your workspace, to be quite frank, is a bit of a mess – no offense intended, my own workspace is considerably worse - however – your markers, pencils, and sketchbook are neatly kept nearest to your dominant right hand, so that they are easily accessible. You also keep looking at the clock. I am aware that particular class begins in less than twenty minutes, now."

Divya Bakshi ducks her head sheepishly, and Sherlock continues –deducing several more students with surprising restraint and thoughtfulness until he reaches the subject of his motive for coming today.

"-not to mention the other uncle – Mycroft. How she managed to wrap him around her finger is -"

For the first time, Ella shifts slightly in her chair, eyeing the vents in the wall suspiciously. "Perhaps it's better not to mention Mycroft directly."

John grimaces, pausing for a beat. "Er – right. Sorry 'bout that, by the way."

"No trouble."

John gives her a look, and Ella quickly amends – "Well, all right – maybe just a bit of trouble."

They both laugh.

"Thanks, Uncle Sherlock." Rosie's quiet voice pierces the silence of the halls as they make their way to the front of the school, her short legs working double time to keep up with him. "For getting Maggie off the hook. I knew she didn't write those words on the desk. She's my best friend, you know."

"Yes, well…" he's checking his mobile as they go, already more than ready to escape the particular horror that accompanies the early primary grades, and the unintended uproar he'd caused not ten minutes ago. "She was wrongly accused. Simply being in possession of incriminating evidence does not make one the perpetrator. You owe me, Watson," he responds amiably, distractedly ruffling her hair as they reach the door.

"Sorry about the last half. I thought everything went really well up until Daniel asked about you jumping off the building."

Sherlock's lips turn up, though he tries not smile, and he inclines his head. "My fault, really. My particular career isn't exactly full of appropriate topics for seven and eight year olds. Forgive me if I was – underprepared." He moves to pocket his mobile when a notification alerts him of a new text. He looks at it and his expression changes – he relaxes into a familiar small, genuine smile.

"Aunt Molly's coming home early, then?"

The warmth in Sherlock's expression now transfers to the little girl before him, blonde curls pulled back from her face with a bright red headband. "And how did you deduce that, Watson?"

She grins at him. "You only smile like that when it's something from her."

"Clever girl. We'll make a detective out of you yet." He responds to his wife and tucks the device into his coat pocket.

"Mmm. What if I want to do something else?" There's a mischievous glint in her eyes, and she tilts her head, raising her eyebrow in a gesture that is very Mary.

"Pathology?"

"Mmm-mmm." She shakes her head in the negative, once, and smirks at him.

"Chemist?"

She shakes her head again.

"Doctor? Special agent? Police officer?" Sherlock narrows his eyes at her.

"Nope." She pops her 'p' just like him and shakes her head yet again, giggling.

He frowns at her in mock concern.

"Maybe – a small job for the British government?" She draws out the last word and peers up at him through her eyelashes, the tiniest goading grin on her lips - waiting expectantly.

Sherlock glares at her in mock horror, knowing his brother put her up to it. "That's it – no more tea with Mycroft for you."

She laughs openly as he stoops down so she can kiss him on the cheek good-bye, and he leaves her school for the day.

"She's got Sherlock's parents and Mrs. – Nana – Hudson, as grandparents, and – the thing is – they're marvelous. They're amazing. It's like – they were all made for it – to be grandparents, yeah? Sort of makes you wonder how they churned out such…well. Maybe never mind that. The – well – the other sibling is - doing much better, now. Even – she even composes songs, with Sherlock. For the girls. Did I tell you that?"

"Mmmhmm. Still feeling - ?"

John shifts and thinks for a moment. "Wary, if I'm being honest. But – Molly seems to be okay with the songs, at least, and I trust her judgment most. They are beautiful."

"And Harry?"

"And there's Harry, too. When she's up to it. Anyway – my point is – she's got quite the extended family."

Sherlock knocks on the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat after fielding a text from Lestrade about the recent string of burglaries in Greenwich. (It's a somewhat promising case; in addition to jewelry, electronics, and other valuables, each home is also robbed of their pet's food and water dishes.) He lets Greg know he and John are available to go over the latest crime scene in the morning – and then texts John to tell him they're on a new case tomorrow – at least until his shift at the clinic starts at ten.

Mrs. Hudson answers the door with a knowing smile on her face.

Sherlock steps through the door and looks around the room, eyebrows drawn together in mock concern. "Oh dear. What a bother. Has she disappeared again?"

Mrs. Hudson nods sagely. "I'm afraid so, Sherlock. You know how she is, these days – a master of disguise. I haven't the-" she's interrupted by a distinctive giggle, and continues on breezily. "I haven't the foggiest idea where she might be."

"Hmmmm," Sherlock hums, moving about the room. "Now, I know she's not in the kitchen, because from here I can see her cup and plate are drying on the counter, so she's already had her lunch. And I don't see any feet peeking from beneath the table, either."

"Peep." A little sound interrupts his monologue, and he turns sharply toward it.

"Not behind the couch; she got stuck the last time and I know my girl is far too clever to try that again." He inclines his head toward Mrs. Hudson, eyebrows raised in shared humor, and the older woman chuckles softly. "The door to the bathroom is open, but-"

"Peep."

"-it's open all the way, and she can't fit behind it when it's all the way open. Since I don't see her anywhere else-"

"Peep!" The voice gets just a bit louder and just a little bit more insistent, and Sherlock knows she's getting impatient. He's known all along where she is, and he strides toward the floor-length drapes in Mrs. Hudson's sitting room, pausing just before them. She's still so small at three years old that were it not for the slight movement in them and the bell-like giggle coming from behind them, no one could see her there.

"-she must be-" He flings the drapes aside dramatically – "here!"

His daughter shrieks with delight and he scoops her up, tickling her lightly on her ribs, and her laughter turns to the full-belly sound of a young child in a state of pure happiness.

Sherlock holds her carefully as she scrambles away from his chest and beams up at him, her soulful brown eyes just a hair more toward the hazel side than Molly's. She throws her arms around his neck and buries her face in his shoulder, sighing contentedly. "I love you, Daddy."

Her voice is like soup for his soul, and the familiar warmth of his love for her spreads from his chest outward. "I love you too, little bee," he whispers into her hair. And then – more loudly – "Have you been busy today?"

She nods emphatically, and proceeds to tell him all about her day with Nana Hudson.

She's still talking ten minutes later, and Sherlock's eyebrows are raised as much in surprise as they are in a pleading cry for help, as she talks about how she sat at the wrong seat at the table at lunch and accidentally took a bite of Nana's sandwich and it had "very spicy muss-ard".

Mrs. Hudson collects her things as she's talking, and Sherlock smiles at her over his daughter's head. Thank – you, he mouths, and Mrs. Hudson smiles in response.

When the little girl in Sherlock's arms takes a breath, Mrs. Hudson interrupts. "She was an absolute dear today, Sherlock. How did the case with John go this morning? All wrapped up, then? And Rosie's career day this morning?"

Sherlock snorts. "Career Day – well. I'll be surprised if Molly's not already fielding calls from the headmaster. But Maggie's name has been cleared, so I suppose I should consider that a job well done. And the case went - well." He pauses and pulls a face. "John will never let me live it down."

"Oh?"

He sighs. "Chimerism," he murmurs darkly under his breath.

"What was that?" Mrs. Hudson leans in, curious.

Sherlock lets out an exaggerated huff of air. "She was the mother all along."

"She was? But – they'd tested her DNA – twice -"

"Yes. Apparently, in the womb, she'd had a - sister that she'd absorbed about halfway through gestation. Her sister's DNA survived within her reproductive system, but did not match the DNA present in Ms. Ploughman's saliva, hair, or skin." His words get slower as he finishes the sentence, as though reluctant to part with that information. His jaw works in distaste for a moment, afterward.

"So she was their mother. That poor woman!"

"Yes. Not a baby thief, kidnapper, or surrogate scam."

Mrs. Hudson tilts her head thoughtfully and blinks, thinking for a moment, and an amused expression blooms on her face. She raises her eyebrows at Sherlock meaningfully. "You say she absorbed her sister in the womb?"

Sherlock hums in affirmation, and moves toward the door, suddenly looking strained. He shifts his daughter on his hip. She is already blinking sleepily with her head on his shoulder, and he knows there's an excellent chance she'll fall asleep on the way home. "Er – Mrs. Hudson," he says suddenly, his voice filled with cheery benevolence - and she looks at him expectantly – and also a little shrewdly. "There's a bit of a – mess, in John's old room upstairs, from where the girls were playing yesterday while we were sorting out the client's medical history and DNA results, and the testimonies we acquired in Cornwall. D'you mind, terribly-"

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head at him fondly, and the distraction seems, to Sherlock, to have worked. "Still not your housekeeper. The girls are old enough to pick up their toys when they come next. When, do you think-?"

Sherlock's shoulders straighten in relief. "Molly has them both after Rosie gets off school tomorrow afternoon. I believe they'll be at our place tomorrow; Molly will want to straighten things up at home after her conference in Glasgow."

Mrs. Hudson gives him a pointed look, and he shifts his daughter again before answering, defensive. "Her things, Mrs. Hudson – her work notes from her conference! I am perfectly capable of maintaining a home for three days. Everything is ready for her return, which we are all eagerly anticipating. So – to answer your question – John and I will be here tomorrow; Lestrade has just invited us to take a look at the string of burglaries happening in Croydon. Molly and the girls-"

"-are welcome to come over for supper. I've got a roast that needs cooking soon, and-"

Sherlock closes his eyes, his patience wearing thin as the weight of his daughter and the anticipation of his reunion with his wife bears down on him. "Excellent. Thank you. Now-"

"Of course, of course – go home, Sherlock." She smiles at him, and though there is no note of wistfulness in it – simply the knowing playfulness of a very dear, very old friend – he is suddenly struck by the fact that she is getting quite a bit older, and he swallows.

"You do know, Mrs. Hudson, that Baker Street will always be a home to us."

She waves her hands in front of her, dismissing his concern with a wrinkle of her nose. "Oh, I know dear. But it's really not as baby-friendly as your place, now, is it? Now go on, Sherlock. I'll see you all tomorrow night for supper."

"Thank you," he says, giving her a quick peck on the forehead. "You are a wonder, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, you." Mrs. Hudson titters, beaming.

"Oh Daddy," The little girl in Sherlock's arms repeats, grinning and mimicking her Nana's tone, before a large yawn interrupts her.

"Let's go home, shall we?" Sherlock asks, but she's already returned her head to his shoulder.

Mrs. Hudson shuts the door behind them, already whipping out her mobile to check John's blog. Just as she suspected, John's updated already – a slapdash entry just before his therapy appointment - the heading bold and capitalized beneath the date -

IT WAS TWINS!

More to come later. Just had to update to let the world know that for once – I was right - IT WAS TWINS!

Mrs. Hudson chuckles to herself, one hand resting over her mouth as she sends a text to Molly.

"And – of course- there's Molly. I think – sometimes – no – really, I know – just – that – God put us on this earth in the same time and space as her for a reason."

Sherlock knocks softly on the bathroom door before he enters, knowing she'll already be in the shower and that she won't mind the interruption.

"Hello," Molly calls, as the steam from her shower hits him full in the face. He closes the door carefully behind him before he greets her, quickly and quietly divesting himself of his clothing.

"Hello."

"Sorry, the water pressure at the hotel was terrible. I feel like I have the whole three days' worth of shampoo in my hair still."

"No need to apologize," he drawls as he draws back the curtain and steps in beside her.

She makes a small sound of surprise as she finishes rinsing out her hair. "Did she fall asleep on the way home?"

"Mmm-hmm." Sherlock confirms, using his thumb to brush stray water droplets off of her brow and away from her eyes once she's done. His other hand finds purchase on her hip and he pulls her closer, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. "Fell asleep on the way home from Baker Street. She hasn't slept well the past two nights, she should sleep for another hour and half to two hours."

Molly smiles, eyebrow raised skeptically. "And you thought now would be a great time to try the whole 'let's-make-love-in-the-shower' thing, again?"

He snorts and gently turns the two of them so that she is pressed into the corner, his back taking the brunt of the water, now. "Of course not. I do not want a repeat of last time." His hands rest on her hips, his thumbs swirling suggestive circles on her skin, and his lips barely leave hers as he talks, mumbling into her mouth. "I was going to move us into the bedroom first."

She only smiles more widely, though she can't deny the effect he's having on her right now. "You missed me that much?" She teases – but her breath hitches as he moves his attention from her lips to her jaw and neck, his fingers ghosting over her skin in that way that makes her hunger for more.

"Noooo," he murmurs, and she can feel his voice rumbling through her veins. He pulls away for a moment, and she takes him in – the droplets of water from the shower's spray clinging to his hair and skin and eyelashes, and she wonders with absolute and total gratitude – not for the first time – how on earth this is her life now. He smiles at her, small and genuine, and leans in to whisper in her ear – "More."

She kisses him then, and he gasps as her hands begin to wander – and he quickly makes good on his promise to move them to the bedroom.

When they have sated themselves with a reunion that was over a week in the making (he'd only arrived just in time, Thursday evening, to share dinner and send Molly off to Glasgow) – door locked and monitor still broadcasting the soft sound of static and white noise from their daughter's bedroom – Sherlock is so far off in his thoughts – thoroughly enjoying this rare moment of peace and stillness, and the feel of his pulse beating in time with Molly's, skin to skin and heart to heart – that he misses the question Molly mumbles drowsily into his shoulder.

"Hmmm?"

She rolls to the side, and props her head up with her hand, her damp hair tangled over her shoulder. "How'd that case with John go?" She smooths an errant lock of hair from his forehead and traces the angles and planes of his face with her fingertips, before trailing them down his chest to rest over his heart. She looks at him innocently – but there's a mischievous glint in her eyes that Sherlock knows too well.

He narrows his eyes at her and he makes a cautionary noise in the back of his throat. "Molly," he says warningly.

"He seemed pretty keen on updating his blog," she continues on, and Sherlock groans in frustration, rubbing his hand over his face. "Mrs. Hudson sent me a text."

He pulls his hand away just enough to glare at her – but the expression doesn't hold for long. "Only twenty-nine documented cases of chimerism in the world – and this client just had to be number thirty."

"Well, he had to be right once in his life," Molly says protectively, attempting to defend him – and then her eyes widen in horror as she realizes her unintended insult and she bites her lip to stifle a laugh. "No-"

Sherlock is already looking at her with the wicked gleam in his eye that she knows so well.

"-I did not mean it that way. You-"

He rolls over, gently pinning her beneath him, and he smirks. "I'm telling."

"No. You cannot tell him. You are sworn to secrecy, Sherlock Holmes. You keep your mouth shut."

He leans closer.

"Make me."

"And then – of course – she's got Gracie."

Persephone Grace Holmes wakes after a two-hour-and-twelve-minute nap, exactly. Sherlock knows this, because of the sound of her stirring and then the soft sounds she makes as she talks herself awake.

It's like she's trying out her voice – making sure it still works, that words still mean things – "Papa papaaaa. Nana nanaaaa. Daddy and Mummy. Daddy and Mummy and Rosie and me. Uncle John and Rosie and- " here, she is caught off by a yawn. "-Rosie," she continues – "Rosie and Gracie and Tim and Steve."

(Tim – the name of Rosie's stuffed dog, which she has outgrown playing with, but has not yet outgrown sleeping with. Steve, the name Gracie had given to her own stuffed lovey, which was originally perhaps a unicorn but came off, after three years of loving, looking more like a narwhal.)

"Unacorms. Unacorms runs fast as horses. That's a gallop. But unacorms are faster, 'cause they're magic."

"Are they now?" Sherlock interrupts his daughter's musings, poking his head around her doorframe. She startles and sits upright, her hair chaos around her face – all blinking eyes and button nose and delighted grin.

"Daddy!" She struggles with the blanket for a moment before freeing herself and moon-walking across the bed, into his waiting arms. "Can I listen to the song Auntie Eurus made me? I wanna dance like a bah-rina."

Sherlock smiles down at her. "Perhaps in a bit. There's someone here-"

Grace nearly throws herself off of him at that, and he has to perform some swift maneuvering to keep her from falling head-first to the ground.

"Is Mummy home?! MUM-"

"Yes," he says, interrupting her surprisingly loud bellow. "Shall we say hello?"

"Um – yes." Grace pronounces, as though it is the most obvious thing in the world.

And it is.

His life is predictable, now. It is filled with notoriety and naptimes, chemical solutions and sticky hands, crime and death and life and laughter and kisses and yet – it is also so filled with possibilities that it feels, sometimes, like he'll never get to experience all the new bits fully. Like if he looks away from this life he's built for a moment, he will miss something incredibly important.

So he catalogs the way Grace's hand feels in his, how her fingers barely span the width of his palm. He notes the way her eyelashes look, still on her cheek, as her chest rises and falls in slumber. He memorizes the way she stumbles over certain consonants and misses certain vowels, and the way her laughter makes every other sound in the world seem dull in comparison.

He watches Molly read her stories before bed, making up different voices for different characters while Grace takes up just a little bit more of her lap in their favorite plush chair every night.

He files away the way her eyes widen in wonder as he demonstrates how rainbows work, what happens when sodium bicarbonate and vinegar mix, and when he catches her attempting to do something she's not supposed to without even turning his head.

And in the same way, he treasures up all that he's given – from his daughter, from Molly, from John, from Rosie and Mrs. Hudson and his parents and brother and sister. He tucks away all these pieces of others that they have shared so generously with him, and he finds that he minds very little when he must give away pieces of himself in return.

"…and somehow, on top of it all - those two girls have even got half the MET wrapped around their fingers."

"You keep saying she, John."

"Hmm?"

Ella leans forward, eyes kind and probing. "You keep saying she has them, John – Rosie. But I think, from everything we've discussed – you should be using we."

John blinks for a moment, and he nods in understanding. "You're right." He leans forward and rests his forearms on his knees, smiling at the ground before leveling his gaze at his therapist.

"You're right. We. We have them. It's – it's definitely we."

Mary Watson was right about a great many things.

But in the end - like Sherlock - Mary Watson missed something. One very important detail.

Perhaps, to the unfeeling march of time that is history, all that matters are the legends - the stories - the adventures.

But that is not all that matters, period.

Her mistake lies in the seemingly nominal difference of tenses.

They were a junkie who solved crimes to get high, and a doctor who never came home from the war.

That is not who they are.

To be sure, they are legendary in the way of David and Jonathon, Horatio and Hamlet – but perhaps, with a happier ending.

And their ending is happier, not because of what they've done, but because of who they are – who they have become.

They are doctor and detective, soldier and scientist.

But they are more than that.

They are legends, but they are also – simply – men.

They are human.

They are imperfect.

They are so very, deeply loved in the midst of those imperfections that their flaws, big and small alike, fade into the background of their lives as their strengths are amplified in the brilliant light of the love of those who see and know them best.

They are friends who have made themselves brothers.

They are fathers.

They are partners-in-crime and adventurers and helpers to those who have long given up hope of ever being helped.

They are sometimes wrong, and always forgiven.

They are family, and they are loved.

THE END

A/N: Thank you, thank you – a million thank yous to everyone who has favorited, followed, reviewed, and messaged. Your encouragement means everything to my writer's heart. This has been a long road and I'm a little sad that it's over, but I look forward to more adventures in the future.

I have a short one-shot from this universe in the works that will hopefully be written by Christmas (sadly, I am serious about that time frame.) My next more time-consuming story requires a lot of research. (Georgian Era Pirate AU?! I am actually PUMPED about it but…research.) I can make no promises as to when I will have time to actually commit to writing it. Sadly…er…it may not be for a loooonnggg time. Just wanted you to know I'm not disappearing forever, just working within the constraints of other more pressing demands.

That chimerism case is based on the true story of Lydia Fairchild.

"Not Today" by Imagine Dragons and "Water Under the Bridge" by Adele were songs I listened to a LOT while writing the bulk (i.e., up until the Sherlolly resolution) of this story. They are bittersweet and full of longing and unresolved conflict – and if some of that transferred into my writing, well – I give them credit for that.

This story has been brought to you by borrowing from Doyle, Moffat, and Gatiss; by God's grace upon my sanity, time, ideas, and health; by late nights and (mostly) cooperative daughters; by chocolate and iced tea and Adele and Imagine Dragons, and, of course, by readers like you.