Author's Note: I realized when working on the epilogue for this story that I wanted to write one last chapter, from Sherlock's perspective on Irene's decision. It's a short one, but here it is.

The End, The Beginning II

The following morning Sherlock surfaced from a deep sleep just as the sun crested the hills that climbed up from the house to the east. It was an easy return to consciousness, and was accompanied by a rare sense of well-being. He opened his eyes to see faint rays of dawn light were beginning to spill through the large picture window, transforming the de-saturated blues and greys of the bedroom landscape into peaches and ochres, and he blinked and drew in a slow breath.

He shifted slightly to look at the nude form next to him, and the contentment and pride within him grew until he was filled with sentiment that felt so vast it nearly pressed moisture from his eyes.

The first time he'd ever seen Irene asleep he'd been struck by her apparent vulnerability and lack of guise. Of course these traits had been manufactured precisely to earn his trust – which had worked – but in retrospect he could see that the signs of her duplicity had been there. In spite of her look of relaxed innocence her body language could have given her away – and likely would have if he hadn't already been so in her thrall. She had been curled on her side, tucked inward as if in unconscious self-protection, and at the time he'd just assumed that that was her normal preference. He knew better now.

The first time they'd slept together (in both the metaphorical and literal meanings of the phrase) she'd fallen asleep on her back, and he'd initially attributed that to exhaustion in the aftermath of everything she'd experienced. But in the few memorable times that had followed, she'd never slept in that tightly wound, protective way again. Instead she sprawled out like a starfish, arms and legs annexing his territory, as she did in waking life as well.

This was true trust, true intimacy, true lack of guise.

She was in the same position now, the flat-sheet (an American preference) and duvet pulled up over to just below her waist, showing an alluring hint of navel, and her tangled hair was splayed across the pillow. Her mouth was closed but her lips full from their kisses of the night before, and her arm was flung up so that her upturned wrist covered her eyes against the brightness beginning to fill the room. One slim, well-muscled leg stretched uncovered towards the end of the bed while the other one was bent, with the white sheet wrapped around it like a garland.

He skimmed his eyes across the terrain of her skin, and allowed himself to indulge in a rare moment of sentimental and aesthetic appreciation.

As his gaze caressed her body he couldn't help but also observe and memorise the minute changes she'd incurred in their brief time apart, changes he'd been too preoccupied to register the night before. They didn't tell quite so dramatic a story as they had after their last time apart, but they still expressed the life she'd been living for the past nine days.

Besides the signs of their night together, he saw that her skin was a slightly tanned version of the alabaster he'd last seen, faint freckles were beginning to appear across the bridge of her nose, and there were callouses beginning to form on the bottoms of her heels from the increased use of open shoes. Her nails were short and practical, her hair wavier and more textured from the proximity to the sea, and the worry lines that had been so etched between her brows the week before had begun to fade away.

She was beautiful as ever, but moreover she looked well-rested and no longer haunted or hunted. The veritas of her body-language while asleep assured him that this was the right choice for her – and for Nero, and for all them – more than her most eloquent explanation might have.

Not that he'd actually needed persuading…

Granted, he'd felt an initial knee-jerk reaction of jealousy when she'd brought up the fact she'd be working with (and to some degree, despite her protestations, for) Mycroft, although looking back on it he realised it wasn't as visceral or intense as a response as he might have once had. This experience had been harrowing, but it had also abraded old wounds and allowed them to begin to heal properly at last.

With the clarity and perspective that had came from that, Sherlock could see that Irene was justified in coming to this decision, and he could not stand in her – and in turn, their – way.

From a young age Sherlock had had the keenly developed sense of fairness of a younger child, and as he'd aged it had evolved into a personal code of justice. It was a gyroscope within him, so that if a situation canted too far in one direction or another it would throw off his entire sense of self, and internal equilibrium could not be restored until external balance was achieved. He and the law didn't always agree on what this entailed.

There was always something, though – always an exception – and in this case his blindspot had been he, himself. Consistent with its nature as a blindspot he hadn't given much thought to it, but now he reflected that it might have developed as a defense mechanism after spending his formative years feeling inferior – to Mycroft intellectually, to his peers socially…

With Irene, his relationship with her had lead to feelings of a different type of inadequacy, but it wasn't until this real parity had been achieved that he realized how out-of-balance he'd been.

Irene had discovered a way to save them both, as individuals and as – for lack of a better word – a couple. She had taken an issue and resolved it not by giving one side or another their way, but by finding a third path.

Fairness had been achieved, balance had been struck. If there were a slight advantage either direction it was to her, but that felt like the natural and correct balance-point for their relationship.

He wondered if as an only child Nero would develop Sherlock's same sense of justice.

Of one thing he was certain: Nero would remain an only child – Sherlock had already booked an appointment at St Thomas' to have a vasectomy. He and Irene had years of potential fertility remaining, and birth control of any sort was tiresome – this was the only sensible solution and well-worth brief discomfort. It was a concrete acknowledgement of his investment in their future, and it struck him as rather romantic as far as he went.

Irene murmured something in her sleep and his gaze sharpened to hone in on her lips, trying to read them since he hadn't caught what she'd said, but the words faced away and her mouth bent into a gentle, amused smile.

This was new. He stared in awe and fascination, waiting for her to say something else, but she had lapsed into silence again.

He smiled slightly as well – it was another sign of the breaking down of walls and defences, of inherent trust. The fact that he didn't actually know what she'd said proved she'd always have her mysteries.

After a light trace of the back of his fingers down the side of her face, he rose from bed. He slipped on the dressing gown he'd brought with him – the one she'd once worn – and decided that when he left, this dressing gown would stay.

He showered, his thoughts only a pleasant atmospheric hum, then made his way to the kitchen, put on the kettle, and after he ducked his head into the bedroom and saw that Irene was still asleep, went to find Nero.

Nero's room was on the east side of the house and received the full dose of morning light, and he was awake and sitting up. He blinked serenely at Sherlock between the slats of his crib, before he pulled himself to his feet and stretched his arms towards his father.

Sherlock crossed the room and picked up his son, who immediately leaned his head against Sherlock's chest and let his eyes flutter closed again.

Aside from the sound of Nero's small sigh, the house was silent.

He looked down at his child, whose sleep-flushed cheek rested against Sherlock's shoulder, and marvelled once again that he should not only find himself a father, but a father to this remarkable child. Even if he removed himself from his biases he could objectively appraise Nero as above-average in over a dozen child development markers.

He broke his gaze and padded back out to the kitchen, where he saw the kettle had come to a boil. He moved to deposit Nero in his highchair but his son clung to him and made a noise of protest in his throat, so instead Sherlock left the water to cool and turned towards the French doors with their tantalising view of azure sea beyond.

He stepped outside and the warm saline breeze washed over him, caressing him like a lover's breath. Tensions he had been holding in his shoulders and jaw, tensions which still persisted even after the stress-relieving activities of the night before – began to melt away, and the acidic edge of the anxiety he'd been carrying in the pit of his stomach for the past several weeks finally began to dissipate. More existential strain and doubt faded as well, and with each ebbing out of the distant waves below he felt ever more at-peace.

Using tactics he'd learned through his practice of meditation, he stood with that hard-earned sense of equanimity, repeatedly dismissing the encroachment of all other thought.

It would be easy to feel isolated and untethered here at the edge of the continent, but in truth he had never felt so connected and so whole. He had always shunned the notion of happiness, finding it naff and unforgivably simplistic whilst also unattainable, and yet now that he had it…

It was his turn to heave a sigh, and Nero nestled closer against his chest. Sherlock rubbed his palm across Nero's shoulders, idly noticing how his hand spanned the infant's entire back.

He sensed before he heard Irene's presence behind him, and then she was at his side. She placed two cups of tea on the small table, then slipped one arm around his waist and one arm around Nero, who brightened at the sight of her.

Sherlock had the same response as his son, and he didn't shy away from it or retreat into cynicism as he once might have.

For much of his life he had turned inward for escape: the make-believe pirate world of his young imagination, the refuge of an oblivious brain on drugs, the familiar comfort of certain rooms within his Mind Palace. There were real places – plottable on maps – such as his Baker Street flat and his various boltholes, where he felt safe, but only imaginary and hypothetical places had been his sanctuaries.

Something felt different about this Montegrin house by the sea. Peace had always been synonymous with boredom and was therefore detestable, but in this place there was only a sense of tranquillity.

It wasn't that he would come here to escape his 'real' life in London, because as he'd already realised, the two lives he'd kept so distinct and compartmentalised – or so he'd thought – had merged. The stereoscopic view of those two hemispheres had become one, making everything vivid and three-dimensional. That was a permanent change.

He kept his gaze on the horizon, and sensed it when Irene's eyes joined the same focal point.

The first rays of the rising sun stretched from behind them to the sea beyond, like a golden benediction.

"Do you know you talk in your sleep?" he asked, breaking the spell before that overwhelming sentiment returned, his own voice still deep from disuse.

She went still, but just for a moment.

"Why do you think I never actually share my bed?" she retorted with an air of nonchalance, then looked up at him, the until you implicit.

A moment later her curiosity got the better of her.

"What did I say?" she asked, pulling away and taking a graceful seat in one of the sea-grass woven chairs that furnished the terrace. "Nothing terribly indiscreet, I hope," she added, in a tone that suggested the opposite.

Nero leaned over in Sherlock's arms to follow her, and Sherlock transferred him to her lap.

He didn't answer immediately, savouring the illusion of information disparity for just a moment.

Even when he did respond it was only to give an enigmatic shake of his head, letting it remain unclear whether he hadn't really heard, or he was keeping it to himself, and her lips curled into an understanding smile.

He answered back with one of his own, and recalled his earlier thoughts of self-deception, and about how everyone had secrets they keep for themselves, as well as secrets they keep from themselves.

There had been so many revelations in the past several weeks, and yet despite the discovery of having a son, none had shocked him to his foundation more than his capacity to feel this depth of sentiment and find it not only nonthreatening, but integral to his wellbeing in going forward.

They would return to London for Nero's first birthday; until then he had nowhere else to be.

Author's Note: This was the final chapter of Sui Generis. There will be a brief epilogue, but this is the conclusion. All thoughts and comments are cherished by this author!