Here we are - the final chapter. Thanks to everyone who had followed, favourite, read and reviewed, and special thanks to everyone who has encouraged me through this particular story - I hope the ending is to your liking :D

The weeks following the discovery of the body of Dr Watson were chaotic. The police managed to keep most of the details of the discovery out of the press, in deference to Mrs Hudson, who had enough to deal with knowing she had bought a house with a dead body in the garden.

Sherlock had persuaded his bemused brother to have the shed replaced, and moved (at Mrs Hudson's insistence) to the other side of the garden.

Ever sentimental, Martha Hudson insisted on planting a rosemary bush on the site where the body had lain undiscovered for over a century.

Molly Hooper, a recent addition to the pathology department of St Bartholomew's hospital, performed the required tests on the body. The suitcase had contained a set of silver backed hairbrushes, with enough hair still caught in the bristles to glean a DNA profile. The remaining flesh also gave up a DNA profile, confirming a match.

Reluctantly Sherlock had returned the filched files, the fact that he had discovered the missing person so many years after he had disappeared preventing the Yard from banning him completely from their premises. The photograph of John and Harry was used, after a forensic facial reconstruction had re-built the features onto the skull, to identify without doubt that the man from the garden grave was Dr John Watson.

xXx

Sherlock looked at the text for the third time, wondering when his visitor would arrive. Lestrade had said that he had been contacted by a relative of the late Victorian doctor, and the gentleman wanted to come and thank him personally. He had agreed to meet at the laboratory above the morgue at St Bart's.

The steady tap, tap, tapping of a walking stick against the tiled floor alerted him to the approach of the man, and he raised his eyes from his microscope and looked towards the door.

A short, blond haired man walked in a little hesitantly, his eyes flicking quickly around the room before coming to rest on the tall, dark haired man sitting at the bench.

"Mr Holmes?" he asked, and as Sherlock nodded he stepped, forward offering his hand. "John Watson."

He must have seen a frisson of shock cross Sherlock's face, because he smiled a genuine, friendly smile.

"The story of John Watson's mysterious disappearance has been responsible for the name becoming a family tradition. Actually, my great great grandfather was Harry Watson, John's older brother." His eyes flicked around the room once more. "This is all a bit different from my day."

"Of course." Sherlock returned the smile. "And like your great great uncle, you are also an army doctor, recently invalided from….Afghanistan? Or Iraq?"

The smile faded a little. "Afghanistan. How did you know?"

"About you? Your tan. Face and hands, but no tan above the wrists. About the other Dr Watson? I found his journal in my flat."

There was a pause, then

"I suppose you should really have that back. If you'll write down your address I'll have it couriered to you."

"Actually, I'm still looking for accommodation; maybe I can call here again and collect it? When you're next here?"

"How do you feel about the violin" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"Pardon?"

"And sometimes I don't speak for days, would that bother you? After all, flatmates should know the worst about each other."

"Flatmates?" John looked confused.

"Don't you see? It makes sense!" Enthusiasm gleaming from his eyes, Sherlock whirled around, pulling his coat on and tying his staff. "You need somewhere to live, I'm looking for someone to rent the second room in my flat…" he paused, the enthusiasm dying slightly. "Would it bother you? To live in the room your great great uncle lived, and possibly died in?"

For a moment both men seemed to hold their breath, and then John smiled once more.

"Don't believe in ghosts. When can I look at the room?"

They made an arrangement to meet the next evening, and at the appointed time, as John limped up to the door of 221B Baker Street with a backpack slung over his right shoulder, a cab pulled up and Sherlock leapt out.

"Mr Holmes." John stepped forward, hand extended.

"Oh Sherlock, please." The dark haired man gestured towards the door. "Shall we?"

After introducing him to Mrs Hudson, Sherlock led the way upstairs, feeling unusually tense, hoping that the doctor would like the flat.

John had a good look around the flat, his smile growing ever wider as he completed his tour. He turned to look at Sherlock and Mrs Hudson, standing side by side beside the fireplace.

"How soon can I move in?"

"As soon as you like." Sherlock was pleased – he had a good feeling about this, although he would never admit that it felt almost as if it were meant to happen. "Mrs Hudson, how about a cup of tea?"

"Just this once, I'm you landlady, not your housekeeper." That lady chided gently, smiling at the two men.

"And a biscuit, if you have one." John said as she went back downstairs.

"Not your housekeeper." Her voice floated back up to them.

Left alone, John looked at Sherlock with a slight frown.

"What?"

"That Detective Inspector, Lestrade is it? He said you were strange."

"And he's an idiot."

John chuckled. "Actually, I have a gift for you, and I was just hoping that his assessment of your character was right."

"A gift?" He watched as John reached into his backpack, and then his eyes widened as he saw the object that the other man was holding out to him.

"It's great great uncle John. If the police version of the story is to be believed, he chose you to find him – it seemed only right to bring him home to you."

And into Sherlock's slightly shaking hands, John placed a human skull.

A/N: Rosemary is historically the plant of remembrance.