Coming home to pick up the threads of his old life, that was what he'd been hoping against hope all his way to hell and back; that was why he'd kept running even when his limbs couldn't take it anymore, the one reason that prompted him to fight for his life in that dark dungeon in Serbia.
Now he was home he knew that things would never be the same again. His brother had told him as much; Agra was back, and John Watson seemed to be one more thing the two of them had in common. What Mycroft didn't say was that there was a child on the way, and John intended to propose the very night of Sherlock's return.
He wasn't entirely sure what hurt him the most – John's silent treatment, or the way Agra had sneaked back into his life when he least expected it. His return from the dead seemed to leave her completely unfazed; she'd given him that look, and promised she would talk her fiancé round.
A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, that was what she was. The woman might pose as a part-time nurse by the name of Mary Elizabeth Morstan, and yet Sherlock knew far more things about her than he was comfortable with – including the welcoming warmth of her body in the rush of adrenalin of a night in Prague some ten years ago. Spies and secrets agents – would he ever be truly able to leave that life behind?
"We don't tell John," she murmured into his ear, and he couldn't but fall in with her request. John looked as happy as he'd never seen him before, and as far as he could tell 'Mary' genuinely loved him; he was still fond of her even in spite of his better judgement, for she was the one person who could tell when he was lying – and he could not.
Helping with the happy couple's wedding preparations almost made him feel part of the family, if only for a short while.
xxx
The pageboy looked about as terrified about the upcoming ceremony as Sherlock himself; that was probably one reason why he found it so easy to empathise with young Archie, something that was far from being second nature to him when the vast majority of people was concerned.
"You really do have to wear the outfit," he repeated once more, as if talking to his nine-year-old self.
"What for?" the boy shot back, quite reasonably if he said so himself.
"Grown-ups like that sort of thing."
"Why?"
He shrugged. Archie did have a point there. "I don't know. I'll ask one."
After that the conversation turned to far more interesting subjects, such as murders and detective work. "That's cool," the boy announced, thus earning Sherlock's unconditional approval. "I want to be like you when I grow up."
"Probably not the best of ideas," he muttered to himself. "Why a detective anyway?"
Archie huddled closer to him, his fingers brushing against his own. "So that I can find out the truth about my mother."
Well, that was unexpected. He had barely noticed Archie's mother; from what he recalled she was ordinary enough – boring, actually – and the only thing he couldn't quite pinpoint was why she'd chosen Mary of all people as her son's godmother. Unless...
"We're back," Mary announced from the threshold, her smile faltering for the briefest of moments as she stared from Sherlock to the boy and back. That was the moment everything fell into place with sudden clarity, and it was indeed one more deduction than he was expecting – knocking the breath right out of his lungs, making it difficult for him to remember how to breathe.
He was vaguely aware of Archie saying goodbye and leaving with his mother, right before he saw Mary steeling herself for the confrontation that would inevitably follow.
xxx
"Don't you think I had the right to know?" he asked when the silence stretched so thick they could cut it with a knife; cold fury seeping into his tone, and yet her gaze didn't falter for a second.
"Please," she sneered. "As if you were the poster boy for fatherhood."
"So you just – what? Picked a random woman to play the role of Archie's mother? Kept the truth from the boy for all these years? I thought you knew better than that, Beth."
"I always know better, Will. I had to protect my child, and that was the safest way."
"You could have told me."
"Look who's talking," she retorted sharply. "You didn't let John in on your plan, did you? We're two of a kind, you and I – and you know that."
"One phone call, Mary. One phone call, and Mycroft would be only too happy to make sure that our parents get the grandchild they've always prayed for."
Her sudden intake of breath warned him of the impending danger, but it came a moment too late; John was standing in the doorway, his fists clenched and his face as pale as if he'd just seen a ghost. Then he turned on his heels and left, Mary running after him while Sherlock slumped down in his favourite chair and buried his face in his hands.
So much for a peaceful reunion, he sighed – his thoughts wandering back to his narrow escape from Serbia, and the fragile thread of hope he'd been clinging on to in those dark hours.
xxx
Mary texted him later that day, all but demanded he met her at her place. John was still refusing to let her in, so it was Sherlock's turn to try and talk him round.
"What do you want?" his friend threw at him as soon as he set foot into the flat. "You two should get married, since you seem to get along so well."
"That was ten years ago," Sherlock clarified, an uneasy feeling still nagging at the back of his mind. "I don't understand – you surely didn't expect your fiancée to save herself for marriage, did you?"
John shot him a murderous look, the one that meant he was a second away from throttling him. "I didn't expect her to sleep with my best friend while he was supposedly dead, and get pregnant with his child!"
"What are you talking about?"
"What am I – Sherlock, I've heard you and Mary. More fool me for taking it for granted that the baby was mine, right?"
He would have burst out laughing, hadn't it been for the deadly stare that was still fixed on him. "Why are you assuming we were talking about the baby?"
A myriad of emotions swirled across John's face. "A child. You mentioned a child, both of you."
"Yes, but I can assure you the child in question is not a baby – hasn't been for close on nine years, as a matter of fact."
"And I think your outburst of jealousy is quite out of place, darling," Mary added as she materialised at his elbow. "I didn't make a fuss when your boyfriend came back from the dead, remember?"
"He's not my boyfriend," John spluttered, waiting for his friend to support his claim. Mary rolled her eyes and silently dared him to, but in the end it was clear she knew them better than they did themselves – much to John's chagrin and Sherlock's secret relief.
And she loved them both anyway, that was perhaps the most surprising thing of all.
xxx
There was no wedding after all. John and Mary eventually agreed it wouldn't be fair on Sherlock, given the way their relationship had developed over the past few months.
"Mycroft should do something about it," their unofficial wife commented one morning as they were all curled up together in their new, larger bed. "Marriage isn't just for couples, why should it be?"
Sherlock scoffed, though his dismissive snort got somewhat lost into the crook of John's neck. He would never hear the end of this from his meddling big brother, and yet he knew that nothing could be more worth the trouble.
"Tell me again about that night in Prague," John murmured into his hair, his breath catching in his throat when Mary pressed her lips between his shoulder blades and said, "How badly do you want to know?"
For a woman that was well into her second trimester, she still had a surprising trim figure and stamina. Not that either of her not-quite-husbands would complain about that, of course.
xxx
"The other boys say I can't have a mother and two fathers," Archie complained as Sherlock cleaned the cuts and bruises on his face and knees. Mycroft had been tactful enough to sort out the matter of the boy's parentage with the minimum of fuss, but even the British government couldn't scare an entire class of nine-year-olds into submission.
"Let them talk," he stated matter-of-factly. "People do little else."
"I don't want them to bully the little one as well," the boy added as an afterthought, referring to his soon-to-be-born baby sister.
Sherlock shrugged. "Then tell them I'm your father and John is hers – which is pretty accurate, as a matter of fact. Unless you prefer to go back to your adoptive mother, that is."
"No."
"Are you sure? It can be easily arranged, you know."
"Helen's great, but I've always known she wasn't my real mother. And who's going to look after you if I leave?"
He rolled his eyes in mock annoyance. "I'm your father, not the other way round."
The boy surprised him by wrapping his arms around his waist and burying his face into his shirt. Sherlock patted his head a bit awkwardly, then gradually relaxed into the child's embrace.