After the fact

by Sherlock-in-the-TARDIS

The thoughts of John on his life with Sherlock thirteen years after TGG. An adaptation of a section of a peice of Suzanne Collin's work Rated T for overconsiousnss about the author's note

AN: This is the epilogue of Mockingjay (Final installment of the Hunger Games trilogy) edited to fit Johnlock. Also, to limit confusion; Sherlock donated to a sperm bank, Harry took those same sperm out, then became pregnant (Many of the people I showed got confused so I wanted to clear it up early)

Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock or any of the characters, Much credit goes to Suzanne Collins A LOT OF CREDIT. I own practically nothing in this fan fic

They play in the meadow. The dancing girl with the dark hair and blue eyes. The boy with straw-blonde hair and silver eyes, struggling to keep up with her on his chubby toddler legs. It took one, two, three years for Sherlock to agree. But I wanted them so badly. When Harry first heard about the idea, she was overjoyed, more than happy to do what neither Sherlock or I could do and carry the baby for the first nine months. She was a bit more resistant about the boy, but she eventually caved.

The questions are just beginning. Moriarty and his following have been completely destroyed, the memorials built, there are no more bombings. But they teach about them in school, and the girl knows we played a role in them. The boy will know in a few years. How can I tell them about that world without frightening them to death? My children, who take the song for granted:

Deep in the water, under the world,

A bed of ashes, lain out for the boys and girls.

Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes,

For when they open, the floor will rise

Here it's safe, here it's warm,

Here the water guards you from harm.

Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true

Here is the place where I love you.

My children, who don't know that we filled graveyards. Sherlock says it will be okay. We have each other, and the blogs. We can make them understand in a way that will make them braver. But one day I'll have to explain the nightmares. Why they won't really ever go away.

I'll tell them how I survive it. I'll tell them how on bad mornings, it feels impossible to take pleasure in anything because I'm afraid it could be taken away. That's when I make a list in my head of every act of goodness I've seen and done. It's like a game. Repetitive. Even a little tedious after more than five years. But there are much worse games to play