A/N: The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade.

Have I ever mentioned to anyone how much I hate how slow the process is? 'Cause I do. Severely. I thought we were making good progress today, finding the poison and bullet casing in the copter and finding out they matched in a manner of minutes, which I think is a personal record for Anderson. I thought we'd surely find something to prove Moran had something to do with this today.

Yeah, doesn't look like that's going to happen.

Donovan's been pouring all her time into looking into military records. I've done a bit of hunting myself. We did eventually find Moran in our system, but he's clean as a whistle. The perfect honorable soldier.

How I hate him for it.

I've almost come to my wit's end. I know this guy's involved with the Adair case. I know he killed Mary Watson. I know he was the one in the helicopter. I know that the two bullet casings are the same, that traces of the poison used to kill Mary were found in the copter, I know that. But I just can't prove it. I have no idea how to truly put Moran in both situations. The links are there, but I don't have what's necessary to weld them into a proper chain.

I sigh and run my hand through my hair. Dammit, Holmes, why'd you have to die? Could really use your help right now.

Suddenly, my phone buzzes. I pick it up from the corner of my desk. A text? Unknown caller. Who the hell has this number?

Tonight, you'll have your final link. At Baker Street, you'll find your man. Wait outside around 11pm.

What's this, some kind of tip? Now who would send me one?

SH

I think I stare at the screen for a good three minutes before finally exclaiming...

"WHAT?"

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

I've just put little Sherlock to bed. I myself am once again camped out on the couch in front of the telly, this time with a nice cup of coffee. I'm about to turn it on when there's a knock at my door.

"Who could that be?" I mutter to no one. Not Lestrade, he'd text. Harry'd call. And I see no reason for anyone else I know to come and knock on my door. A stranger, then. But why would a stranger come to me?

Another knock, this time a bit louder.

"Coming!" I tell my mysterious visitor. Maybe it's a package for me, or something. But that makes no sense, I didn't order anything and my birthday's not until autumn... I look out the peep hole and find...

The old man I ran into in the park. I decide to open the door for him.

"Yes?" I answer. The old man looks up for a second and smiles sweetly.

"Hello there, sir. Terribly sorry about my attitude not too long ago," he says with a raspy high-pitched typical 'old man' voice. "I've come round to apologise."

"There's no to need sir. It was my fault entirely. I'm not used to driving a baby stroller..." I start, but he puts his hand up to stop me.

"Now, now, I'm talking about my rudeness. You were only trying to help me pick up. And all I did was grunt at you. My mummy taught me better than that, she did." Mummy? Now why does that strike a chord? It's not that unsual a thing to call one's mother. I then look at this man and see that he looks exhausted. Probably because he followed me all the way home.

But all that just to apologise?

"You seem tired. Would you like to come in? I could make you a cuppa if you'd like," I offer. The man smiles a bit wider.

"Why, thank you, sir," he says and I let him in. I show him to the sitting room and offer him a chair. "Though, if you don't mind, I'd much rather like a spot of coffee." I head into the kitchen to make it for him, leaving him in the sitting room.

"Sure. How do you take it?" I ask him as I get down a mug.

"Black, two sugars. Really, John, you should know this by now," a smooth baritone voice calls from the sitting room.

I freeze. I know that voice. I carefully set the mug down on the counter before I break it. Slowly, I turn around, looking down at first. The outfit of the old man, white hair and all, are now on the floor of a much taller man's feet. The feet lead up to legs. The legs, a thin torso. The torso up to a pale neck. The neck up to a head with familiar face and mass of curly dark hair I thought I'd never see in person again. Watching me with such brilliant grey-blue eyes, breathing and smiling at me, physically standing in my sitting room...

Is Sherlock Holmes.