Author's note – Well. The end.

This was such a lovely, delightful story to write, and I really hope you all enjoyed it. My goal in writing is to create a story that people will want to come back to and continue reading, even after it's over, and I hope I've achieved that, if only with a handful of readers!

Thank you so much for the reviews, follows, and favorites, they all mean so much to me. And don't forget to check out my other works on here!

Epilogue

Sherlock – 80; John – 82

looks like we made it / look how far we've come, my baby

we mighta took the long way / we knew we'd get there someday

"John."

John groaned and turned to face his husband. "Yes."

Sherlock's lips were pursed in thought, hands clasped on his chest. "I've been thinking."

"Mm."

"We've been together for a very long time."

John really, really wanted to sleep. "We have."

"You know... I used to wish I could go back in time and redo our entire relationship. Theoretically, of course. Time travel remains a frustratingly elusive concept."

"Why'd you want that?" John mumbled, burying his face in the pillow.

"Because if I'd told you I loved you sooner, perhaps things would have been better."

Good lord, it was four in the morning. "Can we save the introspective talk for later?"

Sherlock frowned. "No, Ellie and Alec are coming by at nine."

"Christ, are they going to lecture us about nursing homes again?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I will ensure that they do not bring up your limp again."

"Thanks. Sensitive topic."

Sherlock's eyes softened; he ran a finger over John's arm and pulled up the covers, settling back onto the mattress. "It's almost gone, though."

John nodded sleepily. "You were right about it being psychosomatic. As always. Bloody know-it-all."

"I take that as a compliment."

John was nearly asleep when his sodding husband felt compelled to resume the conversation.

"John?"

He was retired, for god's sake.

"I know you're awake," Sherlock said sternly. "If you think I'm not acutely attuned to your breathing patterns at this point, then you are severely misguided."

Ah, shit. "What?"

"I just... I'm sorry."

John straightened up. An apology? "Oh no, the dementia's setting in. Ellie warned me about this." Sherlock glowered at him. "Fine. What are you sorry for?"

"For taking the long way. I made things a great deal more difficult for you than they should have been."

"Are you blaming yourself for something that happened between us sixty years ago? Sherlock, you've done everything right."

"Well, that's not true."

John hesitated, then chose his words carefully. "Some of the mistakes were worth it. Necessary. Things wouldn't be where they are today if anything had been different."

Sherlock contemplated this for a minute. "But –"

John pulled him closer and planted a kiss in his salt-and-pepper curls. Unlike John, Sherlock had barely gone gray. "We made it. That's what matters."

Sherlock ducked his head shyly into his husband's neck. "Did you think it would happen, back then?"

"Of course. Always knew we'd get there, someday."

"Really? I'm afraid I am skeptical of such a pronouncement."

"I'm not. What have I told you about not putting words in my mouth?"

"Don't put words in your mouth?"

"Exactly." John paused. "Look how far we've come."

"We've barely moved."

John flashed back to that conversation with Sherlock in primary school, the ten-year-old taking his every word so very literally. "You know what I mean."

"I do." Sherlock found John's hand and squeezed it. "We were very foolish sometimes, weren't we?"

"Yeah." John grinned. "We were."

They lapsed into silence again, and John was just dozing off –

"Did you know?"

Ugh. "Know what?"

"That I loved you."

"When?"

"From the very first day." He yawned.

John didn't know what to say. His brain was too muddled to process intense emotion right now. "Um."

Sherlock concluded matter-of-factly, "I wouldn't want it any other way."

And promptly fell asleep.

you're still the one I run to / the one that I belong to

you're still the one I want for life

The airport was crowded with sleep-deprived travelers jostling against one another and shouting into their mobiles. Ellie tried to push John's cane into his hand; he waved her off, focused only on scanning the terminal for his husband.

"He was gone barely five days, Papa," she said soothingly. "That's less than a week."

"I missed him," John snapped. Old age was proving to be an excellent excuse for rudeness.

"I'm worried about your limp," she confessed. "I know Dad thinks –"

"There he is," John interrupted and, spontaneously limp-free, he ran, uninhibited, into Sherlock's arms.

Ellie's protest caught in her throat at the sight of the two men embracing.

Growing up, she'd never been embarrassed about having two fathers. On the contrary, she believed that if anybody's family structure left much to be desired, it was her friends, whose parents adopted attitudes bordering on indifference towards each other. Secondary school was when she realized how few couples were as demonstrative as John and Sherlock. Their blatantly doting relationship had shrouded her in a security blanket from infanthood; the way Sherlock's eyes caught John's across the dinner table was, in Ellie's mind, the definition of love in its purest form.

Watching John run to Sherlock, knowing that Sherlock belonged to John, that John was all Sherlock would ever want for the rest of his life – and vice versa – was deeply moving.

She definitely wasn't tearing up, though.

Her parents hugged for a long time, Sherlock's hand cupping John's neck, and heads turned towards them. A teenage girl whispered to her friend, "I want someone to look at me like that." Another elderly couple hovering by the carousel exchanged fond smiles: they knew what it was like.

After nearly four minutes, Sherlock and John returned to Eleanor. She kissed Sherlock on the cheek, taking his bag for him, and asked how Lestrade was doing.

"Honestly, I am unable to tell at this point if his moronic comments are a by-product of aging or not. I don't recall whether he was this daft when we were younger."

John rolled his eyes. "Everyone was daft according to you when we were younger."

"Either way, he is still very much alive. The knee surgery was difficult on him, understandably, but the rehabilitation facilities are competent. And no, Eleanor, before you use that comment to justify harassing us again, John and I have no interest in 'exploring the possibility' of assisted living," he said.

"Fine," she said, sighing. It was a losing battle.

In the cab, she was squished up against the door as her fathers squeezed in next to her, bickering about this and that. John had been difficult, irritable, and paranoid in his husband's absence; it was a relief to have Sherlock back.

"How have you been, Eleanor?" he finally thought to inquire.

"Fine," she said. "Sydney's doing splendidly." Seventeen-year-old Sydney was a bubbly, somewhat rebellious teen. Sherlock and John were attentive grandparents, sometimes to a fault; once, Sherlock sided with and helped present an argument for Sydney when she petitioned to quit dancing. Eleanor was not altogether pleased, and had zero appreciation for the fact that he'd gone so far as to reach out to questionable legal contacts in order to affirm a strong foundation on which to devise his side of the debate.

"How is biology going for her?"

Eleanor grimaced. "Not so hot. She's trying."

"I shall have a talk with her," Sherlock said briskly. "I guarantee she will grasp the material by the end of our meeting."

"God, Dad. Please, I beg of you, do not pull out the bum burner." John snickered beside her.

"So unnecessary," said Sherlock coolly. "The tutoring session will not involve fire."

"And the eyeballs that've been molding in the back of the fridge for the past six months?" John put in with a mirthful grin, which accentuated crows feet at the corners of his eyes.

"No comment," was Sherlock's response. Not reassuring. Not at all. Then, "I will admit that I have found, ah, hands on experience to be a little more effective in the ways of education. Part of it may result from the emotional trauma invariably undergone by girls who would prefer not to poke at rotting human hearts, but my research results on the matter are inconclusive thus far."

Ellie smothered a smile. Everything was back to normal.

you're still the one that I love / the only one I dream of

you're still the one I kiss goodnight

"Why are we having this party again?"

"It's not a party, Alec," Eleanor said patiently, walking by Sydney and muttering, "Quit tumblr and do your work." She straightened up the couch cushions.

"So we're having an impromptu family dinner? I'm not judging, I was just confused as to the abrupt nature of such a proposition."

She groaned and switched the phone to her other ear. "Can you put Payton on?" While the handover played out on the other side, she shook her head at her daughter. "If you're looking for a detailed diagram of mitosis, it's not going to be on twitter. Come on, hon. Do your work."

"I am!"

Eleanor cocked an eyebrow, a very Sherlock-esque mannerism. Her daughter noted this, saying critically,

"You look like Granddad when you do that."

"I'll let Granddad give you a biology crash course if you don't stop reblogging photos of shirtless boys."

Sydney grimaced. "Okay, fine. Have you seen my textbook?"

The phone crackled as Eleanor pointed to the dining room table. "Elle?"

"Hey, Payton!"

"Hi!" Payton and Alec had been married for twenty years now. Their eldest daughter, Julia, was a first year in uni; sixteen-year-old Anna was currently attending a posh performing arts boarding school. "What's going on?"

"I was just thinking, since John and Sherlock just reunited – after five whole days apart – that it might be fun to have a little family dinner."

"You're trying to get Syd off the computer, aren't you?" said Payton shrewdly.

"Little bit, yeah," she allowed. "Also, I haven't seen you in way too long."

"That's fair. Sure."

"Six o'clock at 221b sound good?"

"Indeed. Who's cooking?"

"I was thinking Chinese takeaway? Don't judge me."

Payton laughed. "I'll put together a casserole. Julia's just gotten back, actually, so I'll assign her pudding duty. Sound good?"

"Yes, thank you," she said in relief. "You can hit Alec for me if you'd like."

"I'll gladly take the opportunity. My husband can be a bit... well, a bit like Sherlock, sometimes."

"I suppose it stands to reason."

"Yeah, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I have to run, but text me if you need anything?"

"Alright." They hung up.

"Mum?" Sydney sounded legitimately frightened. "If I can't pass biology, can you get me a tutor?"

Eleanor resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow. Sydney. Asking for help. Asking for a tutor. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine, I just... I just really don't want Granddad to make me look at baggies of decomposing wisdom teeth again."

Ellie sat down next to her and pecked her cheek. "Yeah, don't worry. I'll find you a tutor."

—

"We're here!" called Payton, flicking the light switch. She was pale, with brown hair and blue eyes. Plain in appearance, but extremely intelligent. Sherlock had heartily approved from the day Alec bashfully brought her home.

"Granddad? Pop?" said Julia, balancing a tray of homemade pastries and a carton of ice cream in her arms.

Alec, Eleanor, and Sydney joined her on the front stoop. "Do you have the key?" Alec asked of his sister.

"Yeah, hold on. Syd, can you reach my purse?" Sydney located the object in question and unlocked the door.

"We brought food!" Ellie announced.

Sherlock and John had their heads bowed over a newspaper clipping, laughing at something; the latter got to his feet when his family walked in. "Oh, thanks," he said, relieving Payton of the casserole. "I'll heat this up."

"Excellent." Eleanor discarded her jacket and hung it on the coat rack.

"What are you looking at?" Sydney inquired, peering at Sherlock.

"John and I managed to dig up some old remnants of our friendship. Look," he tapped the clipping, "This was when I won a science contest in year four. Everyone thought I was a freak because I performed a live, highly professional fetal pig dissection. John and Molly were the only ones who didn't share this opinion."

Julia came and stood next to them at the table. "Hi, Granddad."

Sherlock looked at her in surprise. "You're supposed to be at uni."

She shrugged. "Holiday."

"Ah." A pleasant smile. "Welcome home."

"Thanks. What are these?"

He glanced over to the kitchen, where his children were chatting animatedly with their father, then back at the stack of photos in his hand. "Pop will remember."

Intrigued, Sydney pulled up a chair and gestured for Julia to do the same. "There's a story," she said eagerly. "Tell us."

Sherlock recounted the tale of the bum burner as the casserole heated up in the oven. His granddaughters were delighted.

After they were full and lounging lazily around the apartment, making small talk with the telly chattering away in the background, John wordlessly went to the bookcase and retrieved a photo album none of them had seen before. Sherlock's surprised expression made it clear that he hadn't been aware of its existence either.

"This is for you," John explained. "While you were busy throwing fits about alleged ageism in the Scotland Yard, I learned how to scrapbook. You can thank YouTube for that."

Sherlock snickered, then leaned over and kissed him. "Idiot," he said fondly.

"Are we in it?" asked Sydney eagerly.

John nodded. "Everyone is. Payton, Alec, Ellie, Molly, even a bit of Lestrade, just to spite Sherlock. Here." He handed it to his husband, who ran a finger across the embossed cover. Through the Years was printed in fancy cursive lettering on the front, accompanied by the photograph of the two of them in the snow nearly eighty years ago. Inside were letters, articles, sloppy Valentine's Day cards, ticket stubs, all pasted to thick pages, of which there were many.

There was Eleanor Alice's birth certificate, then Alexander's, then a multitude of school pictures and first dates and prom and finally Payton began littering the book: holiday parties, Halloween outings, culminating in a wedding photo. A xerox of Violet's last will and testament, in which she distributed all her property equally and begged her sons not to quarrel over it. Mycroft's obituary – he'd passed away two years ago – and the family portrait taken directly before his death. His arm around Georgina, Wyatt and Katie and Parker's children clambering on his lap. Sydney, Julia, and Anna at amusement parks, brandishing balloons, unwrapping birthday gifts.

"You really covered all the bases, Papa," said Eleanor. "It's beautiful."

He squeezed her hand, then turned to his husband. "Sherlock?"

"It's... I don't know how to express the... thank you," said Sherlock. "Thank you." He shook his head. "I never..."

"I didn't want you to forget," John said quietly. "I know you've been worried lately, that maybe you shouldn't have taken the long way, but these" – he gestured to the scrapbook – "are all the reasons why you should have."

Sherlock swallowed hard. "Thank you," he repeated.

That night, after a lovely evening spent catching up with Julia about her new maths courses and trying to explain biology to a very resistant Sydney and watching a DVD of Anna's most recent concert, Sherlock wrapped himself around John, a beautifully familiar weight.

"Still the one," he whispered, running his fingers through John's silvery-white hair.

John nodded, breathing in his husband's warm scent, the tip of his nose nestled in the base of Sherlock's throat. "I know," he said, and kissed him goodnight.

when I first saw you, I saw love

Sherlock – 1, John – 3

"Did you have fun, Johnny?" Carolyn asked that evening, peering at her son through the rearview mirror. He nodded, a grin splitting his face.

"I like him," he said.

Carolyn had been referring to play group and their subsequent visit to John and Harry's grandmother, who treated John with biscuits and toy cars. Confused, she said, "Who?"

"Sherly," he replied.

She'd almost forgotten their encounter in the park. Odd that he'd recall that morning, as opposed to an afternoon of pudding and sweets. "And what about Grandma?"

"She was good too."

Carolyn smiled. "Good."

He fidgeted a little in his oversized car seat, plucking at the harness.

"Careful, sweetie," she cautioned. When he got restless it meant he had something important to say. "What is it?"

"Mummy?"

"Yes, love?"

"Can I see him again?"

"Sherlock?" She'd never seen a baby make her son so happy.

"Yeah."

Holmes. Violet Holmes was his mother's name. Easy to find in a phone book. "Alright. I'll call his mum tomorrow."

John leaned forward, craning his neck to see her face over the headrest. Assessing whether or not she was telling the truth. "Promise?" he asked.

She turned her head and kissed his round cheek. "Promise."

you're still the one...