The first place Salander went after returning to Sweden was the rehabilitation center where Holger Palmgren was living when she left. He was the only person in Sweden she cared to see, and when she showed the receptionist told her that he had died four months before. It hadn't been a stroke, at least, it had just been old age and very peaceful in his sleep. Salander left without another word, found an isolated place, and cried silently until her lungs ached, then waited as the tears dried on her face. Palmgren was the only person she had wanted to forgive her, the only one she wanted to know she was still alive.

"Excuse me, young lady?" She looked up to see a nurse from the center standing a few feet away. "You were here to see Herr Palmgren?" Swallowing the bitterness in her throat, Salander nodded. "Is your name Sally, by any chance? Herr Palmgren left me a letter for someone named Sally."

She deftly wiped the snot and tears from her face and nodded again. With shaking hands she opened the letter that consisted only of the line I knew it all along. A sharp laugh left her lips. She folded it over to find an address scribbled on the back. For you. Do what is right.

Salander frowned and memorized the address before tucking the note away into her jacket pocket. "Thank you," she said to the nurse, and then took the next train back to Stockholm. There was no real reason for her to be there at all except the address burning a hole in her pocket. Part of her was curious and the other apprehensive. Palmgren was always trying to get her to do what is right and teach her some sort of life lesson. She could guess that the address was either to a reporter, a lawyer, or perhaps someone that Palmgren thought could be a friend to her in the city. He was wrong to think she needed friends, though. Salander was happy on her own. Well.

The next afternoon she went to the address only because it was Palmgren's last wish for her. If it was a reporter or journalist she would tell them to piss off, and if it was someone Palmgren seriously thought would be good for her she would tell them to piss off. Then she could go home. Or find a new one. She had run away in such a hurry, like such a coward; it was Palmgren and his cerebral haemorrhage all over again.

John had died under her hands in the wake of the electric shock. She had felt his heart stop beneath her fingers, and even after trying to give him CPR there had been nothing. Another man's blood was on her hands, and though the ones she had killed in the past had been evil sadistic pigs, John was good. He was so good. When the ambulance arrived she panicked and ran straight to the airport, blood on her clothes and all. With John dead, there was nothing left in London for her. The farther she got from him the less color there was in her world, until it felt as though the buildings were crumbling down right around her.

Her sister Camille was waiting in the apartment Palmgren had directed her to. She looked an awful lot like Mary Morstan had, but without the tattoos and much prettier. She had a rounder face and bluer eyes, ones that were currently wide with apprehension at the sight of Lisbeth on her doorstep. "An old man came looking for you," she said in lieu of greeting.

"I know."

"He said you might be dead."

Lisbeth spread her arms in a shrug. "Well, I'm not. Goodbye, Camille." She turned on her heel and made for the stairs, but her sister's voice called after her.

"Lisbeth, where were you? The whole country thought you were insane!"

"I am insane."

"No you aren't!" The shock that went through Lisbeth's body nearly made her fall over. She turned to see Camille red-faced and embarrassed as she stepped out of her apartment. The sound of children playing followed her out into the corridor. "Lisbeth, you aren't a psychopath. You were never a psychopath. People never bothered to ask what was going on in your head, that's all."

"You never asked either. You thought I was a freak."

"I was twelve!" protested her sister, looking almost desperately upset. "I didn't know any better, and you were my eccentric little sister. Of course I was going to call you bad names. You think I don't regret it now? You think I haven't been scared out of my mind these past three years, thinking first that someone had really pushed you over the edge and then that you were dead or kidnapped or something? I thought I'd lost my chance to make things right!"

Lisbeth fought the urge to both laugh and hit the woman before her. "We're nearly thirty years old, Camille. Why haven't you ever tried before?"

"Because I knew you wouldn't believe me," answered Camille immediately. "Or - or maybe a part of me really did believe you'd gone off the deep-end, I don't know. But when that old guy showed up asking about you, I ended up asking more questions than he did. And then that news report, and the Millennium article came out too, and all I could think was that I should have been with you through the things you've suffered...Lisbeth, I'm so sorry."

This was too much. Never in her life had Lisbeth entertained the notion of seeing her sister again at all, let alone having some sort of heartfelt reunion full of apologies and declarations of regret. But it was happening. Of course, she hadn't ever expected to let herself fall in love or get married either, let alone what came beyond all that. It seemed that a lot of things she hadn't expected or knew she wanted from her life tended to happen with age. Perhaps it was the small things that gave people wisdom. "Can I come in for a while?" she forced out.

Camille smiled and reached out her hand. "Of course, Lisbeth. Come and meet my family, and you must tell me everything about yourself. I want to hear it all in your voice rather than some reporter's." She was ushered into the tiny flat and immediately presented with two small boys of around three years. "These are my sons, Albert and Christer. Christer's the one with the freckle on his cheek, there. Seems like twins run in our family, huh? Say hello to Auntie Lisbeth, boys? Don't mind them, they're very shy. But come in, come in, I'll make coffee, please sit."

They sat across from one another at Camille's tiny kitchen table, Lisbeth guiltily sipping the strong coffee while her stomach rolled uncomfortably. "Where's their father?" she asked, nodding to where Albert and Christer were playing in the main room.

"We're divorced. He gets the boys every other weekend and for a full week in the summer. We're still on pretty good terms, considering everything. What about you? I know you've been gone for ages and obviously had other things on your mind, but did you ever find someone who understands you and loves you? I really want to know, Lisbeth."

She shrugged, staring into her coffee. "There really isn't anything to tell that won't sound like a bad line from a drama," she muttered, and Camille made a sympathetic noise. Lisbeth's sister looked very tired this close up; already she had crows' feet forming at the corners of her eyes. It didn't feel like they were sisters or had grown up in the same house; this felt oddly like sitting in the house of a stranger and having something more expected of her. Yet for some reason Lisbeth wasn't as bothered as she would ordinarily be, because she knew that Camille only expected so much because she was so eager for them to make amends. And Palmgren had been eager for that too.

Before Lisbeth could get up the nerve to speak Camille's phone started ringing, and she apologetically was inclined to answer in case it was related to her work at a small business a few miles away. Almost instantly Camille's brow furrowed as she listened, then replied in wobbly English, "I'm sorry, who are you?"

Even across the table Lisbeth could hear the man on the other end roaring, "I need to speak with Lisbeth Salander!" and knew exactly who it was.

"May I?" she implored, holding out her hand and pulling the receiver to her ear the moment it touched her fingers. "What do you want?"

"Finally," snapped Holmes. "I've been looking everywhere for you! I-"

"How did you get this number?" she demanded.

Holmes sighed. "You left your computer running, I found that Plague fellow I'd seen you chatting with in your contacts, paid him to find the information of any of your relations in Sweden, and viola. Now you need-"

"Don't call this number again. Don't bother my sister."

She was about to hand the phone back when Holmes shouted, "John is alive!" Immediately she had it up to her ear again and was demanding that he repeat himself, just to be sure. "John didn't die, Lisbeth! His heart stopped, yes, but the paramedics revived him. Oh, I'm alive too, in case you were wondering, though I was shot; now get your deplorably thick skull back here before I find you and drag you back by the fingernails with a pair of pliers! I refuse to stand by and watch John fall apart over someone as obviously unworthy of his affection as you!"

Slowly, she replied, "Alright," and hung up the phone with Holmes' enraged ranting still squabbling out the earpiece. Camille was blinking bemusedly at her, wondering why an Englishman had found her telephone number to speak to Lisbeth. Suddenly everything felt a bit brighter. "I'm married," she blurted out. "I married a man in London named John. He's still in England while I sort things here. Also, I'm nine weeks pregnant."

As it happened, when Niedermann kicked her it had been significantly too high to cause much damage other than jostling to her pregnancy. She hadn't realized until the day they went out looking for Niedermann and Moran, and had been stubbornly ignoring her symptoms in the two weeks since then.

Oh, Lisbeth!" exclaimed Camille, looking like she wanted nothing more than to vault herself over the table and embrace her sister but also knew that their reunion was too new and fragile to do so. "I'm so happy for you! It's such a shame you're living in England, though; I'll hardly ever get to see you!"

The words felt odd forming in her mouth, but Lisbeth found herself saying them regardless. "We can keep in touch, Camille. I hope we do. I want things to be right between us."

"Me too," replied Camille instantly, gathering the courage to grasp Lisbeth's hand on top of the table. "When does your flight leave? You can stay here with us until you go."

"Tonight," she said, though in all honesty she hadn't arranged or even planned on going back to Britain until that moment. "Like I said, it was only a few days to get things in order. I kept putting this off. I'm sorry."

Her sister shrugged and smiled sadly. "I put it off for twelve years, didn't I?" she joked wryly. "I think you're allowed a bit of procrastination over a few days. Please keep in touch, okay? And keep me updated with your baby!"

"I will."

And, surprisingly enough, Lisbeth meant every word.

Salander made it back to London in record time, but didn't return to Baker Street right away. She wasn't sure how to approach the situation. Coming back to John after running away in a time of need was one thing; coming back to John after running away in a time of need and revealing that she had been pregnant the entire time might be unforgivable. She got a room in a hotel and brooded with both hands resting on her stomach. It was impossible for people who didn't know her to see, but she'd just barely started showing.

"John?" She closed the front door behind her and edged her way inside, fiddling with her hat and looking around as though expecting someone to jump out at her from the shadows. 221C was shut up.

Mrs. Hudson appeared in the door of her flat. "He's not here, love," she said apologetically. "He and Sherlock are at physical therapy for the next few hours; I'm afraid you just missed them."

Her shoulders slumped slightly. "Okay. Thanks. I'll just..." With no ending to her sentence in mind she sank onto the bottom step to 221B like a stranger waiting to make an appointment.

The landlady waited a moment and then finally took pity on her. "Come on into mine, I'll make you a cuppa. You look like you've been dragged through the underbrush." Salander was too tired to do more than follow her; she'd been exhausted nonstop in the time since running from London, and knew that it was just a symptom of her condition.

"So, tell me where you've been, Mary," said Mrs. Hudson once she'd poured out the tea. "John's been very worried about you."

She stared down at her tea and bit her lip. "I know. I didn't mean to cause him pain. I thought he had died. I...I felt him die."

"Well you evidently felt wrong, because our John is alive and well as anything."

"I know," she insisted in a low voice. "I know. I was an idiot and I have a lot to make up for."

With a sympathetic smile the landlady reached across the table and patted her hand. "I understand, dear. I don't think he'll be angry for long, especially not with a baby on the way."

Lisbeth felt like she'd been kicked under the table. "How did you-?"

"Oh, I'm an old lady, dear; it's like we get a sixth sense sometime down the line."

She couldn't help smiling crookedly at that. They finished their tea in relative silence and Salander went upstairs with every intention of waiting like a scolded child for her punishment. Then she noticed the bins full of paint cans, the notepad crammed with messages from journalists looking for an interview, and a small mountain of letters and cards addressed to Sherlock Holmes. He'd made his miraculous reappearance, then.

An idea struck her when she put her bag down, one so idiotic and yet so clever that another crooked smile curled her lips. She pulled a few cans of paint from the bin and shook them experimentally to see which was the fullest, dug out two facial masks to double-up, and pulled her jacket back on.

Sherlock and John were sweating and glowing red as they packed up after their physical therapy session, complaining under their breath of aches and pains in their injured muscles. According to their respective therapists, both men were extraordinarily lucky to have caught their attacker by surprise or they would very likely have died. It didn't take a genius to figure that out; the evidence collected from the empty flat building had been sufficient to peg Moran as not only the murderer of countless cold cases but also a very skilled assassin/sniper. They had escaped him three times.

Leaning heavily on his cane, John checked his phone for the dozenth time that day and probably the hundredth time that week. Sherlock fought a spike of anger toward Lisbeth Salander; she said she would return to London and stop this nonsense four days ago but still had not made contact with her husband. John was beginning to bridge the gap from denial and hope into anger, making his way subconsciously through the grieving process. Lisbeth had better show up soon or he would reach acceptance, and then his whole world would go pear-shaped again when she finally returned.

They took a cab back to Baker Street, too tired and sore to walk the distance. Sherlock texted Molly a few times. She didn't answer as quickly as she used to in the days before his "death" and it drove him mad trying to figure out what she was doing that was so much more pressing than answering her phone. She probably knew it too, and did it on purpose. It made Sherlock feel oddly proud of her; all the years he'd known her and tried to get her to assert herself in some way, take precedence, stand up to him just once, she never picked up on it. Then there had been the night in Brussels when he finally snapped and shouted at her, and she had spun around and shouted right back. She had a much stronger voice than she let on. It had been surprisingly easy to kiss her when she was finally honest with herself.

Can I see you tonight? S

I might be busy. M

With what? S

Is it any of your business? M

You're doing this on purpose to antagonize me. S

I learned from the best. Pick me up at 8. M

John was staring at him when he put away his mobile. "You're doing it again."

"Hm?"

"Smiling at your phone."

He looked out the window, being careful to keep his expression neutral. "There are finally things to smile about," he cryptically explained. John snorted.

"All right, lover-boy."

"How did you-?"

"You know my methods," John mocked him in an annoyingly good parody of his voice. Sherlock frowned. "Gossip, Sherlock. I have one of those faces people like to tell their secrets to, remember?"

He rolled his eyes and sighed, "Oh, Molly... It's nothing serious."

"Of course."

"A casual adult relationship."

"Naturally."

"We haven't had penetrative sex, though we have experimented with-"

"Digging yourself a hole, mate; stop while you're ahead."

"Right."

They sat in silence all the way back to Baker Street. Sherlock, looking mysteriously red in the face, bounded up the steps ahead of John - though what he really did couldn't quite be described as 'bounding' with a healing bullet-hole in his back. When he threw open the door John heard something metallic banging across the floor. His heart-rate picked up without him knowing why until Sherlock laboriously knelt down to fetch the fallen can with a note attached to it reading 'Find Me.'

It felt as though a balloon has just been inflated and then burst in John's chest. "I'm going for a walk," he announced, readjusting the grip on his cane and turning for the door.

Sherlock threw the can into the bin and eyed him suspiciously. "Why?"

"Oh, you know, I could use the exercise," he shrugged.

Scoffing, Sherlock retorted, "We've just been at physical therapy for two hours. What's the real reason?"

He pointed at the can with his cane. "I need to go and, ah, find something."

"Is this about Lisbeth?"

"No," John grinned with a shake of his head. "No, it's entirely to do with Mary."

"Who's Mary? John! I'm coming with you!"

They took off in what must have looked like the most unusual footrace in all of London, John hobbling off with a grin on his face and Sherlock crossly shuffling after him. John didn't even need to look up at the yellow arrows to know which way to turn his feet; it was an avenue he had walked so many times in recollection, sometimes with Lisbeth and sometimes not, that he could have done it in his sleep.

Turning the last corner felt like it took a decade, one of many that John had hopes for in the future, and to see Lisbeth there waiting with a nervous smile on her lips, to pull his arms around her, to brush her hair away from her eyes, to put his hands on her waist and feel the telling difference, to hear the words from her only made that hope grow something stronger, into belief. It was belief that had brought him there the first time, and belief would sustain them and keep them on the long road ahead.

"I'm sorry, John."

"It's alright, love."

"This doesn't mean I'm moving out, you know!"

"Bugger off, Sherlock!"

John leaned down to kiss his crane wife with a smile on his lips and the sun in his eyes; finally all felt right with the world once more.

THE END FOR REAL THIS TIME