A/N: Whew! Apologies for the absence. That sleepless baby I mentioned popped five teeth through since the last chapter. It's been a bit of a miserable (and busy) time 'round here, and then we had issues getting internet in the new place after the move so I'm finally back.

But since I made you wait so long, I'll be posting the final chapter here and the epilogue right after.

Chapter 10

It was Shostakovich's Tenth. Strangely fitting, given the circumstances. It probably appealed to the music student side of Müller, the one who had studied at the conservatory in Moscow during the Cold War and flirted with anarchist movements before building a criminal empire of his own.

How quaint.

The graying man was already in his seat as Sherlock approached, ten minutes before the doors of the hall were to close. He did not look over as the detective settled in beside him, simply closed his program and tucked it beside his leg. "You are early."

"I did not wish to risk any misunderstanding between us."

"Ah," Müller smiled faintly. "You worry for your friend." It was almost a question- whether he worried more for John than for Leila? He wasn't sure; did not acknowledge it. "He was quite put out by your letter. I wonder what you said to upset him so."

"As if you did not read it while we were upstairs."

The older man tilted his head sideways, curious, thinking. Observing. "But what was not spoken in the letter? Your friend, he is a soldier, he knows sacrifice and loss. But then he is a doctor, compelled to heal, to fix. Does he try to fix you, Sherlock Holmes? Ah," he read something in Sherlock's impassive, inscrutable face, "or perhaps your friendship is so strong because he's the only one who never thought you needed to be."

Stoic silence, save a gentle huff.

"As I understand it, you forced him to watch your supposed suicide, before you began your violent quest for vengeance."

"I only used violence where absolutely necessary. At least your son went painlessly."

Müller pursed his lips and then faced front again. "Spite does not suit you, my friend." He watched the crowds file in around them for a minute before leaning over, so as to not be overheard. "I heard they found Delacruz in pieces."

"His were special circumstances."

"Not as special as Nadia though. She always did have a weakness for dark men, in every sense of the word."

A faint shudder ran through Sherlock and he scowled inwardly at the involuntary reaction. "If we're quite done rehashing my misdeeds." Müller shrugged affably. "The fundamental difference between you and I, Karl, is that you fail to see even now- revenge was never the motivating influence."

"Perhaps not in the beginning. Vengeance need not be for what Moriarty did, but rather what he forced you to become. But whatever eases your conscience, my friend. I shan't begrudge it."

The chime sounded, alerting the patrons that the doors to the hall would be closed in a couple of minutes. Correspondingly, the lights dimmed to half, and the noise in the hall dropped considerably with the ambience. Softly, almost inaudibly, Müller quoted, "How sad that there is no one else to lose, and one can weep."

X-X

John had an uneventful time sitting quietly and alternating between fuming at Sherlock, trying to conceive any wild idea that might prevent what was to happen from happening, and sinking into a depressive stupor when nothing came to mind.

The two men in the room with him did not engage him at all, probably per instructions. Müller returned very briefly to give him the final instructions on the exchange.

"When the time comes, my men will put you and the girl in a car, take you somewhere crowded." One of the big tourist spots, he supposed. "Sherlock will want to confirm you are away safely before he submits himself to me. When he calls, they will give you the phone and leave, you will take the girl, and that will be the end of our business together."

And then he was gone again, presumably headed off to wherever he was to meet with Sherlock and whisk him away to…

Christ, he wanted to scream; had to settle for clenching his fists and squeezing his eyes shut while focusing on remaining calm and not hyperventilating with the pent up rage and frustration. At one point, he opened his eyes and caught one of the men staring at him with an unreadable expression before he stood and crossed the room towards the sliding door that must have led to a balcony.

"Josef," his partner scowled at him, "wohin gehen Sie?"

"Zigarette." He glanced meaningfully up at the smoke alarm and stepped through, pulling the glass door shut behind him. Even John's cursory knowledge of German could figure out that exchange. Casting his eyes about the room for any sort of distraction, he caught a glimpse of a blue glow in one of the many mirrors in the ornate room, and realized it was reflecting off the balcony; the man who'd left for a cigarette was furiously tapping at his mobile.

When he walked back in five minutes later, John watched as he slipped his phone back in his pocket, along with a pack of cigarettes that, at least from his distance, looked suspiciously unopened.

Not that he trusted any of them, but John decided there was something especially unsavory about this man in particular. Was he communicating with his boss, did Müller have further instructions? When the appointed time approached and he was stiffly directed to quietly precede them to the lift and towards the room where Leila was being held, John made sure to be constantly aware of the man's halting movements and terse body language, even as he tried to smile unconcernedly to the hotel guests who exited the lift as they entered.

And so it was that when a commotion sounded in the hallway outside the upstairs room just moments after they closed the door behind them, his eyes darted first to where the man- Josef- was discreetly drawing a gun from his jacket, rather than to the corner of the room where the young girl sat huddled in an oversized chair. When the door to the room burst open, he froze and then cried out as the clamor of raised voices was followed quickly by an impossibly bright flash that burned his eyes and a deafening bang.

Stun grenade. Not the only one he'd ever encountered, but just as effective each subsequent time as the first. Abandoning the idea of acquiring a gun given the disorientation, he clasped his hands over his ears and stumbled in the direction he was pretty sure Leila was in, the sounds of her high-pitched screams vaguely rising over the ringing still in his ears. The bang of a gunshot cleared away more of the ringing and his heart froze in his chest, but the screaming continued unabated and he made it two more steps towards where she'd been sitting before he collided unceremoniously with a brick wall- or just a man in body armor- and fell back.

Clawing his way to his feet, still half-blind and half-deaf, he reached for the cowering girl just as another bright flash and bang rendered him utterly senseless again, and then he was falling forwards, a dull pain reverberating from the base of his skull and a different, darker sort of blindness overtaking his vision even as his ears struggled to recover from the second trauma.

His last conscious awareness before the blackness won over was the ringing resolving itself into screaming once more, and then falling abruptly and utterly silent.

X-X

It was six weeks before she thought he looked himself again, or close to it. Nearly six months had passed between his departure and his reappearance in near delirium at Doctor Mihra's in the middle of one cold night two months ago- pneumatic, raging infection, wounds that were new enough to suggest a recent struggle and ones that were old and recurring enough to suggest he'd been held in captivity for the majority of his absence.

Imprisoned. Tortured.

She wanted so badly to ask him how he even made it back to Mumbai in that condition, how he found Doctor Mihra, but she doubted he even remembered. A primal desperation for survival, and for a man who could not go home, could not find comfort in family or his dearest friends- he'd clung to the need to reach anything familiar. In this case, his once rival, enemy; his one-time lover. She knew she was more than that, that lover was likely more of an afterthought, but there was no single word she could use to pinpoint the nature of their intermittent relationship these past few years. They weren't friends, never would be. Sherlock Holmes had carved out a bubble of genuine affection around his emotionless heart and set it aside for John Watson, that old landlady of theirs… precious few others if indeed any at all, perhaps not even his own brother.

Not friends, not lovers, no expectations or promises- yet still, the impact of his stoic words that calm morning, six weeks after he'd barely had the strength to walk through the front door, was cutting.

"I need to leave. Soon."

Hormones, she decided, bitterly blaming them for the sudden tightness in her throat, the rushing of blood in her ears. "Alright then." She looked up from where she sat reading on the sofa. "When?"

He was standing in the doorway, maintaining his distance. Not unusual for the past month and a half, she attributed it to a combination of residual shock or trauma from his captivity and being wholly unable to process the situation with her growing belly where his eyes were lingering before slowly reaching her face. "Within a week." She bit her lip to stop the instinctive follow up question, but he read it on her anyway, of course. "London."

That shock was several times the magnitude of the initial announcement of his impending departure. "How- is it… done then?"

"No," he visibly deflated at the admission, entering the room and practically collapsing into an armchair. His elbows rested on his thighs, head gripped in his hands. "But there is a man, cunning, patient… I tried to get at him for weeks before giving up and leaving the country in the hopes that he would follow. He's waiting for me to drop my guard, step back into my old life."

She bit her lip. "So what are you going to do?"

"Exactly that."

"And he'll try to kill you?"

"No," he blinked as if surprised she would make such an assumption. "He'll try to kill John and make me watch, just as Moriarty intended."

And the pieces all fell together, so long after he'd stepped onto her door step and into her world again. How Sherlock could bear to set out on his own, could bear to leave his best friend and brother thinking him dead. Moriarty hadn't tried to kill him, simply offered a choice- his suicide or the life of John Watson. Sherlock had taken the third option- breaking the heart of the person he cared most about, his own moral compass, in order to protect him.

But he'd never expected to go back. Never expected to unveil the ruse to John- why? Because he thought he would die in the effort?

"Why go back now?" Part of her was jealous, wanted him to just stay and endure exile with her, the price for survival.

He took ages to formulate his answer; it was not what she was expecting. "Too many innocent people are drawn into danger by merit of association with me; I'd like to ensure the safety of one before another enters the world."

In horridly embarrassing fashion, her eyes welled with tears and he looked immediately uncomfortable. It was so… morbidly sweet though. He planned to put himself in dire danger so that he might not spread his attentions too thin, monitoring for more threats in the future. If he ensured John Watson's safety, he could relax one front of defense.

But just as he had protected John these past few years by disappearing… an icy weight settled in her stomach. "You're not coming back. The truth, this time."

"The truth… there is a smart answer and a sentimental one; which would you prefer?"

"That's not fair."

"It was not fair of me to set foot on your doorstep nearly three years ago, yet here we are."

X-X

Crowds thronged from the music hall for an intermission; as they stood along the upper terrace overlooking the lobby, the atmosphere hummed with electricity, still coming down from the fifty-minute exercise in frantic, passionate music. A triumphant climax. The parallels between Shostakovich's work and aspects of the history between the two men and their current situation were just begging to be drawn, but it was sheer coincidence that this performance should be taking place the day Müller's plan was necessarily carried out.

For a few minutes they stood like that, silent, observing the crowds beneath them, the formality and ceremony and forced social grace and propriety. Both men taken so far out of their usual society but brought together by the thing that had gained Sherlock access to Müller the first time, five years ago. The symphony. The music.

It ended where it began. The strange continuum on which his recent life had unfolded. Again, forced to make a choice, his life for that of another. Only this time, there would be no magic trick. Maybe- just maybe- a very small part of him was relieved. Being clever all the time did get so very exhausting.

"A drink for the road, my friend?" Sherlock slid his gaze sideways. "There is a lounge just around the corner."

But Sherlock's eyes lit onto a figure coming up the sweeping stairs to his right. A man, well-dressed in a smart suit, hardly out of place amidst this gathering. He was given away by the outline of a pistol grip visible through the right side of his jacket, and he was lowering a hand from his ear. Reporting a sighting of his target?

"Karl," Sherlock murmured, keeping the quickly ascending figure visible in the corner of his eye, "the man halfway up the stairs to your right- one of yours?"

"No," Müller returned as calmly as if he were reporting on the weather. "Nor is the one approaching from the other side."

A bit not good, then. He swept the upper level, following the exit signs, taking stock of the lifts, emergency stairwells, staff-only doors leading to the light and sound booths, the crowded doorways leading back into the auditorium.

"With me," Sherlock turned away from the terrace and fell into a passing group heading back towards their seats. As soon as they reentered the upper balcony though, he turned sharply and made his way quickly along the top row that was still nearly empty, hurrying across two sections before darting back out towards the terrace right by the technicians' entrance. "This should be… ah, yes," it was propped while the crew took their own breaks. Rather than head up towards where the light and sound techs would be working, he took the stairs down two at a time. Müller followed behind, barking into his mobile in German simultaneously.

When they reached the ground floor, Sherlock stuck his head out the door into the lobby. Quickly spotting more suspect figures, he hissed and pulled his head back and closed the door- and then found himself coughing and blinking stars from his eyes as his head collided rather unceremoniously with the concrete wall, Müller's hand at his throat, all but cutting off his air completely.

"I underestimated you, Holmes," he growled. "I knew you were cold, but to gamble with the life of your flesh and blood in such a way…"

"If you'd take a moment to observe," Sherlock choked out, "I'm trying to find you a way out."

The hand tightened at his throat- if he didn't think he'd be dead in the next couple of minutes, he'd worry about bruising. "Or you're trying to distract me from the raid on my team across the road."

"I don't know what-"

A knife appeared in Müller's free hand, and Sherlock promptly shut up. "I hadn't planned on doing this so unpleasantly- the pain and the mess- but it seems my time is running out." The knife edge teased along his jaw for a moment, before the older man, eyes wild and enraged, chuckled mirthlessly. "And I thought you might beg for your life."

"I already forfeit my life, I hardly see the use in asking for it back."

"Smart man," Müller leaned in close, cruelty etched in every line of his face, "but the premise of the deal is null."

"What do you-? No," the manic glint in those cold eyes sent an icy wave crashing through him. "You're lying."

"Wasn't even my men that did it. Caught in the crossfire. Your doctor was down too, last Josef saw before he slipped away."

He barely even felt the pinprick as the knife lightly broke the skin under his left ear. Blood was rushing in his ears and his vision was tunneling and going fuzzy around the edges; the sounds of a commotion in the lobby could be heard and above that, the noise of police sirens nearby outside- for them, or was Müller telling the truth, were Leila and John really right across the road...?

The door banged open and three armed men rushed in, yelling something at them that Sherlock didn't quite understand, and it took him a moment to realize that they were speaking in German and he just couldn't focus enough to make out the excited words. Müller faltered- surprised by the nationality of their assailants, it seemed- and with a wordless cry of fury, Sherlock twisted from under his grip, felt the knife scrape deeply into the side of his neck and the warm blood starting to flow freely.

The next seconds were a blur of shouts and pain and blood, and when he regained a semblance of lucidness brought on by the press of a cold muzzle against his temple, he was on his knees beside the older man, whose knife was now somewhat inexplicably protruding from his own chest. Close enough to his heart to be fatal; far enough to prolong it for a minute, a painful minute.

Later, Sherlock would never be able to decide if his aim had been slightly off-target in the scuffle, or if he'd been vindictively purposeful about it. Didn't really want to know, in the end.

X-X

The effects of the flash grenade should have worn off faster, but it had been accompanied by one hell of a blow to the head, and the rush of blood and pain as he was roughly dragged to his feet left John wishing they would just leave him on the floor and let him curl up and take a well-deserved nap.

And then he remembered where he was and who he was supposed to be watching over, and he forced himself into full consciousness, ready to demand answers and looking wildly around for Leila. "Where… where is she?" he croaked. A response in harsh German greeted him as his arms were twisted roughly around behind his back, the cold of handcuffs securing them in place. "Wha-? Hang on…"

Men in assault gear were sweeping the room, pulling up two of Müller's men. One looked to be shot in the arm, another lay dead on the floor. John saw no sign of the suspicious one who had brought him upstairs, and he saw no sign of the girl. "Where is she? Damn it," he demanded even as they started to frog-march him from the room, "where is she?"

His demands went unanswered through a ride in the lift that seemed to take an eternity. The lobby of the hotel and the area immediately outside had been cordoned off, the rest of the guests on lockdown, he supposed. Some cars from the Met were still arriving, but whatever was going on here was clearly not quite their area.

Just outside the ornate lobby doors, he found a familiar figure, leaning stiffly on his usual umbrella, looking out over the scene with an expression of extreme distaste on his face. A man in a sharp suit by his side was barking orders in German. "Mycroft?" The elder Holmes brother turned and grimaced at him. "Mycroft, what did you do?"

"Per usual," he sniffed. "Cleaning up my little brother's mess." He nodded at the two men escorting John, and the cuffs were quickly removed from his wrists.

"But we… we had a…"

"A deal, John?" Mycroft positively glowered at him. "You'll forgive me if I don't think much of your little arrangement. How you could even let him do such a thing escapes me, after all he's put you through. Is Sherlock's life worth so little to you now?"

But… the flash of something in Mycroft's eyes, a bit of pain and guilt and anger and fear and… Oh, god. "Damn you, Mycroft Holmes, what did you do?" He followed Mycroft's reluctant gaze towards an ambulance where a stretcher was being loaded. Unhurriedly, meaning… no, no, no… the draped figure was small, too small, and John crouched down, breathing heavily, willing the wave of nausea to pass, muttering obscenities and denials under his breath.

"There was nothing to be done," Mycroft got out thickly. "A stray bullet in the raid… by the time they got her down here, she was already…"

"And… and Sherlock?" John choked out, still down on the ground, trying to get himself back under control.

The figure beside Mycroft leaned away, listening to a device in his ear, it seemed- then he turned around and nodded sharply at them. "They've got him. More or less unharmed."

"More or less?" Mycroft demanded, but he was cut off by a furious shout.

"MYCROFT!" John stood, turned, and paled. Sherlock was being practically dragged towards them, a substantial amount of blood on his coat and hands, a wound that looked to still be bleeding at his neck as he continually twisted away from one of his escort's attempts to staunch the flow in his anger.

A black car pulled up to the curb in front of them. "Get in the car, Sherlock," Mycroft told him quietly. "It's not a request."

Sherlock caught sight of John and he faltered, looking relieved if only for a fleeting moment. "John- he told me…" his eyes darted around the scene wildly. "Is she…?"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Mycroft said, voice forcedly even. "It was a regrettable accident. Get in the car."

An expression of utter anguish twisted Sherlock's face- it was a look John would never have dreamed possible for the man who was ever in control of his emotions. He stopped struggling, slumping exhaustedly against the man who finally took the opportunity to firmly press a bandage against the bloodied part of his neck- and then he cursed as, the moment their grips on his arms slackened, Sherlock lunged forward and landed a blow to his brother's jaw. John reached him before the two who had manhandled him across the plaza, and he pulled him backwards as Mycroft rubbed his jaw and touched a split lip gingerly, but remained otherwise impassive at the assault.

"Sherlock," John turned him around, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…" he pulled him down into a fierce embrace as the anger resolved itself back into an expression of dazed loss, and he nearly lost his own composure again as he felt the heaving sobs of the detective.

Mycroft looked on with an indescribable expression before clearly his throat lightly, almost cautiously. "Sherlock, if you don't wish to see photographs and read all manner of gossip and speculation of tonight's events in tomorrow's Mail, I suggest you do as I say." When he pulled away, his face was dry, expression collected once more. John could barely see the underlying tension threatening to overwhelm him. He stiffly acquiesced and slid into the backseat. John made to follow, but Mycroft held up a hand. "I need a word with my brother, alone."

A fist clenched involuntarily by his side. "You realize what you've done here? You've killed him, Mycroft, just as effectively as Müller would have done. This will destroy him."

"Get your head checked," Mycroft ordered quietly. "Thomas will escort you afterwards."

He dully went through the motions, unable to wrap his mind around the night's events, unwilling to speculate what would become of Sherlock now, what the guilt would do to the man who had nearly been torn apart by his first encounter with Müller. In an effort to not think about it for just a few minutes, he begged a mobile off one of the medics and called Mary. It was late, past Daniel's bed time, but he just needed to hear her voice, be reassured that they were okay.

"John?" she sounded terse, on edge. "John, is that you?"

Right- strange number. "Yeah," he managed. "It's me. Everything's- I'm fine," he adjusted lamely.

"What happened? I haven't heard from you in hours."

"I- it's a long story. But I'm alright. I just…" he stopped and took a deep breath, willing his voice to remain even, not to break. "I wanted to hear your voice; make sure you both were okay."

"We're fine, of course we are. Daniel's been in bed for a half hour already. Are you coming home?"

It occurred to him that he wasn't sure what Mycroft had meant when he said his PA would escort John. Home? To wherever Mycroft had spirited Sherlock away? "Soon," he promised. "Sorry, I can't say exactly when, things are- I'll explain soon as I can," he promised.

"Okay," he could hear the anxiety in her voice. "Stay safe."

The car ride seemed to last ages; to Mycroft's then. He'd rarely had occasion to visit the Holmes family estate, had only seen it once since Sherlock's return three years ago, shortly after he'd come back from…

He stopped that line of thought right there and let his head thump against the window, falling into a drowsy stupor in the effort to just not think. About any of it.

Once inside, he was led to a wing of the house he had never had reason to visit before- in fairness, most of the house fit that description, and as Mycroft lived there alone, he assumed most of it was untouched on a regular basis. As he passed two obviously armed guards, he wondered if they were a usual part of the décor or a special addition for tonight, given the day's events.

One of the guards opened the door outside which they were posted and he found himself in a stuffy sitting area inhabited only by Mycroft, who was on a sofa watching the news. It was a rather incongruously pedestrian thing for the stiff government official, watching telly, but he switched it off as soon as his eyes lit upon the doctor.

"The whole thing is a media fiasco; predictable."

John just stared. Was that all he could truly bring himself to care about right now? "Where's Sherlock?"

"He's fine. Have a seat, John."

"I can promise you, he's not fine." He remained standing. "Look, I wouldn't dream of telling you this under normal circumstances, but this whole thing with Müller, what he wanted revenge for, it really tore Sherlock up. He was incredibly depressed, and if you don't think this will be drastically worse-"

"John, I can assure you-"

"Bloody hell!" he exclaimed, pacing manically in front of the couch while Mycroft watched him with a long-suffering look, "This is just what you do, isn't it? Act all concerned and kidnap me because you're oh so worried about him, but then when it's something personal staring you in the face you can't handle it, just like with Moriarty, and now your brother has lost a child for Christ's sake and-!"

"John." Sherlock was sticking his head out from the door opposite the one through which John had entered. "Come here."

"Jesus," he wondered briefly how much of that Sherlock had heard, "are you okay?"

Sherlock exchanged a quick glance with Mycroft, who tapped his watch and raised his brows warningly as he stood from the sofa. The younger brother nodded, and then turned his attention back across the room. "Just come. Quickly," he added with a strained smile. He looked worn and somber, but the wild-eyed devastation and fear were gone from nearly an hour earlier.

John followed stiltedly, entering into a huge but sparsely furnished bedroom. And sitting on the bed…

He slumped against the door, utter relief flooding through him. In another minute, an hour, a day, he'd be angry at the deception, confused at how and why it was accomplished, but for now… he didn't think he could be more ecstatic to see the once familiar face of Irene Adler, sitting on the bed and stroking her hand through her daughter's dark curls, Leila's head resting in her lap.

"The sedative hasn't worn off," Sherlock murmured. "Probably won't for a while, she was still recovering from the first dose. But… well, I wanted you to finally meet her today and this is the best I can do."

That was fine, of course it was. He could get a proper introduction later but for now, he just closed his eyes and wondered how he ever dared doubt that the two of them had something up their sleeves. Three of them really, Irene Adler was no stranger to such deception.

Mycroft's voice sounded through from the other room. "Look at his neck and hand, would you? He won't let anyone else touch him."

So John took the proffered medical kit and cleaned and dressed the wounds while Sherlock hissed and cursed at him. "What happened?" John frowned down at the deep cut on his hand. "Knife wound?"

"I grabbed it by the blade. Clearly, I did not have my best mental faculties about me at the moment."

He did not stay for long, did not wish to intrude on the bittersweet reunion of the unlikely family before him. When he left the room a half hour later, Mycroft was already waiting to escort him to the car that would take him home. As they walked, Mycroft gave what struck John as the closest thing to a sincere apology the older man could manage.

"The deception performed this evening… Sherlock spent so long working outside the law, he hardly trusts the effectiveness of those inside it. Nor has he ever trusted in the sort of work I do, as you well know. Had Müller slipped away…"

"The Germans were watching him then?" Mycroft nodded stiffly. "They let him go," John surmised. "Of course. Stupid." He hesitated, unsure if he was pushing his luck on official interstate secrets. "What happened to him then? Müller? Is he back in custody?"

Mycroft's step faltered, just barely, but enough to give John pause. "Oh. Right."

When he arrived home after a long and quiet car ride, the house was dark and quiet, save the sound of the shower running. Hesitating a moment in consideration of not waking him up, John gave in to the temptation and slipped quietly into Daniel's room. It was only lit by the glow of a nightlight and the faint light of a streetlamp coming through the window, but it was enough to see the gentle rise and fall of his son's chest as he slept deeply, arms splayed wildly above his head.

He watched him for a minute, hovering over the crib and letting the relief at the calm, peaceful existence of his family wash over him, before he sat in the rocking chair across the room and leaned back heavily, physically exhausted and emotionally drained.

After five minutes passed, Mary appeared noiselessly in the doorway and waited for him to look up and acknowledge her. She raised her brows questioningly and then beckoned him out of the room, shutting the door softly behind them. Rather than press right away, she led him into the kitchen and, clad in her bathrobe and hair damp from the shower, set the kettle on and looked him over.

"Are you okay?"

He thought about Sherlock then; thought about when this had unknowingly started for John, in its own way, with Mycroft abducting him to ask about Sherlock's disappearances and Sherlock's subsequent refusal, sitting in the next room, to share any more details with John than he had his brother; thought about Sherlock holding Daniel at the end of that night and his general apathy to the boy at any other time and his reticence to visit them when he was a newborn; thought about how that had simply been written off as Sherlock's way with things and certainly no one had much expected him to act otherwise.

How much of that had instead been about being deprived a normal relationship with his own child? For a man who had always professed his separation from sentiment, John was beginning to suspect that Sherlock's clinical detachment was lost - perhaps pried away from him unwittingly and unwillingly- after all he had seen and done, all that had happened, during the three years John had believed him dead.

Mary handed him a cup of tea; he took a deep breath and told her everything.

X-X

A/N: Epilogue to follow!