Joan turned on the spot to face Sherlock directly, as Gregson and Bell took a few steps closer to him, staring at his phone.

"What d'ya mean, Holmes? What have you found?" Asked Gregson, his brows crossing in confusion.

Sherlock lowered his hand and looked from Joan to Bell to Gregson, before leaning back on his heels and beginning to speak. "As we have discussed, Ms Lake is highly-intelligent, methodical and incredibly well organised. The motivation for her actions is grief, anger and the need for retribution. We can see from her actions, by taking the children from the family, that she wished to make the parents suffer as she did. But she found a flaw in her plan. Keeping the children from their parents caused an immense amount of grief, but with Mrs Devereaux not continuing with counselling, and becoming a virtual recluse during the two week period in which her daughters were missing, Ms Lake was unable to view that grief. She was not satisfied. Her plan to cause the mother pain had worked, but only to a certain extent. And she wanted more. Hence the second abduction. Ms Lake realised that her need for revenge required her to be able to observe the distress and fear of the mother when faced with the prospect of losing her children. So she took her, kept her with them for a while, and undoubtedly informed her as to her long-term plan for the three of them. This would have caused even more distress than she could imagine, reuniting a terrified woman with her children, then telling her that they would soon be permanently separated." He paused for a moment, and his colleagues watched him with interest, nodding occasionally and willing him to continue. "It was not enough for Ms Lake to know the mother was distressed, or even to see her sadness at the prospect of losing her children permanently. Therefore, it is unquestionable that she has placed them in a secure location, somewhere of significant emotional value, where she intends to carry out the deed."

"How do you know she is gonna do it personally?" Interposed Gregson, moving slightly on the spot.

"Because of her confession earlier this afternoon to Miss Watson. She told her that she had physically pulled the child from the car herself. Despite being backed up by her hired associates, Ms Lake wanted to maintain a notable hands-in role in this crime, and I doubt it stopped at the initial kidnapping. The way she has planned this, and her motivation, is indicative of an individual who wants to exact extreme personal vengeance, and she believes that the most effective way to achieve that would be to carry out as much of the crime personally as is possible." Gregson nodded, and waited patiently for him to continue. "To achieve the desired effect, she would have felt compelled to carry out such an act personally, of that I am certain. Just as I am certain that the location at which the family are currently being held at is one of significant emotional attachment to Ms Lake. Not only that, but it will be representative of her son. Not his life, you understand, but his death. I looked into the bar in which he was killed, which is a relatively modern building which is still occupied by the family who bought it originally, and has been open regularly and consistently ever since the attack. Therefore, this as a potential location is out of the question. So I pursued a different possibility, and scoured the local papers for the obituary of Mr Masters, and found that he was buried in a cemetery four miles from the home of the Devereaux family. In this cemetery are eight crypts, two of which are empty." He paused, placing his phone in his pocket. "Captain, I am quite certain that this is the most likely place in which the children and their mother are being kept. As we are unaware of how long they have been there already, their current condition, and the presence of Ms Lake's associates, it is imperative that we leave immediately." Gregson agreed, and Sherlock read out the address to him. The former then walked into the centre of the precinct and drew the attention of several officers, briefly explaining the most recent turn of events and passing on the address, before instructing them to drive there immediately. The precinct was once more buzzing with activity, and Gregson, Bell, Sherlock and Joan led the way out of the precinct, piling into Gregson's car and racing to the scene.

Gregson's car was the first to pull into the entrance to the cemetery, and was closely followed by three other patrol cars. The cemetery was one of the oldest in the city, and was guarded by a tall black fence and gate. The paint on the fencing was old and flaking, the tips of the spokes and the lock itself having rusted over slightly with weather and age. Sherlock and Joan flung the car door opens and rushed towards the gate, closely followed by Gregson, Bell and a group of officers. Sherlock pushed the gate open forcibly, and the team rushed in. The graveyard was large and neat, with the scent of freshly mown grass present in the late evening air. There was a large expanse of grass and tombstones to the immediate left, which were divided by a series of intricate stone pathways. Directly in front of the gate was a high stone wall which lined the perimeter, leading up to the old church with a damaged slate roof. Against this wall stood six crypts, all identical in size and appearance. They were constructed from a grey stone material, were approximately ten feet by twenty, and stood tall against a series of ageing oak trees. Sherlock and Joan rushed towards them, looking at them each in turn, searching for any sign of recent entry or tampering. As Sherlock, Gregson and Bell approached the daunting buildings, Joan turned around, watching as a small army of police officers began to infiltrate the grounds. As she saw this, she noted a gravestone about three feet from where she was standing. The name on the gravestone was Jacob Masters, the son of Ms Lake. Joan turned around quickly to find that the gravestone directly faced the third crypt from the left, which was yet to be studied by Sherlock and the police, and so she ran towards it. She removed her gloves quickly, tossing them on the ground along with her bag, and began pulling on the handle of the large, heavy door. Her demeanour and desperation attracted the interest of Sherlock, who rushed to her side at once.

"Watson? Watson what are you-"

"It's this one, Sherlock, this is the crypt. It is situated directly opposite the grave of her son" Joan stated between breaths, as she pulled heavily upon the door handle, despite the fact that it appeared to be either locked or jammed. Sherlock nodded, and approached the door itself, before placing his fingers upon the edge of the door and examining it, before shaking his head.

"Stand back, Watson." He stated gently, and she followed his instructions, moving back a few paces and watching him with interest. By this time, the pair had been joined by Gregson and Bell, as well as a couple of the officers who were not already busying themselves with attempting to open the other crypts. After satisfying himself that everyone was at a safe distance away from the door, Sherlock took a few strides back, before running at the door and forcing all of his weight onto the heavy frame. It juddered notably, much to Sherlock's satisfaction. He went back to his original position and ran at the door once more, the sound of a loud thud filling the air, as the brass lock began to rattle. On the third attempt, the door was thrown open, and splinters of wood fell helplessly to the ground as Sherlock rushed in, closely followed by Joan. The sight which they beheld left them both relieved and speechless.

The crypt itself was to be larger than it outwardly appeared, with its high concrete walls leaning imposingly over several reinforced shelves which lined the walls, and a large, mounted casket towards the back of the room. To the right of the casket sat the two children, wearing the same white dresses in the video. Their hands were tied together, and a piece of thick, white material had been used to bind their mouths. They looked up inquisitively at the new entrants, fear and confusion present in their eyes. To the left of the casket lay Mrs Devereaux, still wearing her running clothes, her back to Sherlock and Joan. Joan instinctively ran towards the children, quickly but carefully undoing their bindings whilst whispering statements of reassurance to them. When she had freed them, she placed her hand upon their foreheads, and surveyed their bodies for any signs of trauma or injury. Once she was satisfied that they were physically healthy, she placed a hand on each of their shoulders and drew them gently towards her.

"It's alright, shh, it's alright. You're safe now, I promise you. You are both safe." They seemed to find comfort in her words, and cautiously moved forwards and wrapped their arms around her neck. She removed her hands from their shoulders and welcomed their embrace, drawing them to her as closely as she could, hugging them tightly. "Everything is going to be okay. You're alright now, I promise. You're okay." She kept repeating the same statements, to herself as much as to the girls. The relief she felt at having safely locating them was immense, and beyond expression. As she felt their weak and tired arms draw tightly around her neck, she held them closer, closing her eyes for just a moment to fully take in the situation. The girls were safe. They were okay. She was drawn from her thoughts and her gratitude by Sherlock, who was calling across to her in a tone of notable urgency.

"Watson, I believe Mrs Devereaux is in need of your attention." Joan looked up immediately, drawing herself back from the girls' arms, and looking at them in their wide, blue eyes as she spoke.

"I just need to check on your mother, alright? I just need to make sure she is okay, and I will be back." She spoke gently and kindly to the frightened girls, whose eyes widened as she slowly moved backwards. One of the girls, who she believed to be Jenny, threw herself at Joan, wrapping her arms tightly across her neck and burying her head in her hair. Joan closed her eyes slowly, considering the trauma and confusion these girls had already experienced, and felt incredibly conflicted at leaving them. "Sweetheart, it's okay. You are all safe now, okay? I promise. But your mum has hurt herself, and I am a doctor, so I need to help her, okay?" Joan felt the little girl slowly lean back, and look deep into the depths of her eyes. Joan smiled reassuringly, cupping her cheek with her hand, before slowly standing. By this point, Gregson and Bell had entered the crypt, and were approaching the little girls slowly and cautiously, speaking to them kindly as they did so, before each picking up one of the girls and carrying her from the building. Joan walked around the casket and stood by Sherlock, who was leaning over and pressing his scarf to Mrs Devereaux's head.

"She has a nasty head contusion, Watson, although she appears to be breathing. She regained consciousness for a few moments before losing it once more." As he spoke, Joan watched as Sherlock gently held the scarf to Mrs Devereaux's head, applying gently pressure and moving her hair slowly from her face. His kindness and his care touched her, and she watched him with warm and approving eyes as she bent down by his side and placed her own hand over the scarf. Their fingers touched for just a moment, and they turned to look at each other. Joan was clearly tired and concerned about the well-being of the family, and Sherlock's eyes shone with relief and satisfaction.

Joan slowly lifted the folded, blood-stained scarf from Mrs Devereaux's head and examined the wound carefully. She was pale and her lips were dry and slightly chapped. There was a bruise forming just below her right eye, and her hair was slightly dishevelled. The head wound itself was a laceration, approximately three inches in length, which appeared to be fairly deep. Judging from the amount of blood on the ground and on Sherlock's scarf. Joan judged that Mrs Devereaux had been assaulted in this very spot, and had fallen unconscious almost immediately. Despite her startling appearance and worrying wound, Mrs Devereaux was breathing steadily and her skin was warm to the touch. Nevertheless, Joan took off her black jacket and wrapped it across her lying figure, before reapplying the scarf with gentle pressure.

"The wound is nasty but fairly superficial. Head wounds always bleed a lot, they tend to look worse than they are. She will almost certainly have a concussion, possibly even amnesia, but she will recover." Joan spoke with relief, but tiredness was evident in her voice.

Sherlock had been standing behind Joan, watching her as she gently tended to the injured woman. During this time, Sherlock was marvelling at how incredible Joan Watson was. Her strength, courage and convictions inspired him, and it was hard to believe that the woman who was kneeling confidently in front of him and tending to an injured victim was the same woman who had appeared utterly distraught just an hour or so before. She was amazing, and he knew it. He just hoped that one day he would be able to make her realise it too. Before he could speak the sound of two sets of heavy footsteps approaching them from behind became apparent, and Sherlock turned on the spot to find himself face to face with two paramedics. He greeted them pleasantly and explained the situation, causing Joan to turn around and place her hands upon her knees before rising to her feet. She filled the paramedics in on the rest of the details, explaining the nature and prognosis of Mrs Devereaux's injury, and warning them that she would be extremely traumatised upon waking, and strongly advised allowing her daughters to ride in the ambulance with her. "It would be a comfort to them all" she stated, and the paramedics nodded, thanking her for her expertise. Joan responded pleasantly before walking slowly from the crypt, knowing that the medics would need all the space they could get. She walked slowly towards the doorway and stepped out into the churchyard, and observed how the sky appeared to be much darker than before. She leaned against the front wall of the crypt, closing her eyes and feeling the cool breeze against her face, before running her hands across her face and through her hair, and leaning back. She was aware of a presence next to her, who she knew to be Sherlock, and she opened her eyes slowly and looked over in his direction.

"Would you allow me to take you home, Watson? And for a longer period of time than the previous?" Sherlock's tone had a familiar air of slight levity, which Joan appreciated. Everything had felt so strange recently, so different, and so this small semblance of familiarity was a small comfort to her. She found herself feeling exhausted, so simply nodded in response, before following him back towards Gregson's car. The latter was standing near the ambulance, talking to the paramedics, but he turned around as he saw Sherlock and Joan approaching him. The couple paused for a moment, and Joan crossed her arms and drew them across her chest, not realising until that moment how cool the late afternoon air had become. Sherlock removed his black coat efficiently and draped it across her shoulders. This had been an unexpected gesture, which caused Joan to turn to her right and stare up at him, as she shook her hair loose and drew the jacket closer to herself, thanking him as she did so. The jacket was freshly laundered, but it carried with it his familiar and comforting scent, which she embraced as readily as she had the material and the warmth which it provided.

"I gotta say, you two did a terrific job" Gregson began, holding his hands out by his sides. "Without you both, the income would have been very different, so thank you. Now, Miss Watson, I must insist that you go home and rest."

Joan tilted her head to the side for a moment, before facing the other way and exhaling in slight frustration.

"Thank you, Captain, I am fine. Sherlock and I are going home now-" her sentence was halted by a yawn, and she clasped her hand tightly to her mouth. "Would you keep us informed of the progress of the family?" Gregson smiled and nodded, before extending his left arm and indicating towards his car.

"I'm riding in the ambulance with the mother and girls, but Officer Jackson has been instructed to drive you both home, alright?" Joan nodded and Sherlock thanked him, before placing his hand on her lower back and leading her towards the back of the car, opening the door, and closing it behind her. Gregson watched the scene with curious interest, and smiled to himself as Sherlock walked around the car and sat next to Joan. He had been surprised at first, and incredibly concerned, when he had learned of Joan's pregnancy and Sherlock's impending fatherhood. But watching them today, seeing how they worked together, both personally and professionally, instantly dispelled all of his concerns. They were a team, he concluded. Although they did not have a conventional relationship, or one which could be defined by certain social standards, it was one that worked for them both. If it could work for them as a pair, he believed it would work for them as a family also. Captain Gregson smiled to himself warmly at the thought, before turning around and joining the family in the ambulance.

The journey back to the brownstone was brief and silent. The moment she had sat in the seat, Joan felt herself curling into the cool, comforting material and resting her eyes. She was not asleep, and she had no intention of sleeping, but she wished to rest for the short journey so that she would be awake and alert once they reached the brownstone. She was more than tired, she was exhausted. But despite this, she had no intention of going to sleep straight away. She knew that the day had been a long and complex one, and she and Sherlock had much to discuss. She was certain that he wished her to rest at home, that he would insist that their conversation could wait. But she did not want it to have to, and she was fairly sure that he had many questions and concerns which he would be struggling with whilst she slept. She had no intention of distressing him further, or causing him any additional emotional confusion or conflict. Instead, she resolved to discuss all of his concerns with him that night, hoping to alleviate his fears, address his worries, and begin to discuss what they were going to do. She opened her eyes as she felt the car slowly stop, and found herself outside the brownstone. She allowed her eyes to adjust to the light for a moment, before thanking the police officer who had driven them home and getting out of the car. She walked around the vehicle and towards the pavement, where she was met by Sherlock, and they walked to the brownstone side by side.

Sherlock opened the door slowly, holding it open to allow Joan to pass through. He had expected her to walk straight upstairs and shut herself in her room, she was clearly exhausted. Instead, she strolled confidently and intently towards the kitchen, placing her bag down upon the table, slowly removing Sherlock's jacket, and walked over to the stove. Sherlock remained in the hallway for a moment, turning to close the door, before following her to the kitchen. As he entered, he saw her stood by the stove, warming up the kettle and selecting some mugs and tea from the cupboards. She began preparing the mugs as the kettle boiled and hissed in front of her, as she leaned onto the work surface, placing both hands upon it and raising her head up.

"Watson?" Sherlock called, confusion etched in his voice, as he slowly approached her.

Joan turned around, pushing herself off from the work surface and turning to face him. She crossed her arms and placed them protectively across her abdomen as she watched him, neither of them speaking for a few moments.

"I'm just making us some tea. It was so cold outside, and it has been a while since either of us had anything to eat or drink." She spoke gently, in a voice tinged with tiredness and sadness. "I thought it would be a small comfort to us both as we continued our previous conversation."

Sherlock watched her with interest, before taking a few steps closer to her until they were just a couple of feet apart, and looking down upon her with a curious and concerned expression.

"Watson, you are exhausted, you really ought to rest. We can discuss everything once you have-"

"And will you rest, Sherlock? Or will you stay up all night thinking, analysing, worrying yourself?" She posed these questions kindly and with compassion, offering him a subtle yet knowing look as she did so. "I think it would be helpful for us both to at least begin to talk about it" she continued, turning towards the stove as the kettle had finished boiling. She lifted it with caution and began to pour the hot water into the mugs. "I know it must be difficult for you, and I'm sure it's not something that you want to-"

"I assure you, Watson, it is not something which is difficult for me to discuss. And it is certainly not something which I intend on avoiding or placing to one side for a while." He spoke in a voice equally as gentle as hers, in a tone and manner which reassured Joan greatly. She paused for a moment after he spoke, the kettle hovering in mid-air, before continuing to pour the water and placing the kettle back on the stove. She picked up one of the mugs and tuned around, handing it to Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, I... I didn't mean to imply that-"

"I know." Sherlock responded kindly, saving her from what he knew would be a difficult and confusing explanation. He watched her as she turned around and picked up her own mug, wrapping her hands around it in her usual fashion, and standing still on the spot. They stared at each other for a moment, each a perfect mirror image of the other, as the steam from the mugs began to rise into the air. "If you are ready, Watson, and feeling up to it, I will gladly and willingly discuss our baby with you." Joan's breath caught in her throat, and she almost lost her grip on the mug completely. Hearing him speak so kindly and so sincerely made her feel instantly at ease, and she almost assured herself that the conversation they were about to have would be okay. That they would both be able to discuss things openly, objectively, and with a focus on the needs of their child, which she held as paramount. It was at this moment that she smiled, before looking down at her mug, adjusting it in her hands. "What is it, Watson?" He asked, smiling slightly in return, confusion etched in his voice.

"No, nothing, I... it's just..." Joan began, feeling confused and slightly perplexed at her own reaction. "It's just nice to be able to talk about the baby, to say the word out loud. I've been afraid to, really, in case... I don't know" she smiled nervously, readjusting her grip on her mug. Sherlock nodded in understanding, waiting until her head rose once more and she met his gaze.

"Are you sure you are ready, Watson?" He asked tentatively. She nodded immediately, and walked across to the table, pulling out the chair with its back to the kitchen. Sherlock followed her, taking up the chair to her immediate left, and placing his tea upon the table. He adjusted his chair slightly so that he was facing her, before offering her a comforting look which made her feel more relaxed. Joan placed her own mug upon the table, clasped her hands nervously, and allowed them to fall into her lap. Both of them were silent for a few moments, trying to form their thoughts into words.

"Watson, were you worried that I would not support you? That I would not help you?" Sherlock asked gently, looking at Joan with concern. She watched him closely, her confident eyes never once shifting uncomfortably or avoiding his gaze.

"No, Sherlock. I never doubted that. If anything, I was worried that you would feel obligated, and that it would make things difficult for you." She answered promptly and with conviction. "I didn't want to hurt you, and I convinced myself that delaying telling you was the right thing to do. But it wasn't, and I am sorry. And I hope you understand that I am not just saying this to appease you or to ease my guilt. I am truly sorry, Sherlock." She spoke sincerely and with great calmness. Seeing her feeling this way, and hearing her open up to him, touched Sherlock deeply.

"As I said before, Watson, you have nothing to apologise for. You needed some time to think things over, to decide on the best way and time to tell me. The case we were working on was one of incredible importance and strain, and I understand your delaying telling me because you were concerned about my ability to focus." He paused for a moment, his eyes not leaving hers. He knew that his words did not comfort her as much as he would have liked, but they were honest and sincere. He did understand her actions, and he did not blame or condemn her for them. "You were doing what you believed to be right, Watson, and you kept our child safe and you ensured that I was alright too. Regardless of the sacrifices you had to make. I'd imagine this has been quite a difficult time for you, and I am sorry that you had to go through it alone."

Joan chewed the inside of her cheek slightly, whilst unclasping her hands and crossing her arms, leaning forwards slightly before responding. "But I wasn't alone, Sherlock. I did not feel alone, I never felt by myself. I knew you were here, and I knew you would listen and you would be willing to talk and to discuss the baby, but I was afraid of putting you in a position that you weren't comfortable with."

"You aren't putting me in any position, Watson, I assure you." He began, speaking gently as he clasped his fingers together and rested his hands upon the table. "We both created this child. I distinctly remember being present at the occasion." Joan smiled slightly, her tired eyes warming at his words. "I do not consider your pregnancy to be an inconvenience or an obstacle, rather I consider it to be what it is" he paused for a moment, watching her as she raised her head and faced him, "beautiful." She was not expecting him to say that. She was not expecting something negative, or condemning, but she certainly did not anticipate him using a word he seldom ever used. A word with such meaning, such connotations and such potential. "The fact that this child exists, and will be part of us both, is nothing short of exceptional, miraculous in fact. And the fact that I got to be part of this is a truly humbling fact, and I am deeply honoured, Watson, please believe that." Joan could feel her eyes welling with tears, and she faced downwards for a moment in an effort to compose herself. It was clear from his words and his demeanour that he was being sincere, and his plea for her to believe him affected her deeply. And she did.

Joan rose her head slowly and watched him for a moment, nodding slowly before smiling at him. "I feel exactly the same way" she began, meeting his gaze. "Your are the most incredible, inspiration person I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. And regardless of the complexity of this situation, of our relationship, of the circumstances... I am happy. It feels wonderful to be carrying this baby, and knowing that it is yours, and that it is part of you, part of us, is the most empowering and incredible feeling I have ever experienced." She finished speaking, and they continued to stare at each other, their bright eyes conveying their contentment and understanding. Sherlock looked down nervously, glancing at his hands for a few moments, before staring at the floor.

"Part of me" he repeated, his voice sounding slightly more nervous than it had done previously. "I can't help but wonder, Watson, how the part of me which our child embodies is a good thing or a bad one." Joan looked at him for a moment, tucking her hair behind her ear as she adjusted herself slowly in her seat. She turned towards the table and pulled her bag close towards her, before opening it and removing her wallet. Sherlock slowly looked up from his trance and began watching her curiously as she opened her wallet and removed a small square photograph from beneath a picture of her parents and brother. She looked at the image for a moment, her eyes softening and the corners of her mouth rising slightly, before placing the image down upon the table and pushing it gently towards Sherlock.

The photograph was the ultrasound picture of their baby. Sherlock tilted his head and considered it with interest for a moment, before reaching his hand outwards slowly, as if afraid that touching it would make it disappear. He slowly placed his finger upon the bottom right hand corner of the image, and drew it closer to him. His eyes were wide and alert, darting curiously over the image as he traced the outline of the baby's body with his index finger. "It's as you said, Sherlock" Joan began, drawing his attention towards her, "this baby, our baby, is exceptional, miraculous, and beautiful. And that is because of you, Sherlock, not in spite of you."