Present Day

He stayed for almost two hours. John had never seen him so still and so patient before. It took most of that time just for her to be aware of where she was and what had happened to her. But Sherlock held her hand and reassured her so softly that everything was all right and that she was safe. It was at the hour and a half mark that all the pieces fell together and she remembered who the man next to her was and the smile on her face lit up the room.

"Sherlock," she cooed as he gripped her hand even tighter, "you're here."

He smiled back. "Of course."

"My boy…" she said as she tried to touch his cheek but her IV's caught on the bed railing.

He calmed her arm and placed it gently back on the bed. "Just relax."

"Relax," she said with a laugh. "Remember I used to tell you that."

He nodded. "I didn't listen, eh?"

"Not a bit. Always on the move."

"I wanted to…" he said and then looked towards John. His head bowed, embarrassed.

"What?" she said.

He shrugged. "Make you proud," he said quietly.

Her eyebrow raised. "No…" she said with a smirk.

"What?"

"Make me proud? Why?"

He tilted his head like a confused puppy. "Why wouldn't I?"

She looked over at John who had occupied a spot in the corner. He hadn't spoken the entire time. It felt inappropriate. But, as a doctor, he couldn't leave Sherlock alone. He was already falling apart at the seams. It didn't seem right. But, in that moment, he wasn't a doctor. He was a friend and he understood Sherlock completely.

"But I was just-" she began.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "You were just nothing. Don't you understand that?"

Her lips curled. "Darling, you're going to make me cry."

He rubbed her shoulder. "Oh don't do that. Makes your cheeks all ruddy."

She laughed. "Much better."

He gave her a kiss on the forehead. "Thank you."

"Oh," she said as she lifted her hand to her eye, "see what you've done." She sniffed back a tear.

He sat back in his chair. "Well I do mean it."

"Of course you do," she said as she wiped away the tears from her face. "You were a good boy."

He scoffed. "I feel Mycroft may disagree."

She leaned closer to him and beckoned him closer.

"What?" he asked.

Her eyes sparkled as she spoke. "I did always like you best."

Sherlock sat back in surprise. "I shall tell him straight away." He feigned getting out of his seat before Martha pawed at the space his arm used to occupy.

"Don't you dare!" she said.

He winked at her. "I wouldn't give him the satisfaction."

She smiled as she reached back for his hand. He slipped in gently around hers and held tight in silence. The silence that only people who had been through it all could have-the silence of complete and utter connection.

John stepped from the room to give them a moment before he had to wheel Sherlock back to his room. He'd been awake for nearly a day and it was wearing hard on his body. He lumbered to the pop machine down the hallway with the change ready in his head. As he pushed the button for a Coke he heard a voice from behind him.

"John?"

It was quiet but intensely familiar.

He spun around to see Mycroft hunched over in a chair.

"How do you find me?" John asked as he popped the can open.

Mycroft shrugged. "You don't move all that fast. Also not terribly observant, are you?"

John rolled his eyes. "Nice seeing you too, Mycroft. I'll be on my way-"

Mycroft patted the seat next to him. "Just a moment of your time."

He wasn't in the mood. "Not right now. Later?"

"Now."

He felt defeated. There was no use saying no to Mycroft. It was always a "yes", it just a matter of him waiting his victim out until they gave up.

John fell into the seat. "What is it?"

Mycroft pulled an envelope out of his jacket and placed it in front of John's face. "Take this."

He didn't understand the gesture and just stared at the paper in front of him. "What is it?"

Mycroft shook it. "Just take it."

John grabbed it carefully and set it on his lap. He was afraid to open it. He was afraid of what would be inside. After the last few days he couldn't take anymore surprises.

As soon as he opened the flap, he saw the edge of a check. "No," he said as he closed the envelope.

Mycroft looked at him in shock. "No? No to what?"

John shook the paper. "To this. Why are you giving me your money?"

Mycroft said the next sentence so bluntly and with so little emotion that John thought he was joking. He couldn't believe the words coming out the man's mouth.

"So you'll stay."

John lifted the envelope and tore it in half. He handed both halves back to Mycroft. "I'm not going anywhere."

"But after all you saw…" he said.

John shook his head. "Doesn't matter. It changes nothing."

He stammered over his words and looked at John in such disbelief. "I don't understand. You know…"

John reached over and grabbed the envelope and ripped it half again and again until the paper was no more than oversized confetti. "Not to be crass, Mycroft, but I don't give a shit about your childhood. I mean...that came out wrong. I care as a human being but it doesn't affect how I see Sherlock. Or you for that matter. You have to believe that."

He took in a sharp breath. "And you promise you'll stay?"

"Of course…"

He held back the lump in his throat but his voice betrayed him. "Because I can't...I can't be there all the time. And he's…"

John smiled and patted Mycroft on the shoulder. "Don't be getting all soft on me now."

Mycroft tilted his head back to rescue the escaping tears from his eyes. "You're a good man, John."

John nodded diplomatically as he handed Mycroft back the remnants of his check. "You're not so bad yourself."

February 2001

Sherlock knelt in front of a body that lay sprawled on a kitchen floor. The young man flitted around the corpse with the grace of a ballet dancer. With just a small hand magnifier and a pair of tweezers he had already generated a theory that half a dozen trained detectives hadn't even thought of.

Lestrade sat back and waited for the judgement of his colleagues to roll in but the comments never came. At first they thought he was, at best, insane for bringing in a man off the street to investigate on fresh crime scenes. Sherlock was still in the throes of his recovery and on a good day would come across as distant and aloof. On a bad day, in the heat of his withdrawals, he could be downright maniacal. But it took him solving the perplexing double homicide on Helton Avenue that got his men on board.

It had been over a year since he'd had a report of Sherlock being picked up drug possession and the boy had promised that he'd been clean since last February. In the last year he'd seen a tremendous change in Sherlock. He'd gained weight, he was eating, he wore nice clothes instead of the baggy nonsense he'd gotten in the habiting of wearing. What was best was the fire in his eyes. What used to be dead and lifeless was now vibrant. He had passion. Finally his intellect was focused. It had a purpose.

As they walked out of the residence and towards their respective cars, Lestrade beckoned Sherlock over to his car.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked as they got to the front door.

Lestrade smiled. He'd been racking his brain for weeks about what to get the boy for his sober anniversary. Nothing felt right. He'd been to every store, every shop and returned each thing he'd bought. It had to be perfect.

"I got you something."

Sherlock scowled. "Why?"

"Oh stop with the face. It's for your one-year."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "Oh that seems unnecessary."

"Nonsense," Lestrade said as he dug through the seat to grab the gift bag. "It's a big deal. It should be celebrated."

Sherlock stuck his hands out. "I don't want anything."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Take it. I insist."

The bag sat in Lestrade's outstretched hands for almost a minute before Sherlock finally took it from him in a huff. "I don't enjoy gifts," he said as he stood with the bag in his hands.

Lestrade laughed. "Who doesn't enjoy gifts? Don't be difficult. Just open it."

Sherlock looked at the bag and then back at Lestrade. "I'll open it at home."

He didn't want to overanalyze the moment. He didn't want to imagine the number of times that Sherlock had been given something by his father only to have it taken it away later. He didn't want to think of the manipulative game of giving something to a child and then beating them when they didn't appreciate enough.

Lestrade took the bag back. "Then I'll open it for you."

Sherlock crossed his arms but there was a hint of excitement on his face.

He pulled out the gift and held it by the eyeholes as he showed it off to Sherlock.

"It's a skull…" Sherlock said with confusion.

Lestrade smiled. "Replica, down the the teeny bits. It's for anatomy students but I thought you'd like it. After all the crimes and such...seemed cool, eh?"

There was a blankness to Sherlock's face as he examined the gift. Lestrade tried to not panic as he attempted to read Sherlock's expression. It was then that the boy grabbed it from him and brought the skull's eyes to his own.

"Very cool," he said as he spun it around in front of him.

"Oh thank God," Lestrade said as he breathed a sigh of relief.

Sherlock lowered the skull and quickly lost the giddy smile. "Thank you," he said quietly.

Lestrade went to pat Sherlock on the arm but the boy instinctively backed away. He balled his hand and nodded. Gently he put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "You earned it."

Sherlock's eyes immediately went to the ground. "No…"

"Eh," Lestrade said. "No more of this. You did. You earned every ounce of the respect you've been getting."

He shrugged.

"You're bloody brilliant," Lestrade said as he shook the boy. "Don't you ever forget that."

Even as he struggled to not make eye contact, Lestrade saw a smile cross the boy's face. It was going to take time but he saw a bright future. This was just the beginning.

April 2005

Jasper Hudson had committed murder. That was undeniable. The entire state of Florida knew that he had killed his coworker, Edward Peterson, and the man's wife/Jasper's lover, Amanda Peterson, in cold blood but no one could find him.

That is until Sherlock stepped off the plane on to the streets of Miami. It took him all of half a day to track the man down to an apartment complex twenty miles from downtown.

He hadn't told Mrs. Hudson why he was going on holiday. All she knew was that he'd be gone for a few days and not to bother calling. It didn't seem important to inform her that he'd been working closely with the Miami PD and was ready to drag her ex-husband in on murder charges. He knew it would only worry her.

The apartments were rundown and certainly befitting of a man of Jasper's caliber. He'd been sitting in front all afternoon and had seen the man walk inside. Sherlock slowly got out of the rental car and made the walk to the building.

He rested his shaking hand on the barrel of the gun in his pocket. It was there mostly to calm his nerves, not to be used. Nothing would be more heartbreaking to Mrs. Hudson then to get so close seeing her husband get justice only to have him die before the trial. No, he was to hold back.

Only as a last resort.

For the entire day he'd been rehearsing what he would say. It was just lure him out and confirm his identity. From there he could elicit a confession. That was what they needed. There was no evidence linking him to the crime except that it made sense. He knew that Jasper had done it, it was just a matter of proving it.

The police were just down the street and they were listening to every word. The moment they had the go-ahead, they'd raid the house. A part of him felt safe knowing they were ready to strike but his hands still trembled.

He walked right through the unlocked door. Jasper never locked his door in London and clearly hadn't gotten in the habit in America. The apartment was sweltering and humid. He could hear the murmuring coming from upstairs. From the pauses in the conversation, he could tell Jasper was on the phone.

Alone. His suspect was alone.

Sherlock crept up the stairs making barely a peep. As he got to the top step he took a deep breath and tried to remember the speech he'd written on the plane. It was a flowing text complete with dramatic pauses and indignant accusations. But, in that moment, he forgot every word. All he could do was force himself not to throw up from fear.

On three he'd go in the room.

One.

Two.

He shut his eyes and thought of Mrs. Hudson. All she'd done. All she'd been through.

That was motivation enough.

Three.

He strode into the room and slammed the open door against the wall. Jasper spun around, surprised.

"Well, shit," he said with a bemused smile.

Sherlock cocked his head. "I know what you did. I know you killed them."

He laughed. "I did nothing of the sort. Jesus, did you come all this way just to do that? Mm, what a waste of money."

He let his finger glide over the gun. "Get on the ground."

Jasper shook his head. "No, I'm good here. Off you go."

Sherlock felt the panic rise through his body. This wasn't working the way he thought. "I'm not going anywhere. You tell them what you did or I'll…"

"You'll what?"

He pulled out the gun. It felt foreign in his hands and he fumbled to hold it correctly.

"Seriously? Sherlock, please. You look like an idiot."

He felt his blood boil. He snarled as he spoke. "Get on your knees."

Jasper jabbed his finger in Sherlock's direction. "You know I never quite understood Martha's fascination with you. I always thought your father was right. You were a little shit…"

He didn't even have time to stop himself. He reeled his arm back and hit Jasper in the head with the butt of the gun. The man fell to the ground and cradled the side of his skull.

"What the hell was that?"

Sherlock kicked him in the gut. "You tell me what you did!" he shouted as he pointed the gun at Jasper's head.

"You're insane. That little bitch really screwed you up."

He kicked him again. And again. He kicked Jasper until leg ached.

The man rolled on the carpet cradling his abdomen and squeaking words of agony.

Sherlock felt the rage come in waves and he wanted so badly to rip the man limb from limb. He felt such unbridled anger. It took everything in him to stop. Instead he kneeled over Jasper's huddled body and put the gun right to his skull.

"Did you kill the Petersons?"

Jasper looked up with red pained eyes and nodded.

He nodded.

Sherlock couldn't believe it.

"Say it. Say it out loud. Say, 'I killed them'"

Jasper nodded. "I killed them," he said in a series of grunts.

Within minutes the sirens echoed in front of the house and the lights shone through the windows. Sherlock hid the gun away as the police took Jasper from the ground and outside in handcuffs. As crass as it seemed, he couldn't hide his smile.

Justice.

For both of them.

Present Day

Two weeks later and Mrs. Hudson was finally well enough to go home. John sat back in great amusement as Sherlock tinkered around her flat making sure everything looked perfect for her arrival. He'd taken an entire night to glue the lamp back together and spent another day replacing the frames so they would be the exact ones that were broken. It all needed to be immaculate when she got back.

John let him get her by himself at his insistence. He knew better than to argue and gave him time to cook the biscuits and pie and that Sherlock had spent the night preparing. The recipe was overly complicated, down the exact number of grains of baking soda, so John improvised. He hoped Sherlock's excitement would let him off the hook for making the biscuits with a cup of sugar instead of the "seventeen and three-quarter tablespoons" that Sherlock had prescribed.

With the platter all set up, he waited.

Just as he was about to cheat and eat one himself, the door opened.

"We're here!" Sherlock shouted.

John leapt to his feet and went to take Mrs. Hudson's coat.

"It smells lovely!" she said.

"Been cooking," John said with a shrug.

She playfully slapped him on the arm. "You didn't…"

"Yeah. It's a little welcome home gift."

Sherlock pointed towards the flat. "You used my recipes?"

"Of course…" John said.

Mrs. Hudson smiled at Sherlock . "Oh goodness. You didn't give him your recipes did you?"

"What?"

She smiled back at John. "He was always so technical...took all the fun out of it."

"But you must say they tasted better," he said as he stripped himself of his jacket.

She raised an eyebrow. "I suppose."

John laughed as he put an arm around her. "Don't worry. I improvised a bit."

"Oh good…" Sherlock bemoaned behind them.

They walked inside to the table filled with desserts and tea all set out. "Oh John, it looks beautiful. Thank you." She walked over and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"Least I could do," he said as he went to pour the tea.

Sherlock strode over the chair and pulled it out for her. "At least you made the tea with the correct amount of cinnamon."

His tea instruction called for a pipette and a scale. "Not in the least. Tastes the same."

Sherlock gritted his teeth.

Mrs. Hudson rubbed his arm. "Oh darling, just sit. You're going to give yourself another fit. Enjoy it."

He sat in a huff. "I'll do my best."

She sipped at her tea. "It tastes wonderful."

Sherlock scoffed.

"Oh goodness. Just try it."

He pushed the cup away.

"Some things never change," she said with a smile.

John took the plate from the counter and placed a slice of pie on it with a fork sticking out the top. He placed in front of Sherlock. "Try it."

"I think I'll pass."

Mrs. Hudson moved herself closer. "Just a bite."

He looked over at her and his face softened.

"Just one?" she asked.

His gaze snapped back to John. "One bite."

As he grabbed the fork and jabbed it into the pie, John caught Mrs. Hudson's face as she watched Sherlock. It was such an odd dynamic and he couldn't quite place it but it felt so supremely deep that nothing either of them could do would ever break their bond. She smiled in the face of his stubbornness and delighted in the small victories. It was such unbridled love. As he swallowed the pie and she reached over and gave him a hug.

"There you go," she said with a smile.

"Vile," he said as he pushed it away.

"Sherlock!" she said with a snap.

He looked at her with the same indignant expression. "What?"

She didn't have to say a word. Just a look. Just a flick of the eyebrow. His shoulders slumped and he looked over at John.

"I apologize…"

John leaned in. "You what?" he said with a cheeky grin.

Sherlock took another bite. "You heard me."

John grabbed his own cup of tea and sipped it. He almost had to spit it out.

Disgusting.

Sherlock was right.

Dammit.

He didn't dare say a word. John simply smiled and sipped on the vile concoction.

"I'm glad you're home," John said.

She looked at her flat with such wonderment and then back at the men in the room. "Me too," she said. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

Thank you again for all your kind words. This has been such a trip and has been an amazing journey. Your support has helped me write my novel - You are amazing people!