November was bitter and cold with crisp mornings and dark, frosty nights. Even in the middle of the city amongst the tall buildings and heavy traffic, the scent of bonfires and fallen leaves travelled through the air; enriching every corner of London with the earthy perfume of autumn.

Mycroft stepped out of his house onto the doorstep laden with morning frost. His fingers felt stiff and cold as he locked the door behind him, his breath fogging in front of his face. He put on his expensive gloves and fixed his scarf around his neck before walking down the steps and onto the pavement as he waited for his driver to pull up. He glanced up the street as a dark grey Mini Countryman turned the corner sharply, halting beside the kerb in front of him. The passenger window rolled down smoothly. He leant forward, peering across to the driver's side.

"So, you finally took my advice and got a car. I knew you'd give in," he said.

"The bus was starting to get tedious," replied Margaux, her hands grasping the steering wheel.

"Nice choice. Very you," he nodded as he observed the car.

"Get in."

"Excuse me?"

"You like to roll up and force people into your car, I thought I'd return the favour. Get in."

He opened the door and reluctantly slipped into the passenger seat. He glanced over his shoulder to the back where Vaughan was strapped in his car seat.

"Hi," said Vaughan.

"Good morning," he replied formally.

Mycroft turned his attention back to Margaux as she pulled away from the kerb and began to drive.

"Well, Margaux, I must say this is all very MI6 of you. Though the toddler in the backseat does somewhat spoil the intrigue."

"I'm taking Vaughan to nursery and then we're going to talk."

III

It had been a little over one year since the resurrection of Sherlock Holmes. John sat at the table, typing on his laptop as steam rose from the mug of tea beside him. Sherlock sat in his armchair with his knees to his chest, still dressed in his pyjamas. His dressing gown was draped delicately over his lean shoulders, his bare feet crossed as they hung over the edge of the seat. He ran a hand through his hair as he sat quietly – thinking.

"Can I read this last paragraph to you?" asked John.

He didn't answer.

"Sherlock…"

"Hm?" He didn't move from his position, not even his eyes flickered in his friend's direction.

"The blog post? About you coming back from the dead? Can you listen to this last paragraph?"

"Sure."

John cleared his throat and began to read. "Now, over twelve months have passed since my friend's resurrection, and while it is easy to say that with time and forgiveness things have gone back to the way they were, I do not agree. In some ways, it is the same; he still solves crimes and I still write about them, he still clasps his hands together while interviewing clients – presses the same two fingers against his lips as he listens. The same clutter adorns the same walls in the same flat that we once shared, and his incredible mind is still sharp and logical, leaving all who interact with him utterly awestruck. But not everything is the way it was. I, and so many others who loved Sherlock are not the way we once were. We lived through two years of grief, loss, and above all, strength. We learned to exist without him. We found happiness and love in his absence, no matter how hard it may have been to find. Sherlock Holmes returned to stronger people, different people and new people. It is our resilience that has made the last year feel as though he never left. Because we know what it's like to lose him, we thought of all the things we wished we'd told him, the second chances we wished we could have had. And we were given them."

The flat was quiet. John chewed the inside of his cheek as he waited anxiously for a response. Eventually, Sherlock uncrossed his legs and threw his head back.

"Dear god, John, no wonder people think we're gay."

"Of course," John replied sarcastically as he slammed his laptop shut. "That took me ages, Sherlock, you absolute fuc–"

"Just kidding. It's rather good, well done."

III

Margaux waved goodbye to Vaughan who ran inside to play with the other children. She hurried across the carpark and climbed back into the car.

"Locking me in the car was rather extreme," said Mycroft. "We're in a nursery, where exactly would I have run to?"

The car came to life with a purr and she began to drive.

"I've learned not to take chances when it comes to you Holmes'. You can be incredibly elusive," she said.

"Elusive? Have you met my father?"

"He's an exception."

The car pulled into heavy traffic, slowing to a crawl. Her arms dropped to her lap as she held the bottom of the steering wheel lightly. She hated London traffic; remembering why she gave up her old car in the first place.

"So," she began, her eyes remaining on the road. "I got paid this morning."

"Good…"

"It is good. But it also got me thinking, you haven't assigned me to a job in over a month. You basically paid me all of that money for no work."

"Hm. Peculiar."

"Yes, even more peculiar that I only stopped getting assignments after telling your brother that I worked for you…"

Mycroft sighed.

"What did he say to you?" she asked as she weaved the car slowly across lanes.

"He asked me to fire you. Demanded it, actually. Said he didn't appreciate my involving you in business that could put you in danger."

"I knew it. How dare he be so possessive! And you! You didn't even have the balls to actually fire me, you just thought you could stop assigning me jobs and I wouldn't notice."

"I couldn't in good conscience fire you and leave you with no income. Especially when there was no actual reason for your termination."

"So instead you've just been paying me to exist. You assumed that would be better?"

"Sounds rather appealing to me," he replied sarcastically, grasping the door handle as the car turned swiftly into a residential street.

"This isn't funny, Mycroft. You know, I gave up a very comfy, stable job to come and work for you. And even if it was against my better judgement, it was still my choice to make, and Sherlock bloody Holmes does not get to decide whether I keep working for you or not!"

Mycroft grasped the handle tighter, swallowing hard. "You know… Driving while angry is against the highway code."

Margaux slammed her foot down on the brake, the car screeching to a stop in the middle of the quiet street, forcing Mycroft's body to jolt forward against his seatbelt.

"Maybe you're not grasping why I'm angry," said Margaux, her voice calm and clear. "No one is responsible for me except me. As a child, I raised myself. I became a mother by myself. In my career, I have worked for everything I have; every qualification, every job, every promotion by myself. I do not need your infuriating little brother treating me like another one of his accessories. I'm not a magnifying glass he can throw in his pocket, some scarf he can wrap around his neck. I'm a person. I exist without his permission."

She looked in her rear-view mirror, noticing a car behind them. She took a deep breath and began to drive again.

"As much as it pains me to defend my brother," Mycroft began. "There has always been an unspoken agreement between the two of us; we ask the other not to do something, and the other does it anyway. This is the first time I have felt as though I betrayed him by disobeying his request. He didn't want you working for me, but not because he didn't want one of his belongings in my possession. It's because he cares for you – he just doesn't know how to accurately express it."

"I thought you said he was incapable of caring."

"I am beginning to believe I was mistaken."

They rolled up to Mycroft's headquarters. She pulled the handbrake aggressively and turned to look at him.

"What would you like me to do, Margaux?" he asked.

III

Darkness cloaked the city as stars peppered the bitter, cloudless sky. Sherlock sat in the back of a taxi as city lights passed him in streaks of neon. He scrolled through his phone, reading through the responses to John's latest blog post, the comments, the hashtags – what the hell did 'Johnlock' mean? He climbed out of the cab and walked up to Margaux's building, slipping through the open door as a young woman exited.

He knocked on the door, waiting only moments before she opened it. She stepped aside to allow him in.

"One whole year and you're still turning up unannounced," she said as she made her way to the living room.

"I gather you saw John's blog," he replied as he followed.

"I did. It was lovely. But I can't lie, the anniversary of you coming back may have slipped my mind."

They sat down together on the couch.

"Can't blame me though; you'd been back for weeks before you even bothered to come and see me," she said with a mordant smile.

"Ah, so this is the Margaux I'm getting tonight."

"Not all night. Just until I've finished telling you how completely out of order you were for trying to get me fired."

"I think I just heard Vaughan stirring from his bedroom, I should go and check on him."

"If you try to move from this couch, I will pin you down against it."

His mouth curled into a smirk, she batted his arm.

"Seriously, Sherlock, you had no right to do that."

"Upon reflection, I can see how it may not have been my place."

"And…"

"And. And I'm… sorry?"

"Correct. Thank you."

She knew he probably didn't mean it. But even his willingness to allow the word to leave his lips was a small victory.

"I will call my brother and have him reconsider," said Sherlock reluctantly.

"No need," she replied. "In the end, he didn't actually fire me. I resigned."

His bright blue eyes darted across to meet hers. He furrowed his brow and pursed his lips.

"But I didn't do it for you," she added.

"Okay?"

"I made a career in solving crimes. Covering them up – turns out it's not for me."

"So what will you do now?"

She leant back into the soft cushion of the couch with a sigh, turning her body towards him. "I don't know. Might see if Scotland Yard's hiring. I always fancied myself a detective. Could give you a run for your money."

"Mm. Dear, sweet Margaux. I'm the man Scotland Yard call when they can't solve cases themselves."

"Mhm. And I'm the woman that man calls when he can't solve them either." She raised an eyebrow.

"Touché."

They sat beside each other for a while as voices from the television played quietly in the background, filling the silence with a comforting buzz. Margaux checked her watch – 19:46.

"Do you want something to eat?" She asked.

"Hm, I should actually go–"

"I was going to order a takeaway."

"Yes, I suppose I could stay for dinner."

She rolled her eyes and leaned over to the coffee table where she kept a drawer of menus.

"Oh!" she shouted as she noticed her old laptop sitting on top of the table. "I meant to show you this. I fired it up earlier to look for a copy of my CV and I came across these. I thought you might like to see them."

She placed the computer in his lap. He watched the screen closely as a video began to play:

It was Margaux, with long hair, filming herself in the full-length mirror in the hall of her old flat. She turned to the side, revealing a large, round belly protruding under a t-shirt. She rubbed it gently.

'God I'm massive. You know, I blame your father,' she said to the bump. 'He was so tall, he's the reason you're probably going to weigh about ten pounds at birth.'

Sherlock glared at Margaux from the corner of his eye. She shrugged.

"Are there more?" he asked, his tone matter-of-fact, yet his hands stiff as they grasped at the edges of the laptop.

Margaux nodded and clicked to the next video:

'Come on, do it again,' she whispered from behind the camera.

She poked her finger gently into her bare stomach as the camera zoomed in and out again. Suddenly, a ripple of movement travelled from one side to another; sometimes smooth, others in sudden jolts. She giggled as her stomach continued to move and contort.

"I hope you don't mind me saying… that was both incredible and horrifying," said Sherlock.

Margaux laughed. "If you thought that was horrifying, you don't want to see the next video."

He clicked across tentatively, pressing play with a hesitant finger:

'What are you doing?' asked Margaux as she lay on a hospital bed.

'I'm filming you! You'll regret it if you don't have anything to look back on,' Rose chimed from behind the camera.

'Honestly, I don't think I'll give a sh–' she shut her eyes tight and began to breathe deeply through another contraction.

'We're fourteen hours in,' said Rose to the camera. 'This woman is a hero.'

"Little did I know it would be another six hours before he actually decided to be born," said Margaux. "Look…" She clicked onto the next video.

He recognised the baby immediately. Although he was pink, swollen and covered in dried blood, he could tell it was Vaughan. He had the same full cheeks, the same large, round eyes and tufts of dark, curly hair. The camera pulled back, showing the baby wrapped in a blanket, swaddled in Margaux's tired arms. She looked up at the person behind the camera, her face flushed, her hair stringy with sweat and her eyes welling with tears.

'I just wish he could have been here,' she said quietly, almost too quiet for the camera to pick up.

But Sherlock caught it. He turned to Margaux who was absentmindedly reading through a takeaway menu next to him. After a moment, she looked up, feeling his eyes on her.

"Hm?" she smiled at him kindly before glancing at the laptop screen. "Oh, I know. He was like a little alien," she laughed. "What do you feel like eating?"

His eyes flitted between the two versions of her in front of him. The tired, broken Margaux who grieved for him as she cuddled their newborn son. And the strong, confident Margaux who wasn't scared to pin him down until he listened to what she had to say.

As he watched her flicking through the menus, he thought about John's blog post:

'We learned to exist without him. We found happiness and love in his absence, no matter how hard it may have been to find. Sherlock Holmes returned to stronger people, different people and new people. It is our resilience that has made the last year feel as though he never left. Because we know what it's like to lose him, we thought of all the things we wished we'd told him, the second chances we wished we could have had. And we were given them.'