Fifteen minutes later, they pulled up next to St. Bartholomew's Hospital and hopped out of Lestrade's police car. Before Sherlock and John could so much as breathe, Molly had dashed out and encapsulated them both in an enormous hug.

Tear tracks formed rivulets down the front of her face, but she made no move to wipe them away.

"I'm so sorry, you two," she wept. "The Americans forced me to play along with their little game. Jones… he kidnapped me outside the hospital and threatened to kill me and my friends unless I did exactly what he said. I couldn't bear that idea and I had no way to fight him, so I snuck back into the lab and did as he said.

"As soon as I got out of the hospital, I tried to text you, but Brown, the gunman of the duo, shot my phone out of my hand. I returned to my home with every intention of conveying some sort of message, but when I arrived, I saw that it had been completely ransacked. They had been extremely thorough in their search; there was nothing left that I could possibly use to send a message. And as I knew that I was being watched, I didn't dare risk going to see you.

"I was holed up in my apartment for five days. During that time, I made an escape plan. I managed to incapacitate Brown and used a friend's phone to call the police."

"Why do you think Brown and Jones wanted to keep you alive?" asked John.

"I've wondered the same thing, although I'm immensely glad they did," said Molly. "Maybe they were planning on using me to plant more bombs or as a hostage."

Sherlock nodded. "I see nothing wrong with your logic," he said. "Erm… this is slightly uncomfortable. Could you let go of us now?"

Molly blushed profusely when she realized that she was still hugging them.

Sherlock and John sat in their flat a week later. Sherlock was sprawled in his favorite armchair playing his violin and John sat reading the newspaper at the kitchen table. To clear off a space to rest his hands, he had to move two shrunken heads out of the way. Their unseeing eyes stared at John as though they were upset he had moved them.

"Sherlock, where'd you get these shrunken heads, anyway?" asked John, who was thoroughly unnerved by the small, withered heads.

"Amazon," responded Sherlock from the other room.

"I didn't know they did head shrinking in Brazil," said John. "I thought it was done predominantly by the people of Peru and Ecuador."

"No, John. Amazon the company."

"They sell shrunken heads?" asked John incredulously.

"If you know where to look."

Just then, a loud thumping sound came from downstairs.

"Package for you, Sherlock," trilled Mrs. Hudson.

Wordlessly, Sherlock and John dropped what they were doing and hurried down the stairs to the front door.

A few delivery men were rolling a large cardboard box through the doorframe. It looked just like the box Mycroft had made his entrance in earlier.

"Mycroft has no style, doing the same thing twice," grumbled Sherlock.

"Sign here, please, Mr. Holmes," said the head delivery man, proffering a clipboard and pen. "We have orders to take the package straight up to the flat."

A few minutes later, the package stood unopened in the middle of the sitting room.

"I wonder why Mycroft felt the need to come all the way up to our flat this time," said John.

"Well, you might as well let him out," chimed Mrs. Hudson. "Mycroft is such a dear. I hope he'll remember what I told him about the refrigerator problem."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as John cut away the cardboard. John peeled back the brown box, revealing a pristine white refrigerator that seemed to glow in its immaculate cleanliness.

Mrs. Hudson squealed in excitement. "Finally! This one's for food and the other's for Sherlock's experiments."

Together, they moved the refrigerator into place next to the other one. John opened the door to the refrigerator and found a note tucked into the deli section. It read:

Dear brother,

We both know that it's not hygenic to mix rotting body parts with food. Please use this one for food you plan on eating and the other for your silly experiments.

Best,

Mycroft

"He's such a considerate person, isn't he?" said Sherlock bitterly. Sherlock secretly liked seeing the revulsion on John's face whenever he opened the refrigerator.

Mycroft sure knew how to ruin the fun things in life.

They ate that evening in the creperie. Winter was starting to relinquish its cold grasp on London, but not by much. Although most of the snow had melted, pockets of melting, brownish snow still sat here and there, where they had been pushed aside by snow plows. Sherlock and John were very thankful for the warm, sugar-dusted crêpes.

"It's been a fulfilling case, don't you think?" asked John. "What should I call it in my blog?"

"How about… The Bombing of Britain?" suggested Sherlock, downing another crêpe.

"I like it," replied John, scribbling the idea on his napkin. "The alliteration is nice."

John was struck by an idea. "That reminds me of something that I picked up at the nearby music supplies store…."

John reached into his pocket and procured a black, rubber piece with four notches.

"It's a practice mute," he said, handing it to Sherlock. "It won't cancel all the noise your violin makes, but at least it will make it sound less like someone is screaming."

Sherlock furrowed his brow in concentration. It was a considerate gift that would allow him to practice his violin without inducing John's wrath. What was that phrase that people used to express gratitude to each other? Oh, yes, that's it...

"Thank you," he eventually said.

"You know, I think that's the first time you've ever said that."

Author's note: Thank you, readers, for sticking with this story to the end. I must confess that it is a little unfortunate that after 10,000 words, I still have but one review. I don't like to be annoying when it comes for asking for reviews, but seeing how this is the last chapter, I can't think of a better time. Reviews are like crêpes for FanFiction writers (the more you eat, the better you can write).

Thank you, wonderful readers, and please review!