Chapter 41: Meanwhile.

"This is impossible," said Alice in despair.

"Only if you believe it is," The Hatter told her.

-Alice in Wonderland, Linda Woolverton & Tazia101 (Adapted from 2010 movie).

"Relax, they're not going to bite," John told Sherlock. "Well. Not unless you really annoy them."

They were inside his flat at Brewer's, just about to go out and meet the Misfits. The consulting detective was standing uncomfortably, with his shoulders squared like a man going out to face his execution. John was leaning against a wall, smiling slightly at his ex-flatmate's unease. "Ready?"

"No," Sherlock answered, and then opened the door. John went through first, carrying a large bowl of pasta. The taller man followed him with the red sauce.

"Food for the Misfits!" John called, imitating a waiter's posture. The kids cheered and surged forwards. They crowded around the table that had been set out, and looked up at the two adults expectantly. That was when some of them belatedly realized that that dark-haired man wasn't their beloved Jim.

"Who are you?" a little girl asked, coming around to stand by Sherlock's leg. The consulting detective opened his mouth, ready to give his carefully selected pseudonym, but John got there first.

"This is Shirley," he said, and Sherlock shut his mouth, shooting him a look that was half-incredulous, half-irritated. John just shrugged, suppressing a grin. Now the other man couldn't refute the statement without arousing suspicion, and was stuck with the childhood nickname for the foreseeable future in the building. "He's one of my old friends, and you're all going to be very nice to him."

"One of your old friends?" One of the boys piped up. "But weren't they the good guys?"

"Oh, give him a break. M knows he's here, and he's not going to turn us in. Are you, Shirley?" John turned back, knowing he had Sherlock cornered.

"…No," the taller man said reluctantly, and John smiled at him.

"See? We're all good. Jim will be along in a few minutes, he's caught up with work right now. In the meantime, we'll get your plates all set up and I can start our story. Sound good to everyone?" Heads nodded, and a couple kids shouted affirmatives. "Awesome. Let's get started, you know the pasta drill."

The kids formed a line, and John started scooping pasta onto plates, handing them to the Misfits one at a time, judging the portion by their age. Sherlock mechanically put on the sauce when they asked for it, and then they were free to go to the next table, where there was cheese and salt and pepper for those who wanted it.

Once everyone was served, and sitting around the storytelling throne, John went over to his patients and checked in with who was awake, and who wanted to come and listen to a story. The burly man in bed 3 and the blonde in number 5 both wanted to listen, so John helped them into two wheelchairs, and pushed them both to the back of the group, where Sherlock was sitting behind the Misfits awkwardly. The man in bed 4 wasn't interested, and the two other patients, Sebastian and a Misfit with a broken leg, were asleep.

He made his way to the front, and grinned at the kids. "Alright, so today's story is going to be how Apollo got his lute." There was a faint confused murmur from the crowd. "Don't worry, the main character is Hermes. Would I do that to you?" He had never told a story that didn't have a trickster character at the center, and the kids had never wanted one. The murmur went away, which John took as an invitation to start.

"Hermes was born a long, long time ago. But he was no normal, crying baby."

Meanwhile…

"I wouldn't have to be doing this, if Sebby hadn't been shot," Jim said out loud. "And I'm going to have to change, thanks to you. I'm supposed to be going to dinner right now."

The man he was talking to just screamed.

"You're being very inconvenient. I'm not happy with you. Come on, the address. I'm going to be late, and it's Shirley's first dinner with our kids, and I have to be there!"

The man screamed some more.

"There's no need to be stubborn about it. Why do you defend them so? They didn't warn you about me, did they? You don't need them. Tell me the address and you'll go home."

This time, there was silence.

"You'd better not have fallen asleep," Jim grumbled, and twisted his wrist.

Another scream.

"Thank you. Now give ME THE ADDRESS!"

There was another scream, painful to listen to. You could hear the blood in it, and the pain, and the hours of hopelessness. In that sound, there were words, that could barely be heard through the despair. Jim didn't really care; it would be audible if he slowed down the video of the session. He recognized an address, so his work was done. Goodness, it was tiring to have to do everything himself.

"Thank you," he said to the man, and shot him in the head. He looked down at himself, and shook his head. At least he had worn dark jeans.

He left the knives and made his way out into the hallway, heading to his rooms to get changed. Covered in blood and dragging a camera tripod behind him, no one gave him a second glance.

Meanwhile…

It was the fourth false alarm that week, and Mycroft was beginning to feel annoyed. His brother was undoubtedly alive, he had pieced that much together. The question now was; where was he? Without his big brother's protection, and with the ex-soldier having moved to Canada several months ago, he was at a disadvantage in the world. Mycroft had been protecting him much more than he had let on; his enemies were numerous and powerful.

And then, of course, there was the mysterious M to worry about. The man who had risen to take over Moriarty's empire, expanding it and winding it even tighter, obviously learning from Moriarty's past mistakes, and determined not to repeat them. Mycroft's inner circles were infiltrated, he knew that he could trust a bare few people, and his brother could be the last chance.

Moriarty's plans had been wickedly designed, yes, and masterfully executed. But on a whole, they were spontaneous, and had no future. M's empire was far more settled, with fingers everywhere, and had the dangerous potential to last for a very long time. M, whoever he was, had a foresight and a longer plan that Moriarty had ever been capable of.

Mycroft made his way down the hallway, umbrella brushing against the floor every third step. Not enough to stop its momentum, just enough to make a satisfying noise.

He didn't have time to think about all this now; he was going to be late for dinner. He pulled out a pocket watch, glanced at it, and sped up his pace a bit. Not hurrying, never hurrying, just… walking a bit faster than usual.

Meanwhile...

Gregory Lestrade was not having a good time of it. The new murders were brutal yet dispassionate, a paradox of crime. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing that Sherlock were here. But, of course, that was what had gotten him here in the first place, demoted to a common officer.

If he were still the DI, he'd be outside the building right now, having glanced at the body and then retreated, waiting for the official reports. But here he was, carrying the body outside, after the forensics had finished and gone home, loading it into the van to go to the morgue.

Greg felt somewhat sick at any thought of the morgue, even after so many weeks, and he would likely feel the same way for years. After all, morgue was Molly, and Molly was…

Well. Nothing he cared to remember.

Then again, the present wasn't all that desirable either. Sitting in the back of an ambulance with a corpse, making sure that the poor woman didn't roll off or anything. A boring job, fit for a disgraced Detective Inspector that had brought in a fraud on his cases.

I believe in Sherlock Holmes, they were still around the city, on posters, spray-painted on walls. Sometimes, the homeless used it as a money-making gimmick. Put out two cups, Sherlock Holmes was a fraud, Sherlock Holmes was real. Greg had always put a few coins into the latter, whenever he saw someone using that particular slogan. He made sure that no one noticed him do it; the controversy had started a street fight more than once.

Suddenly, he straightened up and took off one of his bloodstained gloves. He reached a hand into his pocket, and pulled out his phone. Shit. Was it really that time already? The second that they rolled to a halt, he jumped out and ran around to the driver.

"Listen, I'm sorry, mate, I've got to go. I'm late to dinner, sorry, sorry!"

"Go for it, Greg," the dark-haired driver said. "God knows ye deserve a day off."

Greg threw him an honest smile and then ran off, stripping out of the blue crime-scene anti-contamination suit as he went, hoping that he didn't have any bloodstains on the suit jacket underneath. Normally, he wouldn't wear something so fancy, but knowing Mycroft, the address written on the card was probably some ridiculously posh place.

Later…

"Well, that worked out well," John commented, reaching up to put away a plate.

"Surprisingly well," Jim agreed, passing the blond man a teacup. "The Misfits don't trust him, though."

"They're smart, they know he's not really on our side. I think they're starting to like him. Give them a little time to get used to each other, and they'll be a terrifying prank team."

"Oh god, I didn't even think of that."

"And now that its occurred to you, you know I'm right."

"Should be interesting." The criminal mastermind pulled out the plug, and helped John with the last of the dishes. "It was a good idea, though, to invite him for dinner. I like having him around."

"I do, too," John agreed, and they travelled into the living room, dropping down onto the couch together. "We might get that happy ending yet," John mused.

"Well, if anyone deserves it-" Jim started to say.

"It's certainly not us," John finished, and they both laughed. It had been a good day.

Back in 221B Baker Street, Sherlock was trying to discourage the three Misfits that had followed him home and were exploring the body parts in the fridge.

Across the city, Greg was stealing a shrimp off of Mycroft's plate, earning himself a disapproving look.

Things weren't perfect, they never were. But at least they were looking up.

A/N: Alright, so this is where I bid some of my readers goodbye. I'm not going to say 'The End,' because it's not, but if you don't want to read Johniarty, this is your exit cue. Thanks for sticking with me through all this and shit. I'm saving the really meaningful speech for the real ending, six chapters ahead.

Hey, it's been great. Drop me one last review on your way out, would you? No judgment for your taste in couples, I promise. I love you all.

If you're sticking around, let me know! I guess I'll see you soon-ish. We're all getting near the end, now.

Who to dedicate this chapter to? There have been SO many great reviews, my last week has been so much better because of them. This is for those who took the time out of your day to write a longer review; BrightWatcher, Sophie LeBeau, PetrichorRaindrop, and Paradice-cream.

Sophie, your review made me smile for a whole day, and it was a shitty day too, so thank you.

PetrichorRaindrop and Paradice-cream, I'm happy that people are stepping outside their first language to read this story. Don't worry about your English, as long as I can read it (which I can), I'm happy to have your reviews.

Thank you, BrightWatcher, for being one of the first reviews and making me so eager to post my next chapter.

Y'ALL ARE AMAZING!