Chapter 12: As If We Never Said Goodbye

John and I are back in the sleek, black car and are on our way to Baker Street. I can't go back to work, not after what's just happened. I just need to go home and be with my son. I stare out the window and watch as London passes by, twiddling the broken phone in my hands. Mycroft let me keep it; I didn't ask for it, but he knew that I didn't have too. He and Lestrade were discussing the matter of what to do with the death of Sebastian Moran when John and I were leaving. I couldn't stay in that room any longer. I needed air. I needed to leave. I needed to separate myself from the situation before all of my locked away emotions broke free.

There's not one singular emotion I can that I am feeling; my body has gone into shock and my mind is buzzing. Hot tears drip down my face and I can't speak. I can't pinpoint exactly what I'm feeling but this I know for sure:

That was my Sherlock's voice.

I've just heard my love's voice for the first time in three, long years. There's a wave of reopened grief that has come over me because it's been so long. And yet, it still feels like it was just yesterday that I lost him, that I looked into those sea foam eyes and told him that I loved him. His message plays back in my head on a non-stop loop, but there is one particular part that sticks out the most:

"You must understand this, Elfie, that I don't want to die. I don't want to leave you and our child…it's not to save my reputation, it's to save you."

If it was to save me, Sherlock, then you shouldn't have left me.

"We're home," John says, gently patting my thigh. I turn my gaze from the window and look to my best friend. He's just as shaken as I am, but is much more composed. I've always been jealous of John for that. Must be the military man in him that keeps him from completely falling apart. I can only image what's going on inside his brain right now. The last time he heard Sherlock's voice was moments before he jumped; John was the last person to see Sherlock alive. He was the one Sherlock said one last good-bye too. It must be taking every ounce of his being to not break down right now.

We exit the car and silently enter the flat. Mrs. Hudson is dusting our living room while little Hamish is playing with his favorite block shapes. He has Sherlock's scarf clutched tightly in his right hand…just like he always does.

"Mummy!" Hamish giggles, reaching out for me from his playpen. My mood is instantly changed as I quickly go to him and swoop him up in my arms, kissing his cheeks again and again. After all the crazy and unexpected events of today, this little boy has made it worth it. He's my pride and joy and, truly, my miracle.

"Hello, Hamish." I coo, holding him close to my chest, "Oh, I've missed you."

He giggles a reply in his baby babble and nuzzles his head into the collar of my coat, slightly damp from the light rain outside. I hold his head in place as I begin to rock him back and forth. Tears start to develop in my eyes again and I quickly close them to avoid a breakdown.

"Hello you two, I wasn't expecting you home so early." Mrs. Hudson says, turning away from the bookshelf, "What's all…"

"Mrs. Hudson, I'll…I'll explain." John says, graciously taking her by the arm and leading her into the kitchen. He knows I need my privacy with my son right now. Slowly and gently, I walk over to the couch and sit down with my little boy in my lap. Right now, he looks so much like his father: the curls, the eyes, everything.

"Mummy, look!" he babbles, holding Sherlock's scarf up over his head, "Dah 'carf."

"Yes, I see," I sniffle, brushing some stray curls out of his eyes, "You have Dad's scarf."

"Mine." He says, smiling and hugging the scarf. I let out a small chuckle and wipe away some stray tears from my cheek. My son's smile fades and he furrows his little forehead just like his father use too when he was confused: "Oh tay Mama?"

"Yes, honey. I'm okay." I sniffle, "I'm just…I miss your daddy, Hamish."

"Wha miss?" my son asks

"It's when you want-you really, really want-someone to come back to you, but they just can't." I try to explain to the toddler, "Just like how I wish Dad would come home to us, Hamish. I truly, truly wish that." I bite my lower lip and quickly look away so that I hide my tears from my son. Sherlock's message plays in my mind again:

"I know that you will raise our baby to be a strong, intelligent young man… He will look up to you and see you as I always have: the strongest woman in the world."

Sherlock believed that I was strong so now I have to show it. Hamish needs me to guide him and I can't do that if I'm an emotional wreck. This message seems to be my final assurance from Sherlock that it's okay to move on. I will never forget my Sherlock Holmes nor will I let his memory fade. I just have to be strong without him now. It's what he would've wanted.

Breaking my train of thought, Hamish takes his father's scarf and puts it around my neck: "Dare," he says, gripping onto the ends of it, "now Dah wit you, Mum. No more miss."

"Oh, Hamish," I say with a bright laugh, pulling my son in a tight embrace, "I love you."

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Later that night, after I've put Hamish to bed, I dawn my pajamas then curl up in Sherlock's old arm chair beside the fireplace and fiddle with his phone. John's out with Mary even though he insisted he would stay here with me:

"No, John, you should go." I told him, "I don't need someone to hover over me right now. Trust me, I'll be fine."

"Fee, this…what happened today was a huge emotional shift for you," he said, "I would be an awful friend if I left you right now."

"You could never be an awful friend, John. Go out, have fun with Mary; today was just as emotional for you as it was for me. I'll call you if I need you."

As I sit here now, turning the phone over and over again in my hands, I can't help but think about that man: Sebastian Moran. Who was he? His body was found so close to Baker Street, why is that? Why did he have Sherlock's phone? There seems to be a huge piece of this puzzle that's missing and it's bugging me. Maybe there is still a part of me that wants to go and investigate further, but what would it be for? I'm a Holmes by marriage and thus do not have the same skills my dear husband had. Maybe I should just drop it.

Suddenly, there is a pounding on the street door. Worried that the loud noise will wake my son (who takes forever to fall asleep), I quickly hop out of the armchair and head downstairs. Mrs. Hudson must either be fast asleep and completely immune to loud noises or she's just not in because she's nowhere to be seen. I cautiously head down the stairs but freeze about halfway down when I hear the rumble of thunder outside. The pour knocker must be stuck in the brewing storm outside: Poor person must need a phone or something.

The pounding on the door intensifies.

"Okay, okay, keep it down." I say, tying the robe around my waist as tight as possible, "Give me a minuet." I reach the end of the steps, take a deep breath and open the front door. I immediately begin to feel a little uneasy as my eyes lock on the figure slumping in the archway in front of me. His clothes are baggy and wet due to the rain and a large backpack is slung over his left shoulder. The hood of his giant grey sweatshirt is covering his face so I can't read his expression, but I can tell that he is unwell. "H-Hello." I say in the strongest voice I can, "Can…Can I help you?"

The man grunts, slowly nods his head and takes a wobbly step forward. Suddenly he begins to cough violently. He turns back around and bends forward toward the steps, gripping his stomach. Despite every instinct of mine telling me not to go near this man, I rush to help him.

"Can you walk?" I ask, cautiously setting a hand on his back and another on his chest to help him; I can feel his heart racing. He only coughs and groans as he struggles to balance and speak. "Okay, okay," I coax, "Just relax, sir. I'm going to help you. Why don't you come inside? I've got a small fire going and I can let you use my phone."

He takes in a shake breath and nods. Then, as if on cue, the man shifts all of his body weight onto me and tosses a boney arm around my shoulders. Slowly, we trudge into the flat and up the stairs, where I quickly help him to the couch and sit him up right. His coughing dies down and his breathing is more relaxed.

In the light of the living room, I can now clearly see that this man is extremely malnourished. His rib cage is clearly visible from under his oversized sweater as it rises and falls with every breath. The sweater may have fit him once but now it is clearly acting as an extra layer of skin for his boney frame. His black pants are tattered and muddy, but nicer than the typical homeless man's pair of trousers; he can't have been on the streets very long.

"Now," I say, dropping his backpack by the coat rack, "can you talk?"

"Mhm," he sniffles, bringing his knees in close to his chest, "'m fine." His voice is horse, like a smoker's, but it has a sort of youth to it.

"Do you have a name?" I ask, but the man quickly goes into another coughing fit. I fetch him a cup of water and press him to take it. He accepts the cup with two shaking hands and downs it immediately. Maybe I shouldn't have let him into the flat…but I couldn't have just left him out in the rain. As he sits up, and removes his hood, his face is a tad more revealed to me. His forehead is covered by the dirty red beanie on his head, but I can see small greasy strands of dark hair peeping out of the back. His cheeks are covered in dirt and bruises. His eyes are watery and hazed over with fever and his nose is red and runny. He looks like he's been through hell.

"Were you in a fight?" I ask, noticing his battered knuckles.

He slowly nods and his fingers start to twitch. "You…you live alone, miss?" he asks in a very thick cockney accent.

"Um, no." I say in confusion, "It's my son, my best friend and…"

"Ah, you got a little one? Explains the clutter." His grey eyes flash about the room, taking in every detail of each item as if he were debating internally how much they were worth. Wait, now I see it. A junkie; he has to be. I know it's not right to judge a book by it's cover, but I need to think about my son; This stranger makes me feel way too uncomfortable to take any chances.

"Okay, sir," I say in my best demanding voice, "I'm…I'm going to call you a car and maybe they can send you down to the A&E so you can sleep."

The man's eyes grow wild all of a sudden and he begins to shake his head violently: "N-no," he pleads, "I can't…can't…" His coughing starts up again and he curls back in on himself, lying sideways on my couch. He starts to shiver and his grey eyes flicker open and shut. I quickly step back and pull out my cell phone to text Lestrade and John. "Please, miss." He wheezes, reaching a hand out to me, "Don't call anyone. I…I need…need too…"

Suddenly, the man's eyes roll back and his coughing ceases. His arm drops to his side and becomes unconscious. Damn it, this is the last thing I wanted right now: 'Well done, Elfie,' I tell myself, 'the one time you decide to be a good Samaritan, you end up bringing a druggie into your home to pass out on your couch.'

Cautiously, I step closer to the man and check his vitals; Yes, his still alive, but who is he? I look over his still body to find any clue to his identity, but nothing sticks out to me. Then it hits me: His bag! He was holding onto it so tightly when we came in and, if he was dangerous, then there could be some clues in there. Hmm, maybe some of Sherlock's skills did rub off on me.

Quickly, I go to the bag by the coat rack, kneel beside it and unzip it. The contents are not what I was expecting, but they do spark some interest. It's mainly books: Science books, novels, history books, and tourist travel books from all over Europe. I take each one out and examine them. Why would he have so many books? A student? A traveler?

Underneath the books, there's a pack of cigarettes. Not too surprising, I could tell he was a smoker the moment I opened the door for him. There's a wallet, but it's not of much help. It contains various different IDs and credit cards; most likely needs all these aliases to get by in the drug world. However there is one card that makes my blood run cold. In the back of right side pocket there is a medical ID badge. The picture is of a young blonde male with thick black-rimmed glasses. The name: Basil Altamont.

My eyes grow wide as I stare at the card in my shaking hands. How? How can this be that mystery nurse? They look nothing alike; this can't be real. This druggie on my couch must have nicked it off of Basil, surely. Then again, I remember at the hospital, there was no record of Basil Altamont ever being there. But it doesn't make sense: why would my mystery nurse show up at my front door three years later, looking completely different?

I look back into the bag to see if the answer is in there but instead my heart sinks to my stomach. At the very bottom of the backpack is a black handgun. My fear deepens and my hands start to shake. The thought of Sebastian Moran's body returns to my mind along with the shadowy figure I saw this morning. Could they be connected? No, no, I'm panicking. I'm acting paranoid. I'm just…confused.

"Photograph."

I snap out of my dream like state at the sound of the man's voice: "Sorry?" I say, hiding the wallet behind my back as I turn to face him. He is still curled up, but is now pointing a shaky finger at the photo on the desk. It's my wedding photo: the only one of Sherlock and I together that I have out on display. "Oh, um, yes." I say, trying to stay calm, "It's an old photo."

"He looks familiar," the man croaks, "Ain't he…that detective guy?"

"No, uh, no." I stammer, quickly hustling over to my desk and slamming the picture down, "just a…an old friend." I don't want this man to know anything bout Sherlock. Who knows? Maybe he once investigated him.

"Dead?" the man asks. I can hear him grunt as he uncurls his aching body and slowly rises from the exam table. My heart begins to race as I immediately regret turning my back on him. I left the gun in the bag. Shit.

"Yes." I reply, holding onto the ring around my neck like a child gripping their favorite toy. Fear begins to run throw my veins and I can feel my heart beat quicken.

"Close to you?" his voice is softer now, almost like a whisper. I hear the lock of the guns safety and I am frozen with fear. Immediately, I start to think of a way I run down the hall to protect Hamish. Oh God, what have I done?

"Yes," I cautiously reply, "Very close." He takes a few steps closer to me and I feel like my heart is going to burst from my chest.

"How?" His voice is deeper and colder as he takes another step. The cockney accent is gone as is the gruffness; it's a much smoother sound now.

"Beg pardon." I stammer.

"How'd he die?"

"Su-suicide."

"You saw him fall?"

I bite my lip and close my eyes as tight as I can. I can feel his breath on my neck and yet I can't move: "N-no." I whisper, "He, um, had me and our…I-I mean, I saw him before he…" Words fail me as I feel his hand slowly move up to my arm: his fingers grazing the silk of my husbands robe. My body shakes in fear and I take in a deep breath, waiting for the inevitable to happen.

Suddenly, something sparks in my brain. My eyes shoot open just as the man's hand rests on my shoulder: "How did you know he fell?" I quickly spit out, "I never said he fell."

I turn around, expecting to see the man pointing the gun at me, but instead am taken back by the sight of his face. The red beanie is gone as is the dirt and bruises. It's as if he's shed that skin, like a snake. He looks healthier and much more like a regular man instead of a homeless drug addict. His eyes are no longer watery and feverish, but sparkle a deep, familiar sea-foam green. They lock with my own and my heart practically jumps up to my throat. A smirk grows across the man's face as his hand moves from my shoulder to my bright pink cheek.

"Hello, Elfie."

"…Sherlock."

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"Elfie."

This can't be happening. No. This isn't real. He isn't here. He can't be here!

"Elfie Marie, please."

My world begins to spin as I slowly open my eyes. I feel nauseous and a headache is gnawing at my skull. A blurry figure is kneeling over me: He can't be here. He's gone. He's dead. I close my eyes again, hoping this is all a dream. Two hands grip onto my shoulders and shake me slightly.

"I know you're upset, darling, but it won't do you any good to pass out on me again."

That voice: that sarcastic, dry and yet soothing, baritone voice. I've missed that voice and the way it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. A soft hand cups the left side of my face and I open my eyes again. Our eyes lock and my mind go blank. I can't speak. I can't move. I can't even think properly. He really is here.

"Do say something, darling." Sherlock says with a smirk, "You are making this a tad bit uncomfortable, gaping up at me like a fish and all."

My mouth struggles to formulate the correct words to say and my voice has completely abandoned me. What am I suppose to say? I've dreamed of this moment for 3 years, but I never thought it would actually happen. It couldn't happen! It has happened. Sherlock slowly stands and offers me his hand. I slowly take it and rise to my feet, grabbing the desk for extra support.

"Now," he goes on, nonchalantly, "you may have some questions for me. For starters, I can explain my appearance for you, but it's all quite obvious. How else was I to get into the…"

Suddenly, without even really thinking, I slap him square across the face. He stumbles back a bit but latches hold onto the arm of the couch to catch his balance. "I may have some questions?" I yell, "May have? H-how…no, what…GAH! YOU SON OF A BITCH!" My shock is quickly replaced with anger as I slap him across the face again. Sherlock massages his left cheek and attempts to speak, but I go at him again.

"Now Elfie, Elfie," he tries to explain, quickly grabbing my wrists, "Listen to me, darling. You have to listen."

"Shut up! I'm not your darling!" I bark, waving my hands around to try and get another hit at him, "Just, shut up! You lied to me! You selfish bastard! You can't be real!"

"No, you just slapped an illusion a few times." Sherlock replies, with that signature annoyed tone of his. Grabbing hold of my arms, he then pulls me in close to his chest. I just squirm like an impatient child as I try to break free: shaking my head about as if it will do any good.
"Let go of me! Stop this!" I hiss, but his grip doesn't loosen. Feeling like I'm going to pass out again, I give up fighting and slump forward, placing my forehead on his chest. . I feel my stomach churn as a sea of emotion floods my head. This must be a dream, surely, because there is no way this is even remotely possible: "I…I buried you." I manage to whisper, holding back tears.

"I know," Sherlock replies, cautiously letting go of my wrists and setting his hands on my shoulders, "And there is no reason in this world that gives me the right to ask for your forgiveness. But know that I am truly sorry."

"Sorry?" I ask, lifting my head to look at him, "You're sorry? That's all you can say right now; you're sorry?"

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but then sighs heavily and looks down at the floor in shame: "As I said, I can never ask for your forgiveness." He goes on, taking his hands away, "I…I did a terrible thing by you and John, Elfie and I've had to live with that guilt for three years. That's worse than death, I can assure you."

"So you want me to feel sorry for you, is that it?" I snap, "You expect me to feel bad for you because you made a mistake?"

"No, of course not. I don't expect you to feel anything of the sort." He says, running his hands through his curls, "If anything you should feel angry with me."

"Angry is putting it lightly, Sherlock!" I hiss, no longer being able to hold back my tears, "Do…Do you know what I had to go through that day? What I had to endure as your widow? Do you even realize what you've done?" He looks up at me with the saddest eyes in the world; as if what I'm about to say will in fact kill him. Never the less, I need to say this:

"You lied to me, Sherlock." I cry, "You lied to me for 3 whole years! All that time you let me believe that you had taken your own life because everything had gone to hell for you. I couldn't wrap my head around it: How could my Sherlock-my genius-commit suicide? How could that have happened and why didn't he come to me? I-I had lost so much that day: my husband, my world…my best friend.

And yet, here you are, three years later like everything is okay. What the hell Sherlock? Do you really think of no one but yourself? John went back into therapy, after you died, that's how big of a deal this is. Don't forget, I had to raise our child all on my own too. Your acting like nothing has changed! Did you expect me to just run into your arms, so over the moon to see you, and be all like 'oh, Sherlock, love! Missed you, glad your back'?

I had to raise Hamish all on my own do you understand that? I didn't talk to anyone or rarely even left the flat. Every night, I tell Hamish a story about you. 'Tell me about Dah,' he says, 'Dah is my hero.' You're a bedtime story to him, Sherlock. He's only ever seen pictures of you and just has this imaginary thought of what you might be like. Do you know how hard it is to tell your own child about someone who'll never be there?

I-I was so depressed and alone. Everyone thought you were a fraud, Sherlock, but I couldn't believe it. I have lived with the image you lying dead on the sidewalk, covered in blood, for 3 years and now…now you're alive. How do you expect me to live with this? I can't-I want to but-Sherlock, you broke my heart."

Unable to control myself anymore, I turn away, bury my face in my hands and begin to weep. I thought I was done crying but I think that it has finally all sunk in: Sherlock is alive. He isn't a fraud. He really is here. Slowly and gently, I feel Sherlock wrap his arms around me and pull me in close. I wrap my arms around his frail torso and hide my face on his chest.

"Oh my God," he says, between tears, "My Elfie Marie, what have done? I am so, so very sorry. I…I know that means nothing to you, but you must believe me when I say it. I will never be able to earn your complete forgiveness and I've accepted that. But, please, Elfie, don't hate me. I can't bare the thought of you hating me. You have every right to hate me, I know, but…God, just please don't. I'm begging you."

"You never beg." I breathe out. We look at one another for a split moment and smile. "I could never hate you," I cry, holding him even tighter, "Never." Sherlock holds me back with all of his might and we remain like this for countless moments. All is not forgiven or resolved, but right now that doesn't matter. This moment is the first of its kind in three years: This is the first time we've been together.

"I…I got your message," I whisper in between sobs, "the one on your phone. Why did you say those things? Why did you make me believe you were going to die?"

"Because I had too," he coos, resting his cheek atop my head, "if anyone could convince the world of my death, it would be you. You had to believe I was dead or else Moriarty…"

"Don't! Don't you dare say that name," I snap, raising my head, "Don't you ever say the name Moriarty to me ever again."

Suddenly, without thinking, I kiss him like I've been aching to since that day at St. Barts. To my surprise, Sherlock kisses me back and rather passionately too, like someone whose been longing for this moment. I close my eyes and try not to think about anything as Sherlock begins to rub his hands up and down my torso. He grabs my waist and pulls me in even closer to his body. I open my mouth slightly to let him slip in his tongue and to my surprise he does so. I hook my legs around his waist as our kiss deepens and he carries me to the couch. He sets me down on my back and lies down beside me.

Gently, I cup his face in my hands and pull my lips away so that I can stare into those gorgeous, sea foam orbs that I've missed so much. I've missed his touch, his gaze, his…everything. We smile at one another and I nuzzle my forehead against his: "I love you." I whisper, placing another kiss on his lips.

"It has been far to long since I've heard you say that to me." He replies wrapping his arms around my waist, "my darling, darling girl."

We cuddle up close to each other like we use to do and I can't help but feel like everything is right in the world again. My missing piece has been fitted back into its proper place and for the first time in a long time, I am genuinely happy.

Just then, we both hear the pitter-patter of little feet against the hardwood floor. I quickly rise up from the couch and go toward the noise. Sure enough, little Hamish has managed to get out of bed and wander about the hallway with his thumb in his mouth and Sherlock's scarf tightly gripped in the opposite hand.

"What are you doing up, sweat heart?" I coo, scooping the little boy up into my arms, "Did you hear mummy shouting?" He nods his little head before dropping it onto my shoulder. "I'm sorry," I say, kissing his cheek as I head back to the living room.

Sherlock is still sitting on the couch, completely frozen and bugged eyed when he sees me with Hamish. This is it; the moment I only ever dreamed of happening. Sherlock is finally meeting his son.

"Hamish," I whisper to the toddler, "Do you want to meet someone?"

The little boy perks up suddenly and nods with excitement as we walk closer to the couch. "Mmph," he mumbles, reaching out a pudgy hand toward the couch. I turn back to face Sherlock and then back at Hamish. Their eyes are glued to each other with fascination. Sherlock doesn't look afraid or nervous as I take a seat beside him and allow Hamish to sit half on my lap and half on his.

"Hamish," I say, "this…this your daddy."

"H-hello," Sherlock whispers.

Hamish just giggles and smiles brightly at his father. I can see it in his eyes that he already knew who Sherlock was; somehow he just knew; "Dah." He giggles, holding Sherlock's scarf out to him.

A warm smile grows across Sherlock's face as he carefully takes the scarf into his own hands: "Have…have you been taking care of this for me?" he asks Hamish. The little boy proudly nods. "Good man," Sherlock replies with a small chuckle.

Cautiously, Sherlock then takes a hold of one of Hamish's. Hamish curiously looks down at the hand and tightly grips one of Sherlock's fingers; His fingers are so small compared to Sherlock's long, boney ones. The two then lock eyes, both lost in their own thoughts. "My son." Sherlock whispers in a breathy voice, gently stroking Hamish's cheek.

"My Dah." Hamish practically squeals as he wiggles his way to wrap his arms around Sherlock's neck and cuddle up close to him. Sherlock immediately holds him close and starts to gently rock him. I can't help but tear up at the sight.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asks me,

"Nothing," I reply, moving up as close to him as I possibly can, "Absolutely nothing."

Together again! Finally.

I was going to make the reunion and the stuff with Hamish a completely separate chapter but I thought since you guys are sooo awesome, I'd give it to you all at once Xoxo

I have a couple more chapters left of this to tie up loose ends and such, but just an FYI that this will be coming to a close. I have another story sort of planed out in my head that is a tad darker so stay tuned for that.

Thanks as always for the support!

I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.

Much love and many thanks.