Chapter 13: For Your Family

I awake the next morning on the couch with Hamish curled up on my chest. How did I get here? Ah, that's right I spent my whole night out in the living room. There is a soft pitter-patter of rain that echoes through the flat and the air in the living room has a nippy chill too it. Why did I spend the night in the living room? Surely the bedroom is warmer. Very slowly, I blink my eyes open and slowly lift my head up from the Union Jack pillow. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a backpack lying by the coat rack. There is a soft moan coming from beside me and the arms wrapped around my waist tighten slightly. Now it's all coming back to me: the reason I slept out here, the reason I was even in the living room.

My husband has come home.

My Sherlock is alive and here.

He's back.

My heart races as I realize that his return wasn't some dizzying dream triggered by that recording. My Sherlock was really here last night, kissing me and holding me like he use to do. True, I don't understand why or how it could even be possible but I don't really care. That empty part of my heart is full again and everything is going to be as it should be now. But there are thoughts nagging at the back of my brain, questions really. How did he survive? Why didn't he tell me he was alive sooner? Where has he been?

Adjusting myself so that I can be eye to eye with him (and so Hamish is comfortable situated on my hip), I look Sherlock over and take in the beautiful sight before me. He's alive and he's lying beside me. Just like it use to be: just like it should be. I watch his sleeping face and think about what I'm going to say when he wakes up:

"Hey! I've missed you." No, that's too generic.

"How long have you been alive?" Stupid; obviously he's been alive this whole time.

"Don't scare me like that!" No, that makes me sound like I'm his mother.

I slowly reach up and stroke Sherlock's soft, pale cheek. Despite the fact he is still wearing his 'costume' from last night, he doesn't look like the Sherlock I last laid eyes on. His skin is very pale and he is very thin; not unnaturally thin, but thin nonetheless. His unruly mop of jet-black curls is damp from a mixture of sweat and rainwater from last night. The bit of scruff upon his face only adds to the look of 'hasn't really showered in awhile.' Even though he's removed his bruise and dirt make-up, Sherlock looks like he's been through hell. Perhaps his sickly appearance last night wasn't so much of a disguise.

What's been going on with you, Sherlock? Where have you been?

With a soft groan and a heavy sigh, Sherlock blinks his eyes open and emerges from his sleep. He stretches his body out like a cat and slowly pulls me in closer to him. Our eyes meet. He blinks as if he were trying to focus then he gives me a small smile.

"Hello," he mumbles.

"Morning." I say, returning the smile.

"What time is it?" he whispers, stroking a stray lock of hair out of my eyes.

"I don't know." I reply, "I just woke up myself."

Sherlock nods and yawns, rubbing the right side of his jaw: "My mouth hurts."

"Well, I did slap you pretty hard." I remark with a proud smile, "but you deserved it." He lets out that deep baritone chuckle that I've missed so much then leans in a bit closer to me. We exchange a soft kiss; God, how I've missed those lips against my own.

"Three years," he whispers when we part, "I've woken up every morning, hoping to find you lying beside me like this. And now that that is a reality…I couldn't be happier."

My cheeks turn a bright shade of pink and I let out a soft chuckle: "Sherlock, honey, you know you could have come home to me," I reply, "If you were alive…why didn't you come home?"

Sherlock's face becomes very stern all of a sudden and he closes his eyes: "Now's not the time." He mumbles, "I'm sorry."

I can see now that he's hiding something, something very dark and very unnerving. Of course I want to know what, but I don't want to spoil this moment. He's home and that's the most important thing to me right now. There will be a time for answers and explanations, but it's not now.

Attempting to comfort him, I nuzzle my forehead against his and kiss the corner of his mouth. Sherlock sighs contently then opens his eyes again: "I love you," he says and our lips meet for another kiss. As our lips slowly part, my husband's gaze shifts from my face to Hamish: "He's beautiful, Elfie." He says as he softly strokes Hamish's back, "Absolutely beautiful."

"He looks like you," I reply, adjusting Hamish so that he can lie comfortably between us, "Even when he was new born, anyone could tell immediately that he's your son."

"I know." Sherlock sighs, contently staring down at our son.

I furrow my brow in confusion but then relax when I remember the fake medical ID in his backpack: "The blonde hair was a nice touch," I tease

Sherlock looks up at me then smiles: "I was worried you would recognize me," he says, sheepishly, "I knew that you believed me to be dead, but I had to completely disguise myself just to be safe. Did you really think I'd miss the birth of my son?"

"You were dead, so yes, I did."

Sherlock looks away ashamed and sighs heavily. "Elfie, I shouldn't have let you go through this alone." He states, "I never meant to abandon you and Hamish."

"I know," I say, setting a comforting hand on his arm, "somehow, I've always known that you wouldn't just leave us." Our eyes meet again and I can see the pain and regret in Sherlock's gaze. I cup his right cheek in my hand and kiss him on the lips: "You're home now, that's what's important." I whisper.

"You deserve to know everything," he whispers back, "But…I promise you I will explain it all in time."

I give him an affirming nod then smile at him again. "Do you want to hold him?" I ask, nudging my head toward Hamish.

Sherlock nods then we both slowly sit up. I carefully pass the toddler over and guide Sherlock's arms so that they can securely cradle him against his shoulder. Immediately noticing the change of holder, Hamish crinkles his face and starts to stir.

"Wha-what did I do?" Sherlock asks, sounding a tad panicked, "What did I get wrong?"

"Nothing, love," I say with a chuckle, "he's just waking up." As if on cue, Hamish rubs the sleep from his eyes and lets out a small yawn. He lifts his little head up and his eyes meet his father's.

"Morning," Sherlock says in a soft tone that, frankly, I've never heard him use before, "Did…did you sleep well?"

"Mhm," Hamish mumbles in reply. He then wraps his little arms around Sherlock's neck and gives his father a small hug. Sherlock returns the hug and places a soft kiss on the boy's cheek. I can't help but tear up at the sight: This is my family and now they've finally been united.

"Dah." I hear Hamish say, "Where been?"

"Oh, Hamish," I sniffle, "Daddy just woke up. Now's not the…"

"It's okay, Elfie." Sherlock assures me, "Can you make some coffee, love?" Seeing that he wants to have a little moment of privacy with his son, I give Sherlock's arm a quick rub then head toward the kitchen to make some coffee and breakfast. I listen carefully though as Sherlock gets off the couch and rock the little boy gently in his arms

"I've been very far away; too far from you and your mum." Sherlock says, stroking Hamish's cheek, "I am very sorry for that, young man, truly."

"Sorry?" Hamish asks

"Yes, I suppose you don't quite know what that means," Sherlock replies, taking a moment to think up a proper way to explain the concept to Hamish: "Sorry…Sorry means that you feel bad for doing something."

"Trouble?" Hamish asks

"No it's not like being in trouble." Sherlock replies, surprising me that he can so easily catch onto 'Toddler speak', "Sometimes when you've done something bad you can feel sorry…I'm not making much sense to you am I? I've…I've never been a parent before, Hamish. I'm usually good at things, but this…this is completely new for me."

I lean in the archway and listen to what Sherlock is saying; he sounds defeated and sad, not as cocky as I knew him to be.

"Shall I tell you something about me, Hamish?" he goes on and Hamish excitedly nods his little head; "I'm not the person your Mum has told you about. I'm-I'm just a man who has been very lucky in his life. But then I…made a mistake: I left you and your mum all alone never to come back. I missed so much and I am deeply sorry for not being there for you."

I quickly realize that he's saying this more for himself then for Hamish. This must be part of the guilty I saw in his eyes.

"You have always been with though, Hamish. Did you know that?" Sherlock goes on, clearly holding back tears, "Right here." I watch as Sherlock takes Hamish hand and sets it over his heart: "You'll always have a spot here, my young man, don't ever forget that."

"Mummy an' Jawn said you here too," Hamish says, pointing to his own heart, "Always."

Sherlock gives off a warm chuckle and kisses the top of Hamish's forehead: "They were right," he whispers to the boy, "They're always right."

"Mummy miss you lots."

"I missed her a lot too. I missed you as well, Hamish. You were so small when I first saw you. Now, you've grown to be so big and strong."

"Smart too!" Hamish exclaims, pointing to his own head, "I just like you."

"Of course you are," Sherlock chuckles, taking his son's hand into his own.

I lean in the archway just watching as Sherlock stands in his spot where he used to play his violin and situates Hamish on his boney hip. My heart skips a beat and I've never felt so happy or proud in my entire life. Here is my family, my very own family. I never thought we would be together again, but now here we are: Home and together.

A large smile has appeared on Sherlock's face and I can see his eyes begin to well up with happy tears as he bounces the giddy little boy on his hip. Who would have ever guessed a sight like this? Sherlock Holmes and a toddler, happily spending time together. It's a sight no one, not even me, would have ever thought they'd see.

"I love you, Hamish Holmes." Sherlock says, swinging the boy up into his arms, "Do you know that?"

Hamish nods and lets out a happy giggle: "Stay?"

"Am I staying? Is that what your asking?"

"Mhm."

"Of course I am. I promise you I'll never leave you again."

"You better not," I input, whipping tears off of my cheeks. Sherlock opens an arm out to me and I gladly go to his side, wrapping my arms around his waist. He encases me in a tight side hug while balancing Hamish on his hip.

"Sad?" Hamish asks, reaching a pudgy hand out to me.

"No, no, sweet heart," I reply taking his hand into mine, "I'm happy. Very happy." I look up at Sherlock and we exchange a quick kiss: "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."
"I love you, Elfie Holmes."

0o0o0o0oo0o0oo0o0o0o0o0o0

After breakfast and a long (much needed) shower, I toss on my sweats and head back downstairs to the living room. I hadn't realized there was a spare bathroom upstairs until recently; I had always wondered why John never came to use the one in Sherlock's bedroom?

Tying my hair up in the towel, I immediately notice the loud buzzing of my cell phone on the coffee table. I quick grab the phone, press the side button to silence the vibration and slide open the screen to view the series of messages:

Happy birthday my dear friend! Didn't hear from you so I hope everything is ok. Meet Mary and I for lunch later? –JW

Elfie! Happy birthday! John told me what happened yesterday. Here if you want to talk, hon'. Lunch? –MM

I groan and rub my free hand across my face: is it sad that I had forgotten about my own birthday? There's been just so much on my plate recently that I never really took any thought to it. Besides, now I have a resurrected Sherlock Holmes to deal with; my birthday is at the bottom of my list of things to deal with today. Also, it's too early to deal with people. What time is it anyway? I squint at the bright screen and check the time: 11am. Okay, maybe not too early to deal with people, but still. Putting it on speaker, I listen to my voicemail's while I pick up my still half-full coffee mug:

"Elfie, this is your mother. I'm calling to wish you a happy birthday and just hear how you're doing. You haven't been calling and…"

Delete. Yeah, I'm not quite ready to tell my mom about Sherlock coming back into my life just yet. I can only image the scene she'll make. Next message:

"Fee, hey, it's John. I hope you're enjoying your birthday so far. Uh, I tried texting you earlier but you must have missed it or you're busy with Hamish or…something. You didn't call last night so I hope you were okay after that whole recording…thing. Yeah. So, uh, I was wondering if you'd like to get some lunch…or dinner, which ever is easiest for you, with Mary and I. You can bring Hamish of course. So, um, yeah, give me a call back. Cheers."

What am I going to say to John? Sherlock returning is just a big of a deal to him as it is to me. I have no idea how he'll react or what he'll say. It's too…Ugh, I don't even know. Next message:

"Mrs. Holmes, hey, it's Lestrade. Greg Lestrade. Look, I wanted to see how you were after yesterday. I can't have been easy hearing his voice again and…well…it must have been a lot for you. You know you can always talk to me and…yeah. Anyway, um, we're close to wrapping up the Moran case. Turns the guy was working as a hired gun and-Well, I can't give you full details because you're not on the case and such and…Well, if you want to know the details, you know where to find me. Cheers, oh and Happy Birthday. Tell the little one I say hello."

"Lestrade's on the Moran case?"

Surprised to hear a deep baritone voice coming from the armchair, I quickly turn my head to face the speaker.

There, sitting cross-legged with his hands steepled under his chin, in the nude, is Sherlock Holmes.

"Ah!" I scream, nearly falling backwards.

"Yes, darling, I'm still here." Sherlock says with a smirk, "Hope you don't mind, I lit a small fire. It was a bit nippy."

"Where are your clothes?" I say, trying to hide my embarrassment, "More importantly, where's Hamish?"

"Mrs. Hudson took him down to her flat along with my clothes," he says, with a hint of annoyance, "Practically demanded that I remove them when she finished crying. She said that I would get sick if I kept my…how'd she put it? Oh, yes: 'those dirty rags'. I told her she was over reacting, but nonetheless, I obliged. She was fine with me being back, by the way. Cried for a while, told me that she always knew I'd come back…all that sort of stuff. Sentiment, I guess. She took Hamish with her because she said we needed some 'together time'. Poor boy was so upset, but I promised him you and I would be down in a bit to get him.

Anyway, I let Mrs. Hudson take my clothes and I hopped in the shower. By the way, why are you using color shampoo? From the state of your roots, you haven't touched up your hair in 6 months. I highly doubt your getting grey hairs, my dear; you're much too young. I like the shorter length, though. Definitely gives a very beautiful shape to your face."

"Huh? Oh, um, yeah, thanks." I grumble, feeling very self-conscious.

"Well," Sherlock goes on, brushing his hand through the air, "I've showered and, to answer your initial question, Mrs. Hudson still hasn't returned my clothes so I am not dressed. I don't suppose you have any of my old clothes lying about, do you?"

"Actually, there's a box of some of your old stuff upstairs in the bedroom." I admit, "I couldn't bring myself to sell and or toss out everything after you…well left."

"Stuff, what stuff?"

"Uh, some of your shirts and trousers, your violin, I think I kept your laptop…"

"Ah! Perfect!" Sherlock says, standing up with excitement, "That's exactly what I need. Perhaps this will be easier to crack now. You never cease to fail me, Elfie Marie, never. Now, where's my bag? I have work to do." He spots the red backpack on the ground by the coat hanger and quickly goes to it. I feel my cheeks turn bright red as I watch him go.

"Wha-what work?" I ask, "And could you please put some clothes on?"

"Sebastian Moran," he states, setting the backpack down on the coffee table and ignoring my latter statement, "Now, you say that Lestrade was on the case?"

"Uh, yeah, yeah, he met up with John and I at Mycroft's office yesterday around noon." I stutter, "Well, not to really met up. Mycroft had one of his mysterious black cars pick John up and then…"

"What did Lestrade tell you about Sebastian Moran?" Sherlock asks; his voice is cold and stern.

"Um, nothing. Only that his team had found the body and…"

"Where?"

"Melcombe Street."

"Cause of death?"

"Shot to the chest but apparently he was beat rather badly before hand."

"So they recovered the body, determined the cause of death, but not the scene of the crime and now Lestrade wants to wrap it up in a hurry, no doubt with help from my brother. Ha! How dull." Sherlock says, tapping his fingers on his chin, "I was sure that the police would've found the footprints; we had quite the confrontation and left the place in quite a state, I can assure you. Moran pulled out a knife but I was able to pull the gun on him before he got the chance to stab me. Odd how he never thought to just shoot me, it could've given him a better chance."

"Sorry, what?" I ask, trying to figure out what the hell he's talking about, "You…fought with Moran?"

"Oh come on, Fee, you saw me in the building." He replies, setting his hands on my shoulders, "Yesterday morning, in the window? Look at my hand! Think!" Sherlock holds out his right hand to me and I carefully look it over; there are scrapes and cuts all over his knuckles, which may have caused it to be caked in blood for sometime.

Slowly, it all clicks together in my brain: the figure in the window yesterday morning, Moran's body being found near by…Sherlock had killed Sebastian Moran. That would explain why his hands would be all cut up, why he knew about Moran. He had fought with Moran and won. Someone must have heard them fighting and called to report it, giving Sherlock enough time to hide the body and flee the scene.

"It was you!" I breathe out in shock, "The shadow in the window."

"Yes, well done, darling." Sherlock mocks, "Now, why did Lestrade tell you about Moran?"

"He…he really didn't." I reply, "It was more so Mycroft who told John and I about him. That's how I got to hear your message; Moran had your phone."

"He didn't have my phone," Sherlock corrects, "I brought Moran's belongs to Mycroft along with my phone."

"Wait…you?" I ask, "You were Mycroft's 'reliable source'?"

"Is that what he called me? Huh, clever on him," Sherlock says with a chuckle, "Yes, I was. He's actually been assisting me with tracking down Moran for quiet sometime. In exchange for his help, I would turn in every single one of the criminals I was hunting. I was about to turn in Moran…however things escalated, hence he's now dead. I gave Mycroft Moran's belongs along with my phone in assurance that he would play you that message."

"Wait, wait, hold on!" I snap, "Hunting? What the hell does that mean?"

He sighs heavily then looks at me with a soft smile: "I'm sorry, love," he says, "I'm…I'm not being entirely clear with you right now."

"Um, I guess not." I say, becoming less angry and more confused, "I mean, I would be lying if I said I didn't have questions."

"As so you should but right now is not the right time to ask them."

"When will that be?"

"Soon, I promise." Sherlock gets a sudden spark in his eyes and he starts grinning like a schoolboy, "If Moran is dead…then it's over." He says with a chuckle, "I've…I've done it! It's actually over!"

"Sherlock?" I ask, worried that he may be loosing it. Suddenly, Sherlock swoops me up in his arms and spins around the living room, laughing and kissing my cheeks.

"Oh ho, my darling, darling, girl it is finally over and done with!" he exclaims, holding me close, "No more running! No more aliases! It's done!"

"What the hell are you…" before I can even finish my thought, Sherlock plants a deep kiss on the lips. I panic for a moment but then give into the embrace. I don't know what's caused this sudden mood change but I love this kiss. When our lips (unfortunately) part, Sherlock sets me down on the couch then goes back to his frantic pacing.

"Now we have to clean my name." he says, rather excited, "Oh, this is excellent! Lestrade won't know what to do with himself." Sherlock spins around and claps his hands together, extremely pleased with himself and what he has accomplished…whatever it is.

"Prepare for…wait, what?" I ask

"Phone Lestrade," Sherlock says, "tell him you want to meet at Scotland Yard in about 15 minutes. Say that you have some information he might want to know about. No, no! John! We have to tell John first; John is the most important one to tell that I'm alive. Ha ah, my darling, I could just kiss you all day! This is brilliant!" Suddenly, Sherlock bounds up onto the couch and wraps me up in another deep kiss.

"Sherlock," I breathe out, slightly pushing him off of me, "darling, I am happy for you-for whatever reason it is that your so happy right now-but…I am so lost. Mycroft knew were alive? Did he always know and why didn't he tell John and me? And who was this Moran guy?"

"Elfie, trust me, all will be explained." Sherlock says, cupping my face in his hands, "Right now, though, let me just enjoy this moment with you. I have missed you so much, my darling and all that I want to do is give you my love right now. Will you allow me that honor, my darling? Please say that you will."

My cheeks turn a bright shade of pink and I run my hands up and down his chest: "Why don't you get dressed?" I ask, brushing aside his statement, "Seriously, your kind of…all out there."

"Oh, like you've never seen me naked before." Sherlock chuckles, leaning in for another kiss, "Besides, what would be the point?"

Our lips lock and we exchange a deeply passionate kiss. I close my eyes and quickly find myself back in Sherlock's arms. He hands are feverously rubbing up and down my back, under my shirt and fiddling to find my bra clasp. I begin to plant a row of kisses along his neck as he carries me down the hall to the bedroom, leaving a trail of my clothes along the way.

"Your earnest, Mr. Holmes." I breathe out when we reach the door.

"It's been three years, Mrs. Holmes," he replies, nuzzling his forehead against my own, "Earnest is putting it lightly." We laugh then head inside the bedroom to escalate our romance.

The world stops moving and time seems to freeze for us.

There is nothing else right now.

I am whole again because of one reason.

I am whole because of my Sherlock Holmes.

He's back.

My lovely readers,

Wow, wow, wow! Seriously, those reviews you guys, brought me to tears. Thank you so much for all the love and support and I cannot begin to show how much I deeply appreciate it. I do this for you guys and it always keeps me motivated when I receive such amazing responses. You all are amazing and, like I said, I can't thank you enough.

I have a few more chapters left for this and I'm excited for them. There's quiet a bit of reuniting to do :) Hopefully you guys will enjoy reading them. Xoxoxo

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

Much love and many thanks.