A/N: One last big thanks for everyone who's checked out this story – even if you disagreed or didn't like things. I know it's not even close to canon, that's not why I wrote it. I have had a lot of fun doing this. This has been an amazing experience for me.

Epilogue

The air was flavoured with the taste of autumn, the coming of winter was hinted at in the frost that had been on the grass that morning. The maples, birches, and oaks were bold with scarlet, yellow, orange and brown. Mixed in were the greens and blue greens of the conifers. The sun had been up for an hour and the light was clear and golden. The sky was that perfect shade of blue that comes from the changing of the seasons. It was going to be a truly beautiful day. Autumn had always been her favourite time of year and it was glorious to spend it in cottage country surrounded by nature rather than in an overheated and congested city.

The Muskokas are approximately 2 hours north of Toronto. It's proximity to Toronto, Canada's largest city, causes the year round population to treble in the summer months. People owned property there or rented cottages in order to escape the confines of city living. It was simply more crowded in June, July and August. There was still ways around not seeing people if you didn't want to. And she didn't want to.

Mary had returned from London two weeks after John and Sherlock had left to do battle against the remains of Moriarty's slowly tattering web. She spent the beginning of May sorting through personal and business affairs. She had effectively closed down her private work before going to England. When she returned she notified former and future clients that she was no longer in that line of work. She really didn't know what she was going to do, but she had enough excitement for now, at least until she worked through her personal demons. She contacted her client who owed her a favour and was able to have the use of her private cottage for as long as she wished. The client never used it. She considered it a business investment. When Mary finally saw the small but beautiful cottage on the small but beautiful lake, she wondered what was wrong with the woman. It was an ideal location to lose oneself for an extended period. But maybe her client didn't have personal demons.

Looking at the tranquility of the lake in the early morning light, she was able to appreciate that she should be feeling more at peace. But it was getting more difficult the longer she stayed and the longer she waited. It was true that some tranquility came during the day, but at night when she woke screaming from dreams of Moran and wondering why she hadn't killed the bastard when she had the chance, anything she had achieved during the day seeped out to be replaced by fear and doubt. She and Sherlock were the only ones who knew the real reason why she hadn't killed him.

It had come from a conversation they had had, ironically, before Moran's capture and torture of her. Sherlock had deduced that she was gradually destroying herself with each and every kill, especially after discovering the whole twisted plot of Moran's. She wasn't sure that the last few assassinations she had done under the orders of what she had thought were legitimacy were what they were suppose to be. She may have unwittingly killed innocents under the guise of supposedly preserving the world. She didn't know. She didn't think she ever wanted to know. She had not killed anyone after that for five years. Not until the night in the alley when she had killed three men to save John Watson. They didn't bother her so much. She figured that in the tally she kept in her head of right and wrong, killing them was right. No, she didn't lose sleep over them. She lost sleep wondering if it would have been better to kill Moran even if it had destroyed her. Then at least others would be safe. She didn't dream about Moran hunting her. He came in the night hunting those she cared about. It was John's lifeless body that woke her in the night. That and the fact that John was out in the world and she had almost no confirmation that he was still alive.

Before she left Toronto, she had, with some trepidation, informed Mycroft of her location, with the stipulation that he was taking his life in his hands should he or one of his underlings visit her. She had done so in the hopes that if he had any information regarding the whereabouts of John and Sherlock, he'd send it to her. She hadn't had much hope that he'd tell her anything, knowing that secrecy of their work was essential. Interestingly enough she hadn't received anything from Mycroft. She had received unsigned and unwritten postcards from various locations around the world, one about every two or three weeks. She had a total of five in all. She knew it was John's way of letting her know he was still alive. The fact that there were so few let her know that they were moving constantly and he barely had time to send them. She had no doubt they had been to many other places other than the five held on her fridge with various kitschy magnets she'd picked up at the local tourist shop. It had been over six weeks since the last one and as September came to an end and October was beginning in a week, she didn't think she was going to receive anymore.

This morning she had managed to drag herself out of bed after another horrible night. She had dressed and made a mug of tea and went to sit at the end of the small dock that came with the property. She slipped off her shoes and rolled up her jeans and put her feet in the water. The water was frigid and much colder than she would have swum in, but having been raised by the ocean when the weather's nice you at least put your feet in. She leaned back on her arms and tilted her face to the sun, the early rays warming her skin. She ignored her cooling mug, lost deep in thought.

It was then that she heard footsteps approaching on the gravel path leading down to the dock. She momentarily wondered who would be visiting her, when she really took in the sound of the tread and the pace. They sounded weary. Her heart, which had been curled tightly into her chest, skipped a beat, but she didn't want to get her hopes up. She did not open her eyes until she heard the sound of a canvas bag hitting the other end of the deck. She didn't stand until she heard the footsteps continue on the wooden boards and she didn't turn around until she heard him say,

"Sorry to keep you waiting."

He stood there with the sun playing on his hair, which had more grey in it than before. There were more lines on his face and he had lost weight. His beard had grown in and the overall effect made him look older and far more serious. The beard, she thought, was definitely going to go.

She walked up to him and looked into his eyes. Although the warmth and kindness that were at the root of John Watson's soul were still present, there were definitely more shadows in them. That's all right I can live with shadows. I have mine own you see. Neither said anything for a whole minute, they just stood looking at each other.

"You're hair's longer," he said brushing it out of her eyes.

"I was thinking the same of yours," she said with a soft smile, reaching up to mirror his movements.

They paused.

'Where's Sherlock?" she asked.

"He stayed up at the house. I don't think he wanted to be anywhere near here in case it got …"

"Emotional?" this time her grin was wicked, as she eased back into being herself.

"Yes, I think that would be accurate," he said grinning back. Then he turned serious again. "I missed you. I didn't know that I would. But I missed you every day."

"Me, too," she said.

She wrapped her arms around him and he did the same leaning his head against her. He stroked her back.

Then she asked the question she had been wondering about since seeing him standing there.

"Is it over?"

He breathed into her hair.

And he answered her truthfully.

"For now."

They stood there like that for a while and then walked back up to the cottage, where Sherlock was waiting.