A/N: So sorry for the delay. I would've had this up sooner but my flashdrive took an unexpected leave-of-absence. Turned out it was in my purse pocket the whole time. Anyway, here's the conclusion to this adventure! The next chapter's still in progress, so it'll probably be a while until I've got it up-especially with college and such going on. Not to mention I've started working on a Lost/Supernatural crossover which is taking up some of the time I'd normally spend on this, hehe...

One more thing: I know when I started this I said it wouldn't have any smut in it, but I think I've changed my mind since. However, since I already promised, I think what I'm going to do is write two different versions. The PG-13 version will be posted here, and the explicit one will be posted on AO3. There isn't any smut in this chapter (and probably won't be for a while yet)-so if you're into that, you're not missing anything yet. I will let you know when any NC-17 material is coming up and will post a link to the fic on AO3 so you can check it out if you like.

In the meantime, enjoy! Reviews are love! :D

The Yellow Moon: Part Two – The Truth

A few minutes later, Sherlock, still in his blue bathrobe (John had insisted he change, but he'd adamantly refused), was programming the TARDIS to land just outside the shack where Brant had reportedly found the teleport. He didn't see any point in visiting her house, since he didn't imagine he could glean anything from it. As they rode the time vortex, Sherlock vanished in one of the back doors, reappearing a few minutes later with a pair of small black masks. "The atmosphere of Brant's planet contains more nitrogen than ours," said Sherlock, handing him one of the apparatuses. "You won't be able to breathe without one of these. It'll filter the air so that it's breathable." John, somewhat reluctantly, strapped on filter. He and Sherlock could speak clearly with them on, but they were still annoying to wear—of course, John much preferred the masks to suffocation…

When the time machine landed, John clambered after Sherlock out the door, which had shrunk a bit for the time being and swung outward like the side door of a cab. Glancing back at the machine, he saw that it had disguised itself as a parked hovercraft, floating serenely about a foot off the ground where it was tethered.

He took a look around. The planet itself was a very leafy one, covered in thick, lush green grass with a single dirt road running past the shack. Rolling hills were laid out in all directions while white clouds scudded across a lavender sky. Other than the color of the heavens, John would've equated the landscape with being in Scotland. There wasn't another house to be seen for miles around—nothing but fields and the occasional clump of trees.

Brant met them outside the shack, a quaint little building painted blue with white trim, peeling and slightly overgrown with weeds. One thing that struck John very suddenly now that he was seeing her in person was the fact that she wasn't wearing any clothes. He supposed it made sense, since she was covered in fur—clothes would seem uncomfortable and possibly even pointless to her species. He still couldn't help, however, the heat that crept up his face as he saw her. She wasn't bothered, though, and didn't seem to notice his discomfort. She didn't appear at all surprised by their oxygen masks, either. "It's in there," she said, rather unnecessarily, and Sherlock nodded curtly, heading for the door. Brant, at least, seemed to have let go of whatever ill feelings she'd felt towards Sherlock only moments ago. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed incapable of hiding the obvious look of boredom on his pale face as he stepped inside the shack. Both John and Brant followed wordlessly.

Sherlock stood still for a moment, regarding the teleportation device. To John, it looked like an empty doorframe made of polished metal with a few glowing buttons in the right-hand side. The entire structure, shiny and brand new, seemed to stand out in strong contrast with the old, wooden, slightly damp interior of the shed. The Time Lord stepped through it experimentally, but nothing happened—it was, for now, nothing more than a simple frame.

He bent, examining, to John's surprise, the area surrounding the teleport first, pulling out his sonic device and extending the eyeglass so as to see it better. "Was last night the only time you came here?" he asked, without looking up from the ground.

"Yes," answered Brant.

He straightened, but kept the magnifying glass in his hand. "And you didn't notice anything in the shed besides the teleport?"

In answer, she shook her head. Sherlock resumed his inspection without further remark, this time examining the bottom edge of the frame. John was proud of himself that he could actually guess what the detective was doing there: probably checking the ground for traces of anything Effie had tracked back with her. Whatever he found, however, John couldn't tell if it matched up with his theory or not, because he still said nothing. Keeping his silence, he moved on to the buttons on the side of the teleport and examined them carefully. John and Brant moved closer, curious.

"The two's hardly used, so obviously not her birthday," he muttered. He glanced at Brant, giving her a skeptical once-over. "Not yours, either." He turned back to the number pad, thinking. "What was the date that you two met?" he asked finally, after a minute or so.

The question seemed to take Brant by surprise, but she answered, "The fourteenth of March three years ago. I remembered the date because I had to write it down a lot on her paperwork."

Sherlock gave a little satisfied noise and punched in 140341. There was a soft beep and, suddenly, the air inside the frame seemed to be shimmering like haze over hot asphalt. John caught the distinct whiff of sulfur and tried not to wrinkle his nose.

Sherlock caught John's eye, and there was a gleeful sparkle there that John hadn't seen brighten his eye since the case of the spotted band. John couldn't see the Time Lord's mouth through the filter, but it was obvious that he was grinning. "Once more unto the breach," he said, and plunged forward, vanishing with a ripple of light into the shining curtain of the doorway. John, recognizing the reference, shook his head with a smile and followed after. Brant was not far behind.

The first thing John became aware of as he passed through the teleport (with a feeling as though he had stepped under a cold sheet of water), was the color of mustard yellow, swirling around them in great clouds so thick that all they could see of each other were vague silhouettes. The next thing John became conscious of was the fact that all breathable air seemed to have disappeared, replaced with the smell of rotten eggs. Even with the filter, his first breath filled his lungs with sulfur and he started coughing and choking, gasping for oxygen that wasn't there. Judging by the other two sounds of hacking and spluttering, both Sherlock and Brant were also having trouble breathing.

John felt a strong hand closing around his forearm and recognized it as Sherlock's as the detective, unable to speak, tried to steer him back to the teleport. They were having extreme difficulty focusing on movement, however, with their lungs burning, poisoned with each breath.

Then, suddenly, through the fog, a sharp voice barked in a rather muffled tone of voice somewhere between anger and panic, "What are you doing here?! You—oh, for God's sake—"

Sherlock's grip on John loosened a bit but didn't cease as he felt himself jostled in a different direction. He was shoved through a doorway and, after hearing the door close behind him and a long, loud hiss, he suddenly found the air breathable again. Having collapsed after being pushed, John simply lay on the floor for some time, gulping down huge breaths of air through his filter and trying to rid his mouth of the taste of rotten eggs. Sherlock was lying beside him, his face flushed and his eyes half-lidded as he, too, replenished his supply of oxygen. His hand, John noticed, was still closed almost protectively around John's arm.

When his head finally started to clear, John got a better look around at where he was. It appeared to be some kind of airlock chamber, the door through which they had just entered being constructed of heavy metal plates. Through glass panels he could see the roiling clouds of sulfuric air pressing in vain against the walls of wherever they were. A second metal door led somewhere else completely.

Standing next to them and just unstrapping an oxygen tank and mask was someone who looked very similar to Brant. She had the same furry, wolfish features, complete with the broad ears and the snout-like mouth, though her fur was colored dark brown instead of gray, and her eyes were blue. There was something meek and timid in the general appearance of her features, though at the moment they were set in a scowl as she regarded the three of them. And—was that fear as she laid eyes on Brant?

"What are you doing here?" she repeated in a slightly tremulous tone, though this time her voice was directed specifically at Brant as opposed to the general vicinity. "And who are they?" She gestured towards Sherlock and John.

John looked over at Brant, who had sat up and was looking at the stranger with a look of strained affection. "I'm sorry, Effie," she said. "I had to…"

Sherlock cleared his throat, drawing Effie's attention. "I'm Sherlock Holmes," he said, still rather out of breath, "and this is my friend, John Watson. I'm a consulting detective."

"Consulting…?" Comprehension dawned on her face, and she definitely looked frightened now as she turned back to Brant. "Why did you follow me?" she asked in a pained whisper.

"Because," said Brant, rising to her feet, "I couldn't take it anymore. I was afraid—our marriage—I thought I was losing you…"

Effie was shaking her head, her eyes welling with tears. Sherlock looked bored, but thankfully, he said nothing.

Brant's demeanor changed, becoming slightly harder and colder. "What's beyond that door, Effie?" she asked quietly, nodding her head towards the other door, which led inside the building. "What have you been keeping from me?"

"Don't." Effie was crying now, the tears spilling over her cheeks as she moved backwards, blocking the door. "Don't, please… don't…" But Brant had stepped around her and was reaching for the door. Sherlock stood, as well, with John after; as bad as he felt for Effie, he was just as curious as Brant to see what lay behind that door.

She turned the wheel in the center of the metal-plated door which, after a second hiss, swung inward. Inside was what appeared to be a bunker of some sort which had been made to feel as homely as possible. It was a single large room with picture frames hung up all across the walls, depicting everything from Van Gogh's "Starry Night" to a snapshot of Brant and Effie laughing and hugging each other. Rugs of all sorts of shapes and sizes—probably picked at random from donation centers or even from trash bins, judging by how ratty a few of them were—were laid out flat across the cement floor. The place didn't appear to have any windows, but there were drapes over the walls where there were no picture frames. A small bed sat in one of the far corners, the blankets rumpled; a section was blocked off from their view in the other far corner, presumably a bathroom; and in one of the near corners, as John saw when he looked to his left, was a simple table with two chairs. And sitting in one of these chairs, just looking up from a book lying open on the table, was a child.

It was the strangest-looking child John had ever seen, and he had seen quite a lot as of late. For the most part, it looked to be the same species as both Brant and Effie, though with yellow eyes and raven-black fur. It had the same canine features, the same ears, the same snout—however, the fur over its shoulders melded blotchily into feathers, and a pair of small fluffy bird's wings sprouted from its back. Like a recently-hatched bird, they had the same scruffy, half-molted appearance of flightless appendages that would soon grow into a strong pair of wings. Its feet, too, rather than being the thick digitigrade paws of Effie and Brant, were thin and somewhat scaly, like the bare, clawed feet of a bird. They were swinging backward and forward with the idleness of a naïve toddler.

Both Brant and Sherlock were staring, dumbstruck, at the child, their expressions unfathomable. Effie, meanwhile, had slipped in behind the three of them, and now crossed with tearful eyes to the half-wolf, half-bird youngling. Stroking the fur on the back of its neck in a protective manner, she explained in a shaky voice, "He's my half-brother. My aunt was taking care of him, but she passed away, so…"

Brant's gaze slid from the boy to Effie, but she said nothing, that same expression still on her face.

"I told you my mother slept around a lot," Effie continued, and now the words seemed to be tumbling from her mouth. "She slept with a Varen, the very same that led the group that killed your parents, and she… She had him." She ruffled the fur between her half-brother's ears, and he giggled, a little ring of pointed white teeth showing. "It was only a year or two before I met you, and when I did meet you, I didn't worry about it because he was staying with my aunt, and… I know I should've told you, but I didn't—I wasn't sure what you'd say, how you'd…"

She trailed off. Brant had stepped away from the doorframe and was heading toward them. She stooped, scooped up the little boy in her arms, and lifted him up, kissing him softly on the forehead. He wrapped his arms happily about her neck, resting his chin in the crook of her neck. More tears spilled down Effie's face, but this time they were tears of joy.

-x-

A few minutes later, Effie had instructed them to hold their breaths and had led all of them back through the yellow mists to the teleport, through which they'd stepped and found themselves back on Brant's and Effie's home planet. Effie explained to Brant that her half-brother was residing on the sulfuric moon because it was the cheapest plot of habitable land she could find. As they stepped through the portal, John noticed that she dropped a bag by the door which contained the oxygen mask and tank she'd been wearing when she first found them. Sherlock seemed incapable of speaking as he headed back to the TARDIS, so John bade them farewell instead and followed quickly after his flatmate, leaving the happy couple and the boy to their new lives.

As soon as John had closed the door of the hovercraft-TARDIS behind him, he heard Sherlock say in a low, somewhat shocked tone, "I was wrong."

John was caught somewhere between exasperation and surprise. Obviously the Time Lord had been wrong, but he hadn't expected him to admit it forthright like that. "Yeah, well," he said, pulling off the oxygen filter and following his flatmate up to the console where he stopped uncertainly, "you're only—" He broke off, about to say, "you're only human." He amended, "It happens to the best of us."

Sherlock snorted. "Not me," he said, and whatever surprise John still felt at that point gave way to half-amused frustration. "Still…" He hesitated, glancing back at John, who could see that the detective had been deeply touched by what he'd just witnessed. It was almost unsettling to see such humanity in those normally mechanical eyes. "If ever I'm reluctant to take up a case again," he said, slowly, "just remind me of this one."

John nodded. Sherlock, apparently satisfied by this response, turned back to the TARDIS controls and began to program them for 221b. "That reminds me," he said, and John could tell without looking at him that he was back to his same old self, "I've been meaning to experiment with strongly sulfuric atmospheres and their effects on human respiratory systems…"

"No," said John flatly as the TARDIS took off. He grinned in spite of himself and, once Sherlock had punched in the coordinates for home, heaved down the lever that would launch them into the time vortex.