Author's Note: Alright Folks. This is it. This is it. I am done. DONE you hear me? No more that's it. I'm through. ... Well... Okay, so you get an epilogue... and then 2pi, for my Mystrade Folks... Ok. OKAY! You win. Quit with the puppy dog eyes, stop with the crocodile tears. You get a . another sequel. Sorry. It ain't over folks, but this time? ...Well...it'll be explained shortly.

SHSHSHSHSHSH

John woke up slowly, a soft buzzing drawing him to consciousness. He groaned, rolling over and fumbling for his phone which had fallen to the floor. He gripped it and and braced one hand against the floor as he squinted at the screen.

Three Missed Calls: Unknown Number

He groaned as the phone began ringing once more. He fumbled with the touchscreen until he had managed to successfully answer the call.

His first word came out more as a jumbled grunt than anything resembling words. His second attempt was still rough, but understandable.

"Hullo?"

"Mr. Watshon? Mr. Watshon are you there?"

John squinted and glanced around, trying to place the voice across the line. His eyes widened in realization.

"What is it? What's wrong."

The sound of sniffling crossed the line. "Mishesh Arron kicked me out."

The former doctor ruffled his hair and swung his feet over the edge of the bed, glancing back at Sherlock, who was still sound asleep, curled in the blankets.

"Do Ya need me to come getcha again?"

There was a shuffling sound. "Nah, I know how to you. I've been there enough."

John chuckled and glanced at the clock.

"It's nearly four AM, what did you do to get kicked out this early."

Sherlock groaned in beside him, sitting up and squinting at him "Who's on the line?"

John simply held up a finger, asking the detective to wait.

"Shot the sculpture in my room with a potato gun and broke it. Mishesh Arron washn't happy." John stood and moved to the bathroom, quietly sleaning himself up in the mirror, while Sherlock sat on the bed, disoriented and confused. The former doctor squinted into the mirror.

"Why are you lisping?"

A disconcerting pause. "Her hushband was upset too."

John felt his face flush red with anger and slammed his hand down on the counter hard, rattling the bottles there.

SHerlock stood and leaned inside the doorway, his brow furrowed in concern at the sudden rage that had consumed his blogger's features. "John."

"What are your injuries."

There was another sniffle across the line. Broken nose then.

"Enough to warrant my coming to you shir. Look, I'm a few blocksh away. You can deal with it."

John sighed and nodded. "Key's where it has always been."

The call ended and John turned, only to be faced with a bewildered and frankly heartbroken looking Sherlock Holmes.

The former doctor stepped forward and placed a hand on his detective's arm. "Sherlock? What is it?"

Sherlock shook his head and sucked in his bottom lip in an attempt to keep his composure. "Who was it?"

John squinted, lost himself. "What?"

Sherlock's voice cracked as he spoke . "Who was it on the line?"

The former doctor sighed and stepped around the detective, keeping eye contact.

"Hamish."