A/N: Well here you go – the last chapter;) It may not be what you expected but this is where I was going & I planned this from the beginning;) I was very excited o write this chapter.

Thanks again to mattsloved1 & johnsarmylady – I couldn't do it without you!

9. Full Circle

Dear Mrs. Hudson,

By the time you read this….

Isn't that how these letters are supposed to start? 'By the time you read this, the murderer will be revealed. By the time you read this, you will realise the truth. By the time you read this, I will be dead.'

All of these are true, to some extent or another. I am sorry if the last one shocks you and I do not wish for you to be distressed by any of this.

It was always inevitable.

Mycroft has promised he will inform you of the sequence of events leading up to my last night as Sherlock Holmes. If all goes well, I will no longer be the same person I was. If it doesn't, there are worse things. Either way, it is my wish and my hope that I am with John.

John

I did not have the courage to tell you about John.

I only hope that Mycroft has the subtlety to make you believe that in the end I was happy.

Of course, this is Mycroft we are talking about, but perhaps he does.

If not, know that I have at last found the one person without whom I could not live. There is something about him for which I yearn. I am not complete or whole without him. Therefore, it is logical that I strive to discover a way to both free him from his horrid existence and be with him. If you believe in souls, which I do not, then you would say we are two halves of the same soul.

It is that simple.

Please take comfort in knowing that in the end...in the end it was of my free choice. Even though, really, there was no other possible course of action.

Ah, sentiment. You will love the idea that I am as sentimental as any fool who fell in love.

Yours,

Sherlock Holmes

For about the hundredth time, Mrs. Hudson read the last letter from the wayward son of her heart. It was rapidly becoming worn. It had that smooth, polished feel to it and there were no longer any discernible creases from the original folds.

He had asked in the letter that she take comfort in his last act. She wasn't entirely sure she could or forgive him, either.

She did not know all of the details, but Mycroft had come to her and explained what he felt he could, revealing the issue with John's unusual imprisonment. He told her some of his involvement, but not everything. There was a promise of sorts to tell her the full story, someday. He had said it was a secret and a mystery, and she could not divulge any of the details to anyone.

He had not threatened her. He did not have to. What he had told her was beyond imagination, and no one would have believed her. She couldn't do that to Sherlock.

Everyone assumed he had died in a house fire while away recuperating. There were two bodies pulled out the fire. Most knew the first was that of Ms. Harriet Watson. What few knew was that the second body was of her long-time partner Ms. Clara Brown. Few also knew how long a time it was that they had been partners. Mrs. Hudson knew. She also knew there were specific reasons for Mycroft to wish for it to be covered up. He had arranged things so the villagers understood that Ms. Brown had been taken away to an undisclosed retirement home before anyone could speak to her. Mrs. Hudson asked why it couldn't be known that she was killed in the fire, too. Mycroft wouldn't say. He also wouldn't say why there was not a third body.

In the dark hours of the night when she couldn't sleep for thinking about Sherlock, she knew what information Mycroft had shared about John Watson and Sherlock's experiences with him, to be true. For her piece of mind and the desire for Sherlock to have at last found happiness, she must believe it.

Today was the three-month anniversary of his death. For some reason, for those who have experienced loss, the third month is, in some ways, harder to live through than the actual event.

It was true for her. At Sherlock's funeral, she had been mostly numb or in 'helping' mode. Today, she had been weeping silently, slow tears trickling down her face, making her chin and neck soggy. She'd catch the odd one in a handkerchief. She had thought about using a tissue, but yes, sentiment. In her mind, the idea of catching and keeping her tears in a fine lace handkerchief and then placing it in a box with the last of his letters was a lovely and romantic idea.

And it would have surely made him roll his eyes at her silliness.

She chuckled quietly thinking about his reaction. She'd do it just to spite him. Stupid bugger, getting himself killed.

And yet…

There was something in the wording of the letter that made her heart tighten with faint hope. There was something in the way Mycroft spoke about his brother as if he believed him to be not dead.

With a heavy sigh, she stood up from the sofa. This will never do, Martha. You need to pull yourself together and stop this pointless moping. She gave herself a shake and moved to the kitchen to put on the kettle. Tea was the answer for everything.

As she reached the threshold, the doorbell rang. She sighed. She hoped it wasn't Mrs. Turner, coming to check on her again. She wasn't in the mood for company today. She wanted to mourn in private.

Opening the door, she sighed internally.

"Mycroft," she greeted him, trying not to show her annoyance. He was after all a closer relation to Sherlock than she had been and he must be grieving too.

If he could.

She doubted he loved him as well.

Inviting him in, he hung his great coat on the pegs by the door and followed her into her flat whilst she continued to the kitchen and put on the kettle. She pulled out the biscuit tin and arranged a few on a plate. Water boiled and poured, she carried the tray into the sitting room.

Mycroft was almost relaxed looking. He was carrying with him a small package, wrapped and strangely there was a smile on his face.

"Mrs. Hudson, I have news."

"About?"

"Sherlock, of course."

"Mycroft, that isn't funny."

"My dear woman, I am not trying to be." Ignoring the package resting on his lap, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cloth bundle. He carefully opened it. Lying on the cloth was an old and yellowed envelope. It was thick with the weight of a letter. He pulled out a pair of gloves from his other pocket and handed them to her.

"I should not have brought this to you. It should be read in an environmentally controlled location, but I felt it important you have a chance to read it in the privacy of your home, the home you shared with my brother."

She tried to breathe through the lump in her throat. Holding out her hand, Mycroft put the gloves in them. Once they were on, she was given the letter. If this was more sad news, she did not want to weep anymore in front of Mycroft.

Noting there was nothing on the front of the envelope, she opened the letter. A sharp pain went through her as she recognised the handwriting. She gasped aloud as she took in the date at the top of the letter. The location of where it had been written almost made her head swim.

It was not possible.

And yet it was not the strangest thing she had heard of in this whole strange story.

January 29th, 1895

221B Baker Street

London

My Dear Mrs. Hudson,

I can well imagine the look of shock upon your face. I can imagine it because at times I felt the same look upon my own and seen it reflected upon John's.

I do not quite know where to begin, and I can hear your laughter at the idea that I might be at a loss for words.

I guess I could start with the beginning of my new life. That happened moments after the fire started in the cottage. Some of those particular details, I have written a similar letter to Mycroft. I have made certain arrangements that you will both receive your letters. I have planned as best I could, knowing what I know about the wars and the destruction of London in what was once my past and is now my future. Hopefully, you both receive them. If not, perhaps someday a curious historian will come across them, and believe these to be the fictional musings of a novice writer of science fiction.

However, I have great hope in my ability for this to reach you.

First of all, I am going to assume that Mycroft told you some of the things that transpired and led to me discovering John Watson's existence and to the fire in the cottage. You will have, no doubt, been told I disappeared or perhaps that I died. I had believed that something would happen, to John and me. Mycroft had hinted that there would be some sort of sacrifice involved. He could not tell me all of the details. He said it might affect the outcome. I assume some story was concocted because I am no longer in that time period, and neither is my body.

A fire started in the cottage. A fire, which I assume, went unchecked and continued to consume the cottage. I have no way of knowing if this is true and am only inferring from the facts at hand, which, for me is completely ridiculous. I have said in the past never to deduce without all of the facts, yet here I am. What I know to be true is that a fire started in the sitting room because Ms. Watson tried to remove the ingredients I had thrown in. Instead, it caused a burning log to roll out, igniting the hearthrug. Moments after the fire started, there was a great deal more light than there should have been and also an odd humming. My skin began to tingle. I thought it might be a lack of oxygen and the increase of heat. I kissed John goodbye, believing we too would be killed when something happened. Looking back, we suspect it was a combination of the magic present in the room. Everything that Harriet had prepared, plus the things I threw in the fire. Perhaps in her dying, it unleashed all of the energy of an ancient, magical creature. John likes to think the kiss might have something to do with it, a declaration of love, perhaps. Despite the fact I have had to become used to the idea of magic, I refuse to think the same of the power of a kiss. He is dreadfully sentimental.

I love him beyond all my hopes. Yes, I know. Hurray for me.

After all of the chaos, we discovered ourselves to be lying in a field. The sun was shining brightly, and we could hear bird song and the air fresh and clean. The best thing is that John was whole and fully back on this plane of existence. The sound of joy and delight in his laughter made the whole experience worthwhile.

It wasn't long until we discovered that things were far stranger than we originally thought. The repercussion of the interruption of magic had transported us back in time. We were in the same location, but before the house was built. We believe to be in between times of Harriet's workings. I cannot prove any of this, but I suppose we landed when Harriet was not in England. Perhaps we cannot be near each other or near when a working is happening. I suspect because we were related and each contain some trace DNA of her blood, as thin as it would be after all of these centuries, it may have affected the working and cushioned us or acted as a catalyst. We will never truly know.

Either way, we needed to find our way in a world of which we had no knowledge. John was slightly more prepared than I was as he was born closer to this age. I will admit that I did not realize at first how taxing it was to my mind to be transported out of the modern era where I was comfortable. Be that as it may we have learned to adapt.

I will not go into all details of our adventures. I am hoping that our present to you also survived, and you can read about them for yourself. Mycroft has instruction regarding that, so look to him for clarification.

After a time of trial and frustration, I remembered my father telling me of an eccentric relative who lived not far from where we were presently located. I had hopes of going there and convincing him, somehow, that I was indeed a long lost relative, more lost than he would know.

We did indeed find him. His name is/was Sherrinford Holmes and once we gained admittance, and he heard our tale, we were able to convince him of our honesty. He was greatly intrigued. Like me, he was a student of science, or for what passed as science in this day and age (it is very odd to write of the past as the past when I am now part of it – excuse my mixing of tenses). It helped that I had certain items with me I gave to him to study. Those convinced him more than my words.

In the end, he assisted us, and we located to London. The best and sweetest surprise was when we found accommodations in the very building I lived in, in the future. After settling ourselves and engaging a housekeeper (not nearly as dear to me as my former landlady), I contacted the Yard. Imagine their surprise to find one such as me who was able to show them certain techniques to use to solve crimes. The hardest part has been not to muddy the future by introducing ideas and concepts that would not be available and not be believed. I have had to do a lot of reading to check my facts and ideas. The man I work for, Inspector Gregson is not nearly as bright as Lestrade, but he is a good man and is willing to let me help in some of the more sordid cases. John has discovered he thoroughly enjoys chronicling our cases, and although he puts too much action in them and not enough science and fact, they have a certain appeal. He is not at this time interested in publishing his stories, for which I am grateful, but he derives a certain pleasure for his amusement.

In the end, it doesn't matter. John and I are together. We are careful, but as ever, few are observant, and most think us to be two confirmed bachelors living together. One of the most interesting aspects of this time period, which John greatly appreciates, is that it is perfectly acceptable for two gentlemen to walk arm in arm in public. We believe this will change around the time of The Spanish Flu Pandemic of 1918 when the public becomes more concerned with spreading the sickness through touch. He says he remembers hearing that even handshakes were frowned upon for a time. Please don't worry about us, for there has been an interesting and fairly useful aspect to all of this. Neither John nor I appear capable of getting sick. Not so much as a cold and any ill effect from chasing criminals appears to heal fairly quickly. We also believe our aging has slowed; upon which I am sure Mycroft would love to get his hands. We assume it is because of what happened to us.

I cannot say for certain how long lived we will be, but rest assured we will be together for long enough. In fact, we will soon have to lose these identities and become different people, before others begin to suspect that we are not maturing as rapidly as we should. John has it in his head that we should explore the world before it changes too much. I think we may move to North America for a time. We shall see. I indulge him in many things and him, me.

And now I must come to the end of my letter. John has called me three times to come and eat. Tedious. I must heed him however for he is, as ever, my conscience, my guardian, my love.

Let me leave you with the comfort and knowledge that I am indeed a very happy and contented man. You may wonder at my almost gushing testimonies of love for this man, but my dear Mrs. Hudson, after all I have seen and done, all we have been through, I am a changed man and not so afraid of expressing my feelings.

Yours,

Sherlock Holmes.

As she came to the end of the letter, she discovered fresh tears upon her cheeks, but they were no longer of sorrow. She was enormously happy thinking about her boy together with the man of his choosing, living a totally different existence. Mycroft pretended to be interested in another biscuit whilst she controlled her feelings.

He cleared his throat. "The letters were discovered, hidden in a wall of the old family estate. It had been sold to a historical society, but in doing some renovations, a box was discovered addressed to me. There was, as I am sure you read, a letter for me with further explanations as well as the location of certain artifacts I might find useful. A legacy of sorts from my baby brother."

Mrs. Hudson suspected there was more depth of feeling to Mycroft than most would know. His eyes had a distinct watery look.

"There was also a package addressed to me which contained all of the journals John had written in, detailing their life together." He cleared his throat again, this time he blushed. "Some of it quite explicit and if it had fallen into the wrong hands, it might have proven difficult for them to continue as they had been. However, they both took great pains to hide their relationship and to move about. They returned to the estate several years before moving permanently to North America where they left this package. In it were instructions to have it published if I saw fit. Sherlock said it would prove to be an interesting series of stories about a great Victorian detective and his partner. Because he lived in this time period, he knew two men living together would not be seen as immoral or illegal and that some would be amused by the idea of their relationship. A forward thinking story perhaps. I have chosen to have it published as having been written by a modern author. I have certain connections that have been able to rush the first printing, for me to bring you your very own copy."

He handed her the other parcel. She unwrapped it to discover a brand new published book entitled, The Adventures Of Sherlock Holes by Arthur Conan Doyle.

"The name is one of John's choosing. He thought it sounded grand." Mycroft smirked. "Sherlock also directed me to say that a part of the royalties will go to you, should it become successful."

She opened the book, the lump in her throat growing. She looked back at Mycroft.

"Why Mycroft, why him? Why did you let this happen?"

Mycroft stood, looking down at his shoes, speaking to them, as it was far easier than addressing Mrs. Hudson.

"Several years ago, I passed a well-dressed man on the street. I had by this time already met John Watson and had begun to think about how horrible his existence must have been. I was in my teens and learning that the world is full of tragedy and sorrow, most of which I could do nothing about. The man bowed to me and winked as he walked by. He said to me in a voice that sometimes haunts my dreams. 'It would greatly improve your appearance if you would stop eating so many cakes and biscuits.' I turned in a huff to say something I am sure would have been a deeply cutting remark, when he added, 'John Watson says thank you for your assistance, and I thank you for giving me the courage to free him.' I was rather stunned, and I did not call after him. I had told no one about John. I have never forgotten that conversation as I have never forgotten John Watson's plight.'"

He paused and looked toward Mrs. Hudson. "It was years later that I realized it was Sherlock. He is still alive, I believe, and perhaps, someday we will meet again. I had to help him and set his feet upon this journey because you see, I already had."

"Was it difficult? Letting him go?"

"The most difficult thing I have ever done. Perhaps someday I will tell you the whole of it. I will tell you of the study and work I had to do to track down the truth and find out what I needed to do to free him and defeat the last of a magical race. I have a certain amount of sorrow for that. Perhaps then you can forgive me. Perhaps I can forgive myself." He turned and left.

Mrs. Hudson patted the book on her lap. She would read it, soon, perhaps. When she did not miss Sherlock so much. Knowing he was out there, knowing he was happy helped a great deal, but did not lessen the missing.

Standing to put away the tea things, she glanced up at the ceiling. Imagine Sherlock had lived here all those years ago with his John. It was almost like it was meant to be.

If she listened carefully, she could almost hear them clattering down the stairs, off to hunt down the criminals of Victorian London, Sherlock crying out, 'Hurry John, he's getting away!' Or something less frantic, like 'Dust, dust is eloquent.' On the very edge were the strains of a violin and the murmurs of words spoken in love as good nights were said and kisses exchanged.

With a nod of her head and a lighter heart, she marched into the kitchen, with the hope that someday another knock would occur upon the door and standing on the other side would be two men, one tall and lanky, perhaps with silver in his hair and a knowing smirk on his face. Another shorter man would be standing beside him; a shorter, slightly portly man. Perhaps he walked with a cane and a stiff gait. He would have a merry of face and a matching twinkle of trouble in his eye. He would say, "I have heard a great deal about you."

Perhaps someday.