This is it! the final chapter!

I want to thank every single person who has read, reviewed, followed or Favorited my story, and the reception it has received had surpassed anything i ever hoped!

Enjoy!

"No, stop it! Stop it! John, get your…spawn to stop it!"

The aggravated cries of Sherlock filled Mary and John's apartment in the cool light of the wintry

morning. John chuckled and walked into the living room from the kitchen, mug in one hand and tea

in the other. Sherlock was draped across their sofa, broken leg propped up on a number of pillows, and much to his resentment Elizabeth was doodling on the cast, using a variety of different colours, the predominant being pink.

John laughed, "Spawn? And I thought you were getting fonder of her!"

"I was," Sherlock said through clenched teeth, "until she started drawing…butterflies on my cast!"

Elizabeth giggled at this, obviously enjoying the continued presence of her god-father in her house, and his portable drawing board.

"Well, I can't stop the development of my child, Sherlock, so you're just going to have to put up with it."

Sherlock growled, throwing his head back against the pillow resting on the couch arm. "Fine."

Elizabeth giggled up at him again, and John smiled at the pair. Sherlock had been living with the Watsons for a week now, and he seemed much brighter already. The wound on his side and his left arm aggravated him at times, but Sherlock's big problem was the large cast supporting his left leg.

"Are you sure you're ready to go today?" John asked Sherlock, bending down next to his daughter, making sure all the lids were safely secured on her felt tips, before the ink ran into the fabric of the sofa. Mary would not be happy if that were to happen.

"Of course I'm ready John; this is the hundredth time you've asked!"

"That's a little bit of an exaggeration." John said, rising again. "I've only asked three times."

Today was the day Sherlock was being called into identify the culprits of his almost murder. John was feeling tense about it, worrying that if he set his eyes on those bastards again, he would end up with cracked knuckles and then some.

Sherlock sniffed, picking up a random book from the table across from him, 'Beekeeping, the practical guide', and flicked it open.

"Oh, John?" Sherlock asked just as John was returning to the kitchen, "Have you seen my scarf? The striped one?"

John thought back, he hadn't seen it among the possessions taken from Sherlock's flat for his stay at his. "No, I haven't, sorry."

"Well I need it!" Sherlock demanded, "I cannot possibly go out in my other one: the silk has been ruined by the hospital washing powders!"

John sighed, placing the tea towel and the mug on the side table. "Can't you borrow one of mine?"

Sherlock turned to him, eyebrow raised.

"Fine, fine!" John acquiesced. "I'll phone Mycroft, get Anthea to go and get it…" he pulled out his phone, but was stopped by Sherlock before he could dial.

"I'm not having her going through my things!" Sherlock protested, John sighed again. Sherlock was being really tricky today.

"Right, okay, fine, I'll have to wait until Mary wakes up, though."

Sherlock frowned, "Why?"

"Because I'm not sure if I trust you with Lizzie while I'm gone."

Sherlock looked affronted, "I'm her god-father; you should." John paused, looking down and feeling thoroughly guilty. "And anyway," Sherlock continued, "did you forget that Mary invited Molly over for lunch? She'll be over here in twenty…three minutes, and going by the ratio of time Mary spent up with Elizabeth last night and the amount of sleep she has gained this morning, she should be awake in fifteen minutes." Sherlock stated. Elizabeth watched him, mouth open.

John let out a breathy laugh. "I see-"

"-And twenty eight seconds." Sherlock added, before turning to John and smiling slightly. "Please John?"
John laughed, "Yes, fine, I'll go." Sherlock nodded and turned back to his book. "Just…don't spill pen ink on the sofa, you two."

"I assure you that won't happen." Sherlock said absentmindedly, whilst Elizabeth just kept scribbling on Sherlock's cast.

"Right, see you later then." John said. Neither replied. John rolled his eyes and went to the front door.

The roads had been rather busy, meaning it took John longer to arrive at Baker Street that it normally would have. Mrs Hudson was absolutely delighted to see him, asking after Sherlock and promising to visit soon with more cake ("More for little Elizabeth than Sherlock, but I know you'll make sure he eats some anyway, John."), and John has suggested she return with him, just in time for lunch.

"Oh, I'd be delighted!" She cried, clapping her rubber gloved covered hands, soap bubbles bursting forth. "Just let me spruce up and I will be with you when you've gotten everything of Sherlock's."

John had climbed the seventeen stairs up to 221B whilst she'd hurried off to her own flat, and he closed the door quietly behind him. The flat was made up of the usual organised chaos, but the stillness in the air was unpleasant to John, it reminded him too much of the years when Sherlock had been "dead", and he shuddered slightly at the sight.

Taking a deep breath, John pushed those thoughts away and made his way to Sherlock's room at the back. It was as impeccable as he'd seen it on the various occasions he's been in there, normally when Sherlock had been injured and drugged, Irene Adler coming to the forefront of his mind. John took a moment just to look at it all, everything screamed 'Sherlock' to him, it even smelled slightly like the man, tobacco and posh shampoo, even if the scent was slightly diminished due to Sherlock's absence recently.

John took a deep breath, heading toward Sherlock's wardrobe. He pulled the doors open, searching around for his scarves, but only finding Sherlock's designed suits and another bell-staff. He closed the doors again, and embarked on wading through Sherlock's chest of drawers. He avoided the top right drawer, knowing that was where Sherlock kept his socks, and John was not going to risk messing up his sock index. John was fortunate that when he opened the top left draw he was greeted with the plethora of scarves, all in a different shade of blue. John peered around, searching for the striped one; it was stuffed right at the back, and John grabbed it along with a couple of others.

Just as he was about to slam the drawer shut, however, something caught his eye. There was something stuffed right at the back of the drawer, and John cautiously reached out, hoping it wasn't toxic in any way. He was surprised however when his hand grabbed onto a square corner, and as he pulled it out, it was revealed to him the object was a photograph. Frowning, John placed the scarves down on the top of the chest of drawers, and took as closer look at the photo. What he saw made his heart swoop and melt all at once. It was a very faded photo, but John could make out the image of a flame red dog sitting down next to a crouching child with tousled curls, piercing blue eyes and a genuine smile on his face. The photo wasn't posed, but rather taken at a moment when this young Sherlock Holmes was truly happy. John smiled at the photo, taken aback by the sudden evidence of Sherlock's childhood. He did not know much, Sherlock was not one to talk about his childhood and John had never been told about the dog in the photo, but it looked like it had made Sherlock genuinely happy.

John turned the photo over, looking for an inscription, and was rewarded with a small note written in handwriting that swooped and swept, not dissimilar to Sherlock's, which read:

'Sherlock and Redbeard, May 16th 1985'

Redbeard? John felt a nagging memory at the back of his mind, but he couldn't reach it no matter how hard he tried. He'd definitely heard that name before. Shaking his head in affection of Sherlock pushing his memories of childhood into the back of his scarf drawer, John replaced the photo, deciding he'd not mention his discovery of it at that time, Sherlock being more grouchy than usual. Making sure the photo was well hidden; John shut the drawer and, picking up the scarves, left the room.

"…and that was the first time I realised it's not just about the moment, but also the gratifica-"

Sherlock let out a groan of frustration, drawing his hands through his hair and over his face. Mary and Molly turned to him as he cut Molly off with his exclamation, Molly jumping and Mary raising an eyebrow. Elizabeth was down for a nap at the moment, and John had texted he would be longer than usual because of traffic, so now it was just Sherlock with Mary and Molly while the two females had…woman talk.

"Yes Sherlock?" Molly said tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, face visibly flushed. Oh, perhaps she had forgotten he was there?

Sherlock brought his hands down to his lap, "Do you have to talk about that…now?"

Molly straightened slightly, frowning slightly, "Am I making you uncomfortable?"

Sherlock stared for a moment before Mary and Molly both burst into giggles. Instantly he shot both of them a filthy glare and tried to turn on his side, away from them and facing the back of the couch, but his broken leg made the process difficult and the wound on his side pulled harshly, making him wince.

The door slammed suddenly, and John's voice could be heard calling "I'm home!"

'Thank god!' Sherlock thought, shuffling round into a more comfortable position.

"What are you laughing at?" John asked Mary and Molly as he came into the room. They both laughed harder at his question, and John just shook his head, bewildered.

"Here's your scarf." He threw the striped one at Sherlock, covering his face with it.

"Thank you," Sherlock muttered, drawing it away from his face and stuffing it in the pocket of his dressing gown.

"I brought someone with me…" John announced to the room, stepping back to let Mrs Hudson into the room, clutching a cake tin and smiling joyously at Sherlock, descending on him with a kiss to the cheek and a stroke of his hair.

"Oh, Sherlock!" She began, "It is lovely to see you looking so much more like your usual self. The flat really hasn't been the same without you…both of you, really." She turned to John, putting a hand on his arm.

John gave her an encouraging smile, "As soon as Sherlock's stronger he'll be back, and I promise to bring Elizabeth round more to visit."

Mrs Hudson gave a delighted cry, clutching the cake tin tighter. Internally, Sherlock was also delighted at the prospect of more visits from John.

"Well, we'd better get lunch cooking, then," Mary announced, getting up from her chair, "John, get everyone a cup of tea, will you?"

"Of course!" John said, placing the remaining scarves he held on the sofa next to Sherlock, who frowned and started folding them correctly. "Mrs Hudson, please take a seat."

Mrs Hudson sat herself across from Molly as John and Mary left for the kitchen, seating herself at a comfortable position for her hip and placing the cake tin down on the side table.

"So Molly, dear," Mrs Hudson began, "how is your love life going then?"

Sherlock stiffened before he turned and glared.

Lunch was a long and pleasant affair, and the only one slightly bored by it was Sherlock, who had always found it hard to sit still with nothing to occupy his mind apart from food and mindless chatter. Mary, with John's help, had made a delicious pasta meal, which everyone complimented her on. Even Elizabeth was allowed some, sat on Mary's lap and sharing from her fork.

After a while of chatter about Mrs Hudson's new cake recipe and Molly's discovery of cat clothing online, John coughed, tapping his fork lightly against the side of his glass. Everyone hushed down, and Sherlock shifted in his seat, broken leg making him feel like a clumsy elephant.

"Um, this won't take a moment," John began, standing up hesitantly before deciding not to and sitting back down again. Mary and Sherlock made eye contact and both of them frowned in confusion. "but um, I'd just like to say that it's been a difficult month or so, and um…well, I'm sure I'm correct in saying that we're all very glad that you, Sherlock…that you are back with us?" Mrs Hudson made a sound of agreement and Elizabeth gurgled happily in Mary's lap.

"And I'd just like to make a toast to celebrate," John continued, raising his glass, "so: to Sherlock."

"To Sherlock" everyone, sans Sherlock, called, lifting their glasses to the air.

"Sh-wock!" Elizabeth shouted, causing a round of laughter.

Sherlock stared and blinked for a moment, processing the even, before breaking out into a genuine smile.

The smell of leather filled John's nostrils as he and Sherlock, striped scarf around his neck, travelled through London in one of Mycroft's sleek black cars. The two had left the three women, and Elizabeth, munching on Mrs Hudson's cake as they had been greeted by one of Mycroft's chauffeurs and ushered in, Sherlock moving rather gracefully for someone on crutches.

Neither talked, lost in thought, as streets rushed past them as they ended up in some mysterious location, a black and grey building greeting them, along with…

"Mycroft, there was no need for you to come." Sherlock growled as he hopped out of the car, John handing him his crutches so he could pull himself up.

"Of course there was. You know how I worry so, brother mine." Mycroft replied, haughty as ever leaning upon his umbrella.

Sherlock opened his mouth to fire off a retort, but John stepped in front of him before he could. "Mycroft, if you will?"

Mycroft nodded, peering at John amused. "Of course, this way."

Mycroft led them inside and through the posh atrium filled with spiky pot plants and through many corridors that gradually became dimmer and darker. John suspected they were now underground. Finally they reached an unassuming black door guarded by a suited man with a wire in his ear. Mycroft nodded to him. "Bring them." He ordered. The man nodded and left, dishing out the orders over the wire. Mycroft turned to John and Sherlock. "Shall we?"

The room was meant for observation, and a window looked out into a room meant for a criminal line up. John and Sherlock would not come directly face to face with Sherlock's attackers, and John felt slightly at ease by this.

Sherlock slumped into a chair by the window, dropping his crutches to the floor. The detective looked flustered from their trip down into the depths of the building, not used to so much exercise after his period of time spent comatose. Mycroft peered down at his brother with an odd expression on his face, while John picked up the crutches from the floor and leant them against the wall.

"I'm sure you understand my precautions?" Mycroft asked, closing the door behind him. John nodded, and Sherlock just glared.

"I would have been perfectly alright." He muttered.

"Can you be sure of that?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock sighed, and turned back to the observation window.

Four men were being led to into the adjoining room, all wearing grey slacks and sordid expressions. David Cubitt was led in first, followed by the younger Straker and then the older Straker, and then finally Ethan Slaney was dragged in, lip curled up in disgust. John's hand curled into a fist unconsciously. All four men were lined up against the wall before being left alone.

Suddenly the door next to Mycroft opened and Lestrade stepped through, greeting them all in turn.

"Sherlock, I just need to you to clarify that these four men are responsible for your attempted murder, and incapacitation for me, and then this whole situation can be…dealt with." He finished with an uneasy glance at Mycroft, who smiled sinisterly.

Sherlock stood, uneasy on his feet, and John quickly handed him his crutches. Sherlock spent less than ten seconds staring at the men responsible for his near-death and coma, scrutinising them all though the glass. He spent the longest time staring at Slaney, who looked as if he knew Sherlock was there, a malicious smirk spreading across his face.

"Yes, that's them." Sherlock said bluntly, turning away from the window and hopping to the door without a second glance at his attackers, perhaps now at ease with the confirmation of the incarceration and failure, John thought. He himself certainly was, ready to leave this time in his life behind and head towards clearer skies.

"You know John; I believe this would make a promising blog post." Sherlock commented later, when they were in the car back to John and Mary's apartment.

"You think so?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded, "Although the case itself seems to be rather straightforward, there are certain elements that might seem…appealing."

John frowned, but he was good humoured, "You mean it revolves around you more than our cases usually do?" he asked.

Sherlock turned to him, nonplussed and frowning. "That's what people enjoy about them, isn't it? Me. You should call it 'The coma case' or something."

John laughed, "Perhaps." But no, he was not going to call it that, he was going to choose something suitably Romantic and ambiguous, something bound to make Sherlock sigh and roll his eyes.

Something like: 'The Personal Storm of John Watson' sounded suitable.

Storm? Yes, very suitable.

I hope the end wasn't too cheesy for you!

there you go, it is fini!

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HappyReading! TheBritishBourbon x