Author's Note: What's funny to me is... I was right. Four years later and the fact that I never completed this story still haunts me. Years of feeling so angry and disconnected from the original source material that I couldn't find the willpower to write one final chapter for a story I used to love.

Alas, I shall apparently not rest easy until it is done, so here it is. At long last. The conclusion that absolutely no one cares about at this point. I admit I do feel relief, and a sliver of pride at having finished. I like to think that this story, the writing mediocre though it may be, makes a far better season 4 than the one we got. If anyone ever reads this, I hope you enjoyed the story, and thank you.

58

A car honked on the street outside. Engines rumbled and puttered their way down busy lanes. Birds cawed. Laughter floated up from the deli below them, and the sound of a cab being hailed. Downstairs, a cabinet opened and shut. London: alive, and loud as always.

Inside the flat of 221B Baker Street, all was silent. All but the TICK TOCK TICK TOCK of the clock on the mantel.

Seconds passed.

The floorboards creaked as John shifted his weight. He licked his lips. Then,

"What?" he said.

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, as though he'd only just remembered he was a living, breathing human being, not an automaton in a bad sci-fi flick. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

"Nevertheless..." was Sherrinford's reply.

"No," said Sherlock. His emotions appeared to be waking up. Soon they would go into overdrive, if John was any judge of his friend. He reached out a steadying hand. "No, absolutely not. No. How—?"

"I ran away when I turned sixteen," said Sherrinford. "You were only two at the time. If you'd paid a little more attention to family memorabilia, I'm certain you would have noticed a distinct shortage of pictures from your first two years of life."

"But… why? And why—?"

"Did no one tell you about me?" Sherrinford smirked, more bitterness than genuine amusement. "You have our dear, sweet mother to thank for that. And Mycroft, of course," he said, turning a look towards the thus-far ignored middle brother. "I always wanted to tell you. I wanted to have a relationship with my little brother."

"Then why didn't you?" Sherlock hissed.

Sherrinford lifted his chin. "Because I was a drug addict and a criminal. Mother considered me a, shall we say, bad influence." He rocked back on his heels, hands still tucked in his pockets. "Obliterated all evidence of my existence, wouldn't let me within a foot of you. The one time I tried, Mycroft had me locked away for a year."

"Jesus," John said, his gaze falling to the floorboards as he fought to restrain his own emotions, which were boiling up dangerously within him.

Mycroft immediately protested. "That is an egregious misrepresentation—"

"Is this true?" Sherlock cut through, every word edged in anger.

"Sherlock—"

"It is. You kept him from me." Sherlock took several heavy steps towards Mycroft, his whole body tense, fists clenched. A boxer stepping into the ring. "Even when I spent a decade sneaking off to drug dens, even when I nearly overdosed three times, even when—!" He broke off, so overcome that the words were tripping out of his mouth, his gaze darting this way and that as though seeking some answer, some revelation to make this all make sense. "I needed someone who could understand. And you kept away the one man with a very real chance of connecting with me?"

Mycroft pursed his lips and clicked the tip of his umbrella against the floor. He looked down before saying, "We thought it was for the best—"

Before anyone was the wiser, Mycroft reeled backwards, his nose broken and gushing blood. His umbrella clattered to the floor. Ignoring the pain in his bruised knuckles, John clenched his hand again into a fist. "The best?"

"John."

"That's your excuse, is it?" John ignored Sherlock's hand on his shoulder. He pulled against Sherlock's grip, wanting nothing more than to take another swing at the older man. Mycroft watched him with no emotion evident on his face, handkerchief pressed to his nose. "Just like every other bloody time you lied and manipulated and put Sherlock's life in danger. You can go to hell."

"John," Sherlock said again.

Inhaling, John let himself be dragged backwards. Though he was still mad enough to spit nails, his vision was no longer tunneled towards Mycroft. Continuing to breathe deeply, he stepped back and took stock of the room. Sherlock was physically restraining him, true, but there was also the slightest lift in his lips, the barest of smiles, shy, and a glimmer of gratitude in his eyes. Even Sherrinford seemed impressed, his own wry smile in place as he observed the scene with all the composure of a casual onlooker.

Embarrassed by his outburst, John looked up at the ceiling, clenching and unclenching his fists as he fought to get himself under control.

"All right there, Mike?" Sherrinford asked. "Anything I can get you? A cold compress? Commemorative photo, perhaps?"

"Oh, do shud up, Sherrinford," Mycroft snapped, with all the gentility of a man whose nasal passages were clogged with blood. With a scathing glance at his older brother, he took a step away and tilted his head back, handkerchief still pressed to his nose.

Sherrinford, meanwhile, turned to the other two men with a twinkle in his eye.

"Well, Sherly," he said. "I heartily consent! I will be more than glad to give you away to such a fine specimen of manhood."

At this, the two other Holmes brothers jerked. John could do no more than gawp in bewilderment.

It was Mycroft who recovered first, enough to say, "And what makes you think, even if there is a wedding, that you will have any part in giving him away? If anyone is to have that dubious honor, it shall be me. The truth, Sherrinford, is that you could have revealed yourself to Sherlock any time you chose, regardless of Mummy's wishes. You just didn't want it enough. I am the one who has always been there for Sherlock. I am his family. You are a stranger."

"The poor boy deserves to be walked down the aisle by someone who approves his choice of mate."

Mate? John's brain repeated dumbly.

Sherrinford continued. "Not someone with an unfair bias against the chap."

Mycroft snorted—or, something approximate to that. "Please. Do you honestly believe that if I did not approve of John Watson, he would still be standing here in 221B Baker Street?"

"Hang on, sorry," said John. "Are you… actually giving me your blessing? After I just punched you in the face?"

"The world is full of mysteries, isn't it," was Mycroft's sardonic reply.

"Very well," sniffed Sherrinford. "If you insist on giving him away, then I at least get to be the wedding planner."

"And let you turn Sherlock's nuptials into an even bigger fiasco than the anniversary party debacle of '86? Not likely."

"Now, that's hardly fair. Can I really be blamed if—"

"I think you're both forgetting something," interrupted Sherlock. He wore a blank look on his face, neither angry nor amused at his brothers' banter. Were he any less shocked by the proceedings, John felt certain he would be oozing annoyance right now. As it was, he didn't seem to know what to think, or feel.

"Ah! Yes." A thoughtful frown pulled on Sherrinford's lips. "The proposal..."

"Mary."

Her name hit John like a punch to the gut. Sherlock's brothers at least had the grace to look chastened by the reminder of their far more vital mission.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Of course. Retrieving Mrs. Watson is our priority."

"So how do we find her?" asked John. "That's why you came here, isn't it?"

The two older brothers shared a look. Sherrinford approached their coffee table, Mycroft at his shoulder as though he'd anticipated his brother's movements. After a moment, Sherlock and John gathered around the table with them, as Sherrinford pulled a long, rolled-up paper out of his coat and spread it on the table.

He began, "I have contacts…"

Suddenly the consummate professional, Sherrinford walked them through every asset, every plan, every piece of the puzzle that would help them track the elusive Jim Moriarty and his captive. At some point during the presentation, Sherlock laced his fingers through John's. They held tight to each other, John strengthened and made whole by his partner's hand in his.

"I must warn you," said Sherrinford, shooting a glance between them. "This will take time. It may be a journey of many months, perhaps years, to locate our quarry. Are you both prepared for that?"

"You will not be alone," Mycroft interjected before they could speak. Sherrinford nodded in agreement. "For however long you fight this war, we will fight beside you."

Sherlock and John looked at one another. Understanding flashed between them. Their eyes spoke volumes, more than words could ever say, of trust and devotion and courage. The younger man smiled, and John brushed his thumb over the back of his hand.

"We never were alone," Sherlock said. "That's what he could never understand. The game is on—"

"But this time, we're not playing by his rules," said John, completing his lover's thought. Sherlock nodded. John felt confidence surge through him, and their smiles grew bold and determined. "We've got friends who'll help us through it—"

"And family," added Sherlock, throwing a subdued but affectionate glance towards Mycroft, then including Sherrinford in his gaze. The eldest Holmes puffed up proud as a peacock, but Mycroft only grew wet around the eyes. John had to look away, embarrassed at seeing the Ice Man so vulnerable.

But that was alright, because looking away meant looking back at Sherlock, the brilliant, maddening, wonderful man he'd fallen in love with.

"We're not alone," John concluded. "And that's why we're going to win."

"Because friends protect people," Sherlock said, almost a murmur, the echo of John's words from another time meant for him alone.

He squeezed Sherlock's hand. Love shone out at him from bright blue eyes, warm and tender like candlelight, tempered only by their shared grief for the missing member of their family. But John wasn't afraid. He knew that they would find her, no matter how long it took. They'd never give up. The road they walked would be terrible, and sad, but they would survive because they walked it together, hand in hand.

And they wouldn't be walking alone.

THE END