A/N: Well, I knew how I was going to finish this story, but not how I was going to end it, if that makes sense. I hope it was satisfactory. I may change it at some point if I come up with something better, but at this point, consider it done. However, I do think I'll do at least one more story in this "mythology"; I have an idea for a case-based story.

Also, thank you all for the wonderful reviews! It makes me feel like I'm not too much a bad hack writer.

Finally, John was home. He'd taken each phase - from hospital to car, from car to building, up the stairs and onto the sofa - slowly and carefully. Now, he was settled on the sofa with a cup of tea and bad telly. The reception would be tomorrow afternoon, but would only last a couple of hours, in deference to John's continuing convalescence. He still napped occasionally, and ate little that day, but Mrs. Hudson had provided soup, and Sherlock wordlessly pressed a cupful on him whenever he awoke. John was a bit amused, but said nothing.

The next afternoon, John showered for the first time since he'd been injured. He'd had sponge baths, but a real shower just felt so much better, although he had to move carefully, and Sherlock had had to help tape plastic over the bandages to keep them dry.

He moved just as carefully while getting dressed, but finally, he was ready to go downstairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat. Well, ready physically, but mentally was another story. He really wasn't looking forward to a reception; he thought it ridiculous anyway, due to the marriage being for legal reasons only. But it meant so much to Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock hadn't the heart to deny her. John had hidden his amusement at that.

Sarah was already there, and helped get John settled on Mrs. Hudson's sofa. Shortly thereafter, Mycroft had arrived, carrying a large box. Gregory Lestrade came in shortly after that with a long, flat box and a petite brunette introduced to everyone as Greg's wife, Amanda. She congratulated John and Sherlock with a smile, then, with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, and a superior smirk, she told Sherlock,

"I think this marriage is a good idea for more than just so John has someone other than his troubled sister as his next of kin. Perhaps having someone else's well-being to think about might help you be a more sympathetic person." Sherlock glared at her, and John stifled a laugh in one hand.

Sherlock was glad to finally meet Bill Murray, however, because he was able to thank the nurse for saving John's life in Afghanistan. Which, naturally, led to Bill reciting the tale of how John had been shot behind enemy lines and Bill had shoved him into a jeep and driven like a madman to the nearest medical facility.

Mrs. Hudson and Sarah had decided against a full meal, since the reception would only last a couple of hours, so instead, they had finger foods scattered about, and drinks on the kitchen table. Much of it disappeared while Bill told his story.

When Mike Stamford finally arrived, Mrs. Hudson handed the first gift to Sherlock. He quickly, awkwardly, handed it to John, who, amused, tore off the wrapping to reveal an ornate silver tea service from Mycroft. Sherlock glared at his brother, but John rather liked the set. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock.

"Don't touch this. You are never to touch this. Not for an experiment, not to hide body parts in - nothing! Got it?" John said in a tone that even Sherlock did not dare ignore although he did reach out one finger to touch, only to have the hand smacked away. Sherlock glared at John. Then he did the only thing he felt appropriate - he stuck his tongue out at the older man. Everyone laughed. Mrs. Hudson handed the next gift - from Bill Murray and his wife - directly to John, pointedly by-passing Sherlock completely. Laughing, John opened it. The box contained two items: An expensive magnifying glass with a light, and an object that looked to John like a gold-plated meat thermometer. When John held it up in a questioning manner, Bill explained,

"It's for taking the liver temperature of a body at a crime scene. Thought you could use it considering the work you do with your new husband."

John looked uncomfortable, but Greg said,

"Huh! Not a bad idea." John and Sherlock both glanced at each other, startled, but John handed the instruments to Sherlock, who examined the magnifying glass closely. With a smile of approval, he put the two instruments aside. John then proceeded to open the gifts from Sarah, Mike Stamford, and Mrs. Hudson. Then, genuinely curious, he opened the long, flat box from the Lestrades. When he folded aside the tissue paper, his jaw dropped. Sherlock, interested now, said,

"John? What is it?" For answer, John lifted it carefully out. The item looked like a machete, with a blade slightly wider at the tip than at the base. The tip angled sharply out to a single edge. And, while the blade itself was utilitarian-looking, the hilt and pommel were ornately carved ebony, while the straight cross-guard was metal, but engraved with intricate scrollwork. The matching sheath was also carved ebony, with metal strappings inlaid with more scrollwork. There were gasps all around, puzzlement from John, and startlement from Sherlock and Mycroft.

"I actually found that in an antique shop." Greg told them smugly. Mycroft chuckled at John's continuing confusion. Finally, he took pity on his brother-in-law, and explained,

"John, we were discussing the best weapons for a Zombie Apocalypse - please don't ask why - and Sherlock mentioned your skill with a falchion." John's look of confusion faded, and he chuckled, holding the weapon up to examine it critically.

"Well," He finally said approvingly, "Whoever owned this before took good care of it. It's in excellent condition. If there should ever be a Zombie Apocalypse, rest assured this will get a good work-out." There were chuckles all around, under cover of which, Greg told John,

"Considering the trouble you two get up to, I wouldn't be surprised if a Zombie Apocalypse isn't the only time it gets a good work-out." John chuckled dryly.

"You're probably right. Best to keep it handy, then."

Shortly thereafter, Mrs. Hudson nudged Sherlock and gestured with her chin at John. Sherlock glanced at him and frowned. John was sitting stiffly and looking pale, and Sherlock realized the older man was exhausted and in pain. He nodded agreement to Mrs. Hudson, and the landlady diplomatically ended the party.

Mycroft hung back, however, and, after everyone had left, he handed John an envelope. Puzzled, John opened it, and gasped, looking even more stunned than when he'd opened the sword. Sherlock took the envelope from lax fingers, and looked at what it contained. Then he, too, stared at Mycroft, stunned.

There was a photograph of a rifle on a short tripod. The accompanying note simply said: Barrett M98 gas-powered, semi-automatic sniper rifle with ammunition. Available upon request - no questions asked.

John's brain finally began working again, and he said,

"Zombie Apocalypse?" Mycroft simply smiled, and pointed to the last line of the note. John shook his head. Then he frowned.

"Wait. I thought the M98 in semi-automatic version never went into production because the M98 Bravo in bolt-action single-shot came out instead." Again, Mycroft merely smiled, this time enigmatically. John sighed. "Right, I don't even know why I asked."

"When you're feeling up to it," Mycroft said then, "Let me know and I'll arrange for you to get to a gun range to fire it."

John, looking admiringly at the photograph, glanced up and smiled. "I will." He said.

Mycroft left immediately thereafter, and Sherlock accompanied John back up the stairs. John sank gratefully down on the sofa, while Sherlock went for a glass of water and John's meds. After the older man had downed them, he painfully shifted to lay down. Sherlock arranged the duvet over him, and then, thoughtfully, took out his violin.

To John's pleasure, Sherlock began playing something gentle and slow.

"Thanks." John murmured. "For everything." Sherlock smiled.

"Go to sleep, John."

"Good night, Next of Kin." He chuckled softly, and drifted off to sleep.

The End.