Yitzock wrote:

I guess I might as well post my own progress report. I have an outline/summary of sorts, just about all the elements together. I will hopefully start the real writing today or this week, even though I probably should have already started.

Same for me. I don't think I've ever spent this long just pre-planning a fic before, but I think I've finally got a premise I'm happy with!  Now I just need to actually write it....I sense a need for large supplies of coffee in my immediate future 


 

I'd like to take part again! 

It seems life forces me to only lurk here once in a while, and I am very much out of the loop, but I have yet to miss a fic exchange and I don't think that'll be changing this year.

@stoertebeker I am so sorry to hear about what's been happening to you , here's hoping you feel better and continue to improve. *hugs*

I've finished posting my fan fic from the Secret Santa Fan Fic exchange on AO3

http://archiveofourown.org/works/3083759/chapters/6685964
 

This has been so wonderful! A big thank-you and group hug to everyone
Unfortunately the past while has been quite hectic for me and I haven't time to read and comment on all the stories, which I feel really bad about . Today is really the first day when I've enough free time to start reading them, which I am very excited about! I might not be able to comment on all of them before the author list is released, but I will read them soon!

Epilogue



The past year started out being hectic. For nearly three weeks after the business with Sophia Moran concluded, it had been almost non-stop activity. In some ways, John was grateful for the change, spending two years doing next to nothing is much too long. On the other hand, John would’ve liked to relax for at least a little while, settle into his new relationship with Sherlock, and ponder which direction his life should take now. On the first day when Sherlock awoke, Marcus visited; he’d hugged Sherlock so tightly it looked like the poor man was going to explode. Sherlock could barely restrain his laughter when Marcus turned right around and bestowed the same embrace on John.

Later, Mycroft made one final visit before returning to London. That had been a long talk primarily between Sherlock and himself. John had gone for a walk, Greg joined him, and they came back Mycroft informed John that even though Sherlock’s physical presence wasn’t required for the ensured demise of every single thread of Moriatry’s network, the latter few underlings were turning out to be more trouble than Mycroft initially assumed.

This lead to the decision that Sherlock would need to return to London, so he would be more closer to Mycrofts resources and readily available to any connections he still had left after two years. John recognized that it would ultimately be for the best, since now that Sherlock was back for good, he could orchestrate his return to the general populace as well.

Sherlock was obviously unsettled when he approached John afterwards, and asked John if he would be coming with him to London, back to 221b (since Mycroft informed them that Mrs. Hudson hasn’t let out the flat since Sherlock’s “death” and so it is available). John didn’t even have to think. Yes he had built a half-life here, and yes the countryside is gorgeous and he’ll miss the homey feel of the cottage, but his true home is with Sherlock. If he had to return to London, s

Chapter 18



Johns eyes blink sluggishly as he becomes painfully aware of the pounding ache in his head, originating from somewhere above his right temple.

feck. Overall, John can deal with pain quite well, he’s had years of experience living with pain both phantom and real, but damn it all that insane woman can really punch. His jaw throbs from the blow, and his head is pounding with blood from the subsequent fall the blow caused and that had knocked John out cold.

Careful not to move too much or give any physical indication of his awakening, John keeps his eyes closed and carefully examines his surroundings by smell, touch and hearing, it is silent – no breathing, and no echo when John takes a risk and taps a foot against floor that appears to be cement, so the room isn’t large – and the smell is damp, though not especially moldy, Johns hands are tied tightly behind his back, very well John notes with a tug, and he’s lying down on his side; wings bent awkwardly, thankfully not broken, behind him.

He’s still wearing his clothes, for that his is grateful, and his feet are tied together also. John slowly opens his eyes and looks around. It is pitch black. The only light is coming from a sliver of space underneath a door and it barely illuminates anything helpful.

John groans and rolls over onto his front.

He thinks of Sherlock, and John hopes this whole thing isn’t an enormous mistake.


“Sherlock, much like you I despise repeating myself. This is the only way, that won’t change no matter how much you protest. How many more hours must we waste here pandering to your fear? Trying to come up with other plans that either have a significantly less chance of working or require too much time to prepare and so will inevitably end up being useless anyway, it is pointless little brother.”

[i]Mycroft sat primly in the chair opposite Greg, who watched an irate Sherlock pace angrily back and forth in the living room, John stood beside the

 Chapter 17




John awkwardly slides to a halt in the doorway leading to the living room. He sees Mycroft sitting in the chair he usually occupies and Greg leaning against the mantle, looking at John with an amused smile.

Sherlock quickly follows and stops beside John, stiff as board at the sight of his brother.

The two men are breathing heavily from their playful interaction.

“Sherlock, I believe the last time I saw you run down that particular set of stairs was Christmas morning over thirty years ago. You woke up before everyone else, aside from me of course, to see if your makeshift Santa trap worked.” Mycroft comments with a raised brow in Sherlock and John’s direction.

Sherlock sends Mycroft a murderous glare, fist tightening at his side.

John blinks. Santa trap? Seriously? John bites his lip to keep from laughing.

So the cottage belonged to Sherlock’s family...John is suddenly reminded of his dream, of the few dreams he’s had all around the same people, the cottage, Marcus, Sherlock, Mycroft.

John gasps as all the pieces fall into place...Oh god. Those weren’t dreams! They were fucking memories! What else could they be?

John knew from the start they were different, never had his dreams been quite that...detailed before. He’s only had them since Sherlock arrived, they must be his, but...how is that even possible? How...it’s got to have something to do with the bond. What other explanation is there? In the last one John had, there was a woman dying, and...Marcus was there, John is sure now; it was definitely the Marcus he’s met, except younger. The wings...the woman’s wings and Marcus’s wings, they were deep soul mates, Sherlock...Sherlock was there too, also younger, the older woman called him William Sherlock Scott Holmes...that must be his full name, and at some point he dropped his first name and started going by one of his middle ones.

The older woman was his grandmother...his grandmother. John re

 Chapter 15




John dreams again. This time, it isn’t of the cottage, but the cold stark reality of a hospital room.


John is standing in the corner of a room, it is quiet except for the slow beeping of a heart monitor.

The woman lying on the bed is frail, asleep, her pallor so grey it only accentuates the aged quality of her skin. Golden wings fall over the edge of the bed, John notices that veins of grey and black are leeching through the shining gold of the feathers.

This woman is dying.

John has seen this woman before. She is the one from the cottage, with the little boy and the other man.

The door to the hospital room opens and two men enter. One is clearly the other man from before, John notices the same dying veins invading his wings as well.

The other...the other is no longer a little boy, but a man, a teenager. He wears a long dark grey coat; his curls cover his head in an untidy mop and his blue grey eyes are unblinking and focused on the dying woman.

Nothing can hide the looks of twin devastation on the men’s faces.

The older man takes a seat in the chair beside the woman in the bed, reaching out to let his hand rest on hers. The young man doesn’t go any closer than the foot of the bed, he is rigid and still, though there are silent tears running down his perfectly sculpted face.

“The doctor said we should say goodbye.” The older man recites flatly, gaze unmoving from the sleeping woman.

“Why?” The young man responds in a surprisingly deep voice.

The other man looks at him.

“You know why Billy.” He says softly.

The young man, Billy, squeezes his eyes shut, grimacing and turning away from the bed.

“I tried...I tried to find a way to save her, I couldn’t, I’m useless, worthless-” The young man chants, broken and angry.

[i]“No!” The other man interrupts, as loud as he dare. The young man stops talking. “Come here

 Chapter 13


They’ve been driving for nearly three hours. It may be hard to imagine how in such a small country where there are so many people, that there are still miles and miles of nearly empty landscape. According to Sherlock they’re almost at their destination, apparently they’ll come to a turn off that will stretch a fair distance into the forest, but it is a dead end so they’ll have to walk the rest of the way; not too far, Sherlock says.

They’ve been driving alongside a forest for several miles now, nothing but the cool sunlight illuminating the vacant country side.

England really is an underrated country in terms of beauty. Johns mind is too preoccupied however to truly appreciate that. The countryside is a blur to his vision, both because of the racing speed with which Sherlock is driving, and though John may be looking out the window, he’s not really seeing anything...too distracted by thoughts of what may be coming, the note he found that Sherlock was obviously trying to hide, and Sherlock himself.

This sick and crazy woman – whom they’re now going to hopefully stop, maybe, or at least possibility rescue her next victim...same old same old – is killing people because of something Sherlock apparently did...what did he do?

I can barely concentrate.

John is a bit shocked to hear Sherlock’s voice in his head so out of the blue. He shifts uncomfortably.

Oh? Why’s that?

Somehow John suspects that Sherlock expects John to know exactly what he’s talking about, if the slight sigh to his right is any indication.

You haven’t stopped your persistent thinking since you entered the car; it’s giving me a headache. Now, tell me what’s on your mind.

John frowns at Sherlock and crosses his arms, feeling a bit indignant and certainly not intent on responding...for several reason.

Sherlock must’ve noticed John’s sour mood in response to his words, because like John did before, Sherlock shifts uncomfortably a

 Chapter 11



The spectacle of being served scrambled eggs and bangers for breakfast by Greg with Now Wearing Pants Sherlock Holmes (currently looking through the folder Mycroft left behind like it holds the answer to life, the universe and everything) sitting across from John is odd to say the least, though not unwelcome. If anything, John hasn’t felt this good for a long time.

Not everything is healed, Sherlock is still hiding his knowledge and involvement about the case from him, and after his conversation with Mycroft John is more curious about the cottage than ever (among many other things), but now that John knows more of the story surrounding Sherlock taking that fall and being for two years...John is still angry. Mostly angry that it happened at all, furious with that bastard Moriarty, heavy with the reality that he now knows what losing your best-friend feels like...whom I love more than I ever thought possible. John never truly comprehended how heavy the thoughts that Sherlock never truly cared nor valued or trusted him weighed on him until they were practically gone if not completely. He’s still trying to wrap his head around half of what Mycroft said, but there is no doubt in Johns mind that in Sherlock’s own messed up way, what he did was a selfless thing. A man who didn’t care wouldn’t have made a job like dismantling the criminal empire of James Moriarty potentially ten times more difficult than it needed to be (in order to save the lives of the few people who are close to him) if he didn’t care in some way.

No, not everything is healed, very little has actually been resolved, but at least there is one less weight on Johns shoulders.

Baby steps.

“John, I can hear you thinking from across the table.” Sherlock mutters, eyes still fixed on the content within the folder; which he has yet to share with either Greg or John. “It would probably be wise to stop before your small head explodes.”

Sherlock couldn’t sound more s