A/n: It has been so ridiculously long since I've updated, but now it's summer so I have the time for it! This is quite long, a bit of an apology for the wait. Enjoy!

🔎🔍

"Watch yourself Holmes, we're trying to see if bodies bruise after death, not if we can kill them more than once."

Sherlock sighed, holding out the riding crop to (Y/n), she grinned, gladly taking it.

"Both of us know you can die more than once, now, don't we?" Sherlock smirked.

"Sam and Dean send their love, not that you care," (Y/n) mused with a smirk, raising the riding crop and striking it against the body, "It wasn't that long ago we traveled to London from America was it? Now look at us."

"Yes, yes, a very sentimental engagement."

(Y/n) grinned, hitting the dead body a few times in a row.

"Excuse me!"

(Y/n) looked up boredly, hitting the corpse continuously.

"I do hope we're not interrupting. "

(Y/n) hit the corpse one last time, turning to the two men in front of her with a kind smile.

"You've been in Afghanistan, I perceive," Sherlock reached into his waistcoat for his pocket watch.

"Doctor Watson, Mr Sherlock-"

Sherlock tossed his walking stick to John, who instinctively caught it, "Excellent reflexes. You'll do."

"I'm sorry?"

"We've been looking at a suite of rooms near Regent's Park. Between the three of us we could afford them easily," (Y/n) explained.

"Rooms? Who said anything about rooms?"

"We did. We mentioned to Stamford this morning we were in need of a fellow lodger. Now he appears after lunch in the company of a man of military aspect with a tan and recent injury, both suggestive of the campaign in Afghanistan and an enforced departure from it. The conclusion seemed inescapable. We'll finalise the details tomorrow evening."

"Lovely meeting you Doctor Watson," (Y/n) smiled, "If you'll excuse us, there's a hanging in Wandsworth and we'd hate to miss it."

Sherlock assisted her in putting her coat on before putting on his own.

"A hanging?"

"I take a professional interest. I also play the violin and smoke a pipe. I presume that's not a problem?"

"Er, no, well-"

"I dance as well, bit of a side profession," (Y/n) added.

"And you're clearly acclimatised to never getting to the end of a sentence. We'll get along splendidly. Tomorrow evening, seven o'clock, then."

"Oh, and the name is Sherlock and (Y/n) Holmes and the address is two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street."

~*~

"Papers! Papers!"

"Oh John, be a dear and get me a paper will you," (Y/n) requested, "It's the easiest way to keep up with cases now."

The cab slowed and John leaned out the window to talk with the vendor, "How's 'The Blue Carbuncle' doing?"

"Very popular, Doctor Watson. Is there gonna be a proper murder next time?"

"I'll have a word with the criminal classes."

"If you wouldn't mind."

"Is that 'em? Are they in there?"

Sherlock kicked John in the leg.

"No. No, no, not at all. Ah, good day to you," John said, leaning back into the carriage and handing (Y/n) a paper.

"Merry Christmas, Mr and Mrs Holmes!"

The cab stopped in front of 221B, Sherlock opening the door and holding out a hand to assist (Y/n).

"Such a gentleman," (Y/n) said sarcastically.

"Yes, well, must be so for the public," Sherlock smirked.

The door to 221B opened and Mrs Hudson came out as the group was leaving the cab.

"Mr and Mrs Holmes, I do wish you'd let me know when you're planning to come home."

The houseboy, Billy, hurried towards John, who was pulling bags from the cab.

"I hardly knew myself, Mrs Hudson. That's the trouble with dismembered country squires, they're notoriously difficult to schedule." Sherlock clamped his pipe between his teeth and turned back to pay the cabbie.

"And how are you, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked (Y/n), "The ride wasn't too difficult? No nausea?"

"Mrs. Waston, you still believe I'm pregnant don't you?"

"Yes, well, Sherlock seems to hope you are," Mrs. Hudson leaned in, "He was asking John about taking care of children the other day."

(Y/n) glanced towards her husband, a small smile on her face. He had come a long way from the emotionless man he was when they first met.

"What's in there?" Billy asked, looking at one of the cases.

"Never mind," John said quickly.

"Did you catch a murderer, Mr Holmes," Billy asked as he was taking some of the bags inside.

"Caught the murderer; still looking for the legs. Think we'll call it a draw."

Sherlock and (Y/n) entered 221B, walking up the stairs to their apartment.

"Well, I never say anything, do I? According to you, I just show people up the stairs and serve you breakfasts," Mrs. Hudson said in distaste as she entered with John.

"Well, within the narrative, that is, broadly speaking, your function."

"My what?"

"Don't feel singled out, Mrs Hudson. I'm hardly in the dog one."

"The dog one" John exclaimed indignantly.

"I'm your landlady, not a plot device," Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

"Do you mean 'The Hound of the Baskervilles'?"

"And you make the room so drab and dingy," Mrs. Hudson added.

"Oh, blame it on the illustrator. He's out of control. I've had to grow this moustache just so people'll recognise me."

"He seems to draw me well enough," (Y/n) stated.

"Yes, well, he can't seem to accept the fact that we're married," Sherlock walked across the sitting room to the window, pulling back the curtains revealing a stag's head hung on the wall between the two windows. The mounted head had a full set of antlers, upon which an ear trumpet hung.

As Sherlock opened the other set of curtains a figure was revealed standing in front of the fire. Dressed in black mourning clothes and with a black veil over the face, the figure, apparently a woman, stands facing the fire with her hands clasped behind her back.

"Good Lord!"

"Mrs Hudson, there is a woman in my sitting room! Is it intentional?" Sherlock asked, shouting.

"She's a client! Said you were out; insisted on waiting."

"Would you, er, care to sit down?" The woman stayed silent.

"Didn't you ask her what she wanted?" Sherlock yelled down the stairs.

"You ask her!" Mrs. Hudson shouted back.

"Well, why didn't you ask her?"

"How could I, what with me not talking and everything?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed, walking back into the sitting room.

"Oh, for God's sake. Give her some lines. She's perfectly capable of starving us," Sherlock smiled at the woman, " Good afternoon. I'm Sherlock Holmes. This is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson. And my wife (Y/n). You may speak freely in front of both of them, Watson often doesn't understand a word."

"Holmes."

"However, before you do, allow me to make some trifling observations," Sherlock began to circle the woman, "You have an impish sense of humour which currently you're deploying to ease a degree of personal anguish. You have recently married a man of a seemingly kindly disposition who has now abandoned you for an unsavoury companion of dubious morals, and his wife with much better morals. You have come to this agency as a last resort in the hope that reconciliation may still be possible."

"Good Lord, Holmes!"

"All of this is, of course, perfectly evident from your perfume."

"Her perfume?"

"John, have you been away from your wife so long you've forgotten her perfume?" (Y/n) asked with a smirk.

Sherlock undid the woman's veil and pulled it away from her face. John's eyes widened in realization.

"Mary!"

"John," Mary smiled.

"Why, in God's name, are you pretending to be a client?"

"Because I could think of no other way to see my husband, Husband," Mary turned to (Y/n), "(Y/n), you look positively lovely, glowing with life."

"Everyone," (Y/n) whispered tiredly, "Everyone thinks I'm pregnant."

Sherlock took off his jacket and put on a camel coloured dressing gown, picking up his violin and playing the wedding waltz.

"It was an affair of international intrigue."

"It was a murdered country squire."

"Nevertheless, matters were pressing."

"I don't mind you going, my darling. I mind you leaving me behind!"

"But what could you do?"

"Oh, what do you do except wander round, taking notes, looking surprised," Mary said dismissively.

Sherlock stopped playing his violin, lowering it angrily, "Enough! The stage is set, and the curtain rises. We are ready to begin."

"Begin what?" Mary asked.

"Sometimes, to solve a new case, you must first solve an old one," (Y/n) advised.

"Oh, you have a case, then, a new one?"

"An old one. Very old. I shall have to go deep."

"Deep? Into what?"

"Myself." Sherlock looked out the window for a moment longer before turning his head, "Lestrade! Do stop loitering by the door and come in."

The door to the sitting room opened and Lestrade entered, breathing heavily and looking anxious. He glanced towards the table in between the windows before looking at the people near the fireplace.

"How did you know it was me?"

"The regulation tread is unmistakable. Lighter than Jones, heavier than Gregson."

"I just came up. Mrs Hudson didn't seem to be talking."

Sherlock reached out towards Turkish slipper on the table and took out some tobacco to fill his pipe, "I fear she's branched into literary criticism by means of satire. It is a distressing trend in the modern landlady. What bring you here in your off-duty hours?"

"How'd you know I'm off-duty?

"Since you've arrived you've diverted the majority of your attention to our alcohol," (Y/n) sat down on the couch, smoothing out any possible wrinkles on her skirt, "John, be a dear and give the inspector a drink.

John picked up the decanter and poured a drink, handing it to Lestrade.

"So, Lestrade, what can we do for you?" John asked.

"Now, Inspector, what strange happening compels you to my door but embarrasses you to relate?"

"Who said anything happened?" Lestrade questioned, taking a long drink from his glass.

"You did, by every means short of actual speech," Sherlock answered matter of factly.

"Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah, Holmes? You have misdiagnosed," John tutted.

"Then correct me, Doctor," Sherlock grinned.

"He didn't want a drink he needed one. He's not embarrassed, he's afraid."

Lestrade looked down, putting his gloved hand to his mouth. Sherlock smirked.

"My Boswell is learning. They do grow up so fast," Sherlock looked to Mary who gave a matching smirk.

"Watson, restore the courage of Scotland Yard," Sherlock ordered.

John took the glass back over to the table, refilling it and giving it back to Inspector Lestrade.

"Inspector, do sit down," (Y/n) motioned to the dining chair.

"I'm-I'm not afraid, exactly," Lestrade moved the chair so he could face the Holmes pair.

"Fear is wisdom in the face of danger. It is nothing to be ashamed of," Sherlock assured.

"From the beginning, then," (Y/n) prompted.

"A woman, went seemingly insane on her wedding anniversary. She shot around her street screaming 'You' at several men."

"A moment," Sherlock raised his hand, "When was this?"

"Yesterday morning."

"The bride's face. How was it described?"

"White as death, mouth like a crimson wound," Lestrade read.

"Poetry or truth?" (Y/n) asked.

"Many would say they're the same thing."

"Yes, idiots. Poetry or truth?" Sherlock asked in exasperation.

"I saw her face myself. Afterwards."

"After what?"

"The bride screamed 'You or me' and shot herself."

"Really, Lestrade. A woman blows her own brains out in public and you need help identifying the guilty party. I fear Scotland Yard has reached a new low," Sherlock sighed.

"That's not why I'm here."

"What was her name, the bride?" John asked.

"Emelia Ricoletti. Yesterday was her wedding anniversary. The police, of course, were called, and her body taken to the morgue."

"Standard procedure. Why are you telling us what may be presumed?"

"Because of what happened next. Limehouse, just a few hours later. Thomas Ricoletti, Emelia Ricoletti's husband."

"On his way to identify his wife's remains no doubt," (Y/n) brushed out her skirt.

"As it turned out, he was saved the trip. According to a young officer Emilia Ricoletti shot her husband twice, killing him."

"'Til death us do part. Twice, in this case."

(Y/n) hummed in agreement, "Yes, lets not end up the same way dear."

"Extraordinary."

"Near impossible," Mary stated, "Unless of course she had reason to become a vengeful spirit."

"Spirits are usually attached to an item or a place, the fact that she can travel says something else entirely," (Y/n) shook her head.

"Superb!" Sherlock stood, "Suicide as street theatre; murder by corpse. Lestrade, you're spoiling us. Watson, (Y/n), your coats."

"Where are we going?"

"To the morgue. There's not a moment to lose which one can so rarely say of a morgue."

"And am I just to sit here?" Mary asked.

"Not at all, my dear. We'll be hungry later!" John said kindly.

"You're more capable than both Sherlock and John, Mary," (Y/n) assured before following the two.

On the streets, the four - John, Sherlock, (Y/n), and Greg - were riding in a cab. (Y/n) was looking out the window, her eyes scrunched together and a hand on her stomach.

"Who's on mortuary duty?" Sherlock asked.

"You know who."

"Always him," Sherlock sighed. He glanced over at (Y/n), "Alright, Darling?"

"Quite," (Y/n) answered with a strained smile.

The four finished their cab ride in silence, soon arriving at the police station When (Y/n) exited the cab she took in a deep breath.

"I don't think I've ever been more glad to leave a cab," she stated.

The group walked to the basement of the station, where the morgue was located. They walk across to the nearest table on which is a body covered with a sheet.

"Please tell me which idiot did this!" Sherlock motioned to the chains around the body.

"It's for everyone's safety," Anderson stated.

John pulled back the cover on the corpse's head, revealing the face of Emelia.

"This woman is dead. Half her head is missing! She's not a threat to anyone!" John stressed.

"Tell that to her husband. He's under a sheet over there," Anderson pointed at a different table.

"Whatever happened in Limehouse last night, I think we can safely assume it wasn't the work of a dead woman," Sherlock deadpanned, "My wife has made sure of that."

"Stranger things have happened," Anderson grumbled.

"Such as?" Sherlock smirked, knowing full well that every 'strange' thing that had happened between the three had never been revealed to the public.

"Well...strange things."

"You're speaking like a child," John scoffed.

"This is clearly a man's work. Where is he?"

"Holmes," a man entered the room.

"Hooper."

"You, back to work," Hooper said sternly.

Anderson nodded nervously and turned away. Hooper walked to one side of the table and looked across at Holmes.

"So, come to astonish us with your magic tricks, I suppose."

"Is there anything to which you would like to draw my attention?"

"Nothing at all, Mr Holmes and Mrs Holmes. You may leave any time you like," Hooper said shortly.

"Doctor Hooper, I asked Mr Holmes to come here. Co-operate. That's an order," Lestrade ordered.

Hooper let out a sigh, looking down at the body, "There are two 'features of interest,' as you are always saying in Doctor Watson's stories."

"I never say that," Sherlock scoffed.

"You do, actually, quite a lot," (Y/n) stated.

"First of all, this is definitely Emelia Ricoletti. She has been categorically identified. Beyond a doubt it is her."

"Then who was that in Limehouse last night?" John asked.

"That was also Emelia Ricoletti," Hooper stated.

"It can't have been. She was dead. She was here," Sherlock took out a small magnifying glass and bent down to look more closely at the Bride's face, "The husband held no objects on her person that she had when she died. There were no ties."

"She was positively identified by her own husband seconds before he died. He had no reason to lie. He could hardly be mistaken."

"The cabbie knew her too," Lestrade added, "There's no question it's her."

"But she can't have been in two places at the same time, can she?" John questioned.

Sherlock stepped closer to (Y/n), leaning down so he could reach her height, "You ruled out spirit, shifter perhaps?"

"No, they nearly always keep the person alive so they can feed off of their memories."

"Holmes, could it have been twins?" John asked.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's never twins," Sherlock sighed.

"Emelia was not a twin, nor did she have any sisters. She had one older brother who died four years ago." Lestrade added.

"More to the point, what's your problem?" (Y/n) questioned Lestrade, "Why were you so frightened? Nothing so far has justified your assault on my decanter, and why have you allowed a dead woman to be placed under arrest?"

Hooper lifted the right hand of the corpse, showing her index finger. The three bent down for a closer look.

"A smear of blood on her finger. That could have happened any number of ways."

"Indeed. There's one other thing. It wasn't there earlier. And neither was that."

The three walked towards the wall on the other side of the room. There, painted in blood was a single word. YOU.

"Gun in the mouth; a bullet through the brain; back of the head blown clean off. How could he survive?" Sherlock mumbled.

"She, you mean," John corrected.

"Yes, yes, of course," Sherlock mumbled absently. (Y/n) placed her hand on his arm, bringing him back from his mind, "Well, thank you all for a fascinating case. I'll send you a telegram when I've solved it. Watson?"

Sherlock held out his arm for (Y/n) to take. She looped hers through his and followed him outside as they walked from the station to hail a carriage.

Watson soon followed them out of the building as a carriage pulled up beside them so they could enter.

"Well, Holmes? Surely you must have some theory," John stated.

"Not yet. These are deep waters, Watson. Deep waters," Sherlock looked out of the window, "And I shall have to go deeper still."

Within the next few months different cases had been solved by the trio. The mysterious case of the women who came back from the dead to kill her husband went to the back of the priority list. One of the reasons as to why was because (Y/n) had revealed to those close to her that she was, in fact, pregnant. That piece of news was elating to Mary and Mrs Hudson who jumped on the chance to say I told you so.

(Y/n) sat on one of the couches in 221B, rubbing her hand over her growing stomach while Sherlock discussed the case with Lestrade.

"Five of them now, all the same, every one of 'em."

Sherlock continued to read his book, "Hush, please. This is a matter of supreme importance."

"What is?"

"How to properly care for a child. I'm trying to understand the concept."

(Y/n) smiled, taking a sip of tea from the cup in front of her.

"I thought you understood everything," Lestrade said in confusion.

"Of course not. That would be an appalling waste of brain space. I specialise."

"Then what's so important about learning to care for children when you don't have any?"

"What's so important about five boring murders?" Sherlock slammed his book shut, "In any case, unrelating to the murders, (Y/n) is pregnant so I feel the need to learn."

Lestrade looked over to (Y/n), who nodded, "I wasn't just gaining weight Lestrade," (Y/n) chuckled.

"Congratulations, but, they're not boring! Five men dead! Murdered in their own homes; rice on the floor, like at a wedding; and the word 'YOU' written in blood on the wall! It's-it's her! It's-it's the Bride. Somehow she's risen again!"

"Solved it," Sherlock said nonchalantly.

"You can't have solved it!

"Of course I've solved it. It's perfectly simple. The Incident of the Mysterious Mrs Ricoletti, the Killer from Beyond the Grave, has been widely reported in the popular press. Now people are disguising their own dull little murders as the work of a ghost to confuse the impossibly imbecilic Scotland Yard. There you are: solved," Sherlock closed the book and set it on the table.

"Lestrade, pay Mrs Hudson a visit on your way out will you? She likes to feel involved," (Y/n) requested.

"You sure?"

"Certainly. Go away."

Lestrade shrugged and left the flat.

~*~

"The what of the what?"

"The obliquity of the ecliptic."

"'Come at once,' you said. I assumed it was important. Something to do with your pregnant wife perhaps?"

"It is. It's the inclination of the Earth's equator to the path of the sun on the celestial plane."

"Yes, and I'm fine John. You would the first we would call upon if I wasn't," (Y/n) assured.

"Have you been swotting up?" John asked Sherlock, "To sound clever?"

"I am clever," Sherlock grumbled, causing (Y/n) to giggle.

"Oh, I see," John smirked, "We're on our way to see someone cleverer than you."

"Shut up," Sherlock growled after a slight pause.

The carriage stopped and the three got out. (Y/n) let out a relieved breath. The carriage had been making her nauseous and she feared a longer trip would have caused her to throw up.

The three approached The Diogenes Club. Inside, a sign hung above the reception desk stating ABSOLUTE SILENCE. Sherlock approached the elderly attendant at the desk and began signing to him.

"Good morning, Wilder. Is my brother in?"

"Naturally sir. It's breakfast time."

(Y/n) held back a grin at the statement.

"The Stranger's Room?" Wilder nodded. Sherlock motioned towards (Y/n) and this gentleman is my guest, and my wife."

"Ah Yes! Dr Watson, of course. Enjoyed 'The Blue Carbuncle', sir. Mrs Holmes, congratulations."

Sherlock elbowed John and nodded. Watson nervously signed to Wilder.

"Thank you. I...am...glad...you...liked it. You are very...ugly."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Ugly. What you said about 'The Blue Fishmonger'. Very ugly...I am glad you liked my potato."

(Y/n) snorted, and covered her mouth, signing a sorry.

Sherlock gave a disappointed look and signed, "Yes. Needs work, Watson. Too much time spent on dancing lessons."

"Sorry, what?" John asked out loud.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, grabbing (Y/n)'s hand and walking away. John followed after the pair and Sherlock opened the door to a room. Inside, a man of a very large, um, stature, sat wedged into a chair. On either side of the chair were several tables loaded with all sorts of food, including puddings, cakes, pork pies and a huge roasted ham.

"To anyone who wishes to study mankind, this is the spot," Mycroft stated,, his gaze wandered over (Y/nn) before he hummed, "Congratulations. How long were you planning on not telling me? Or were you just waiting for your wife to show enough that you wouldn't have to?"

"Obviously the later Mycroft. Handy, really, as your ever-expanding backside is permanently glued to it. Good morning, brother mine."

"Yes, I suppose I should say congratulations."

"You look...well, sir," John said hesitantly.

"Really? I rather thought I looked enormous," Mycroft picked up a glass of port and drank from it.

"Well, now you mention it, this level of consumption is incredibly injurious to your health. Your heart-"

"No need to worry on that score, Watson," Mycroft assured.

"There's only a large cavity where that organ should reside," Sherlock added.

"It's a family trait," Mycroft looked at Sherlock and (Y/n), "Or it was."

"If you continue like this, sir, I give you five years at the most," John finished.

"Five? We thought three, did we not, Sherlock?"

"I'm still inclined to four," Sherlock shrugged.

"As ever, you see but you do not observe. Note the discolouration in the whites of my eyes, the visible rings of fat around the corneas-"

"Yes, you're right. I'm changing my bet to three years, four months and eleven days."

"A bet?"

"I understand your disapproval, Watson, but if he's feeling competitive it is perfectly within his power to die early."

"Yes, my brothers and I used to take bets on who would sell their sul next," (Y/n) added.

John groaned and ran a hand over his face, "You're gambling with your own life? And you, your brothers have died before you don't have much say in this."

"Why not? It's so much more exciting than gambling with others'."

"Three years flat if you eat that plum pudding," Sherlock pointed.

"Done!" Mycroft licked his lips and picked up the pudding. Opening his mouth wide he took a large bite out of it.

"I've seen monsters eat people and that is still more revolting," (Y/n) mumbled, hand on her stomach, "And the smell is ghastly."

"That's adjusted senses, normal part of a pregnancy."

"Yes well I don't appreciate it."

Mycroft looked up as he was finishing his pudding, "Perhaps you should have controlled yourselves and you wouldn't have to worry about pregnancy side effects."

The three settled down in chairs that faced Mycroft, ready to hear what he had to say.

"I expected to see you a few days ago about the Manor House case. I thought you might be a little out of your depth there."

"No. I solved it," Sherlock stated simply.

"It was Adams, of course."

"Yes, it was Adams," Sherlock nodded.

"Murderous jealousy," Mycroft explained to John, "He'd written a paper for the Royal Astronomical Society on the obliquity of the ecliptic, and then read another that seemed to surpass it."

"Our way of life is under threat from an invisible enemy, one that hovers at our elbow on a daily basis. These enemies are everywhere, undetected and unstoppable."

"Socialists?" John asked.

"Anything supernatural?"

"No, neither of those."

"Elaborate," Sherlock ordered.

"No. Investigate. This is a conjecture of mine and I need you to confirm it. I'm sending you a case. A woman will call on you, Lady Carmichael. I want you to take her case."

"But these enemies: how are we to defeat them if you won't tell us about them?"

"We don't defeat them. We must certainly lose to them," Mycroft stated as thought it was obvious.

"Why?"

"Because they are right, and we are wrong."

"Lady Carmichael's case, what is it?"

"Rest assured, it has features of interest."

"And you've already solved it, I assume?"

"Only in my head. I need you for the, er...legwork."

"Why not just tell us your solution?"

"Where would be the sport in that?"

"I will do it on one condition. Have another plum pudding," Sherlock smirked.

"There's one on the way."

"I'll add to the bet. Two years, eleven months and four days," (Y/n) stated.

"Oh, it's getting excited now. The psychic has joined."

~*~

"Mr Holmes, I have come here for advice, and help."

Just as he had predicted, Lady Carmichael had arrived on the doorstep of 221B, looking distraught.

"Something has happened, Mr Holmes, something unusual and terrifying."

"This is really very promising," Sherlock grinned.

(Y/n) hit Sherlock onthe arm before turning back to Lady Carmichael, "Please, do tell us what is troubling you."

"I thought long and hard as to what to do, but then, er, it occurred to me that my husband was an acquaintance of your brother and that, perhaps through him...The fact is, I'm not sure this comes within your purview, Mr Holmes."

"No?"

"Lord help me, I think it may be a matter for a priest."

(Y/n) sat up, suddenly more interested in the matter. Sherlock may not have been the expert on supernatural matter, but she was.

"It started a morning when a letter arrived. Inside was five orange pips. Eustace went pale and stated that they meant death before denying his worry."

"Did you keep the envelope?" Sherlock asked.

"My husband destroyed it, but it was blank. No name or address of any kind."

"Tell me: has Sir Eustace spent time in America?" Sherlock asked.

""Not to my knowledge."

"Pray continue with your narrative."

"Well, that incident took place last Monday morning. It was two days later, on the Wednesday, that my husband first saw her. I woke up and he was out of bed, staring out the window. He said he saw a woman but I didn't see anyone. When I asked who it was he said it was the bride."

"Did your husband describe..."

"Nothing, until this morning. I woke up and Eustace was outside. I went out after him, but he went into the maze. I found one of his slippers so I knew I was on the right path. I tripped and that was when I saw her, the bride. She was singing this song...I found Eustace with the bride in front of him. He told me it was emelia Ricoletti. She said my husband would die and he fainted, I began to tend to him and when I looked back, she was gone.

"May I ask: how is your husband this morning?" Sherlock asked.

"He refuses to speak about the matter. Obviously I have urged him to leave the house."

"No, no! He must stay exactly where he is. You can't set a trap without bait."

"My husband is not bait, Mr Holmes," Lady Carmichael said angrily.

"Lady Carmichael, the best way to help your husband is to catch the person responsible, that requires drawing them in."

"Yes, we'll take the next train over."

~*~

Later that afternoon the trio was sitting in a train compartment together. (Y/n) seemed much more comfortable there compared to when she was in a carriage.

"You don't suppose-"

"I don't, and neither should you," Sherlock cut John off.

"You don't know what I was going to say."

"You were about to suggest there may be some supernatural agency involved in this matter, and I was about to laugh in your face."

"You think you'd be more open Holmes, considering how your wife hunts the supernatural."

"Used to," (Y/n) corrected, "I have other obligations now, besides, this has no attributes I can relate to a normal haunting. No same person, item, or place."

~*~

At the home of the Carmichaels Eustace was facing a fire, John facing him, Sherlock pacing, and (Y/n) sitting in the seat she was offered. She was becoming slightly annoyed at how gently she was being treated because she was pregnant.

"Somnambulism. I sleepwalk, that's all. It's a common enough condition. I thought you were a doctor. The whole thing was a bad dream."

"Including the contents of the envelope you received?" John questioned.

Eustace gave a fake laugh, "Well, that's a grotesque joke. My wife is a hysteric, prone to fancies."

"No. She's not an hysteric. She's a highly intelligent woman of rare perception," Sherlock disagreed.

"My wife sees terror in an orange pip," Eustace argued.

"Your wife can see worlds where no one can see anything of value," (Y/n) glared, upset with how he was dismissing his wife.

"Can she really? And how do you 'deduce' that, Mrs Holmes?"

"She married you,"(Y/n) heard Sherlock snort in the background. She leaned back in her chair. No one would insulte a pregnant woman, she learned that quickly.

"I'll do my best to save your life tonight, but first it would help if you would explain your connection to the Ricoletti case," Sherlock requested.

"I've never heard of her."

"Interesting. I didn't mention she was a woman," Sherlock grinned victoriously, "We'll show ourselves out. I hope to see you again in the morning."

"You will not!" Eustace shouted.

"Then we shall be solving your murder. Good day," (Y/n) stood and brushed her dress off, swiftly walking away.

"Will you see that Lady Carmichael receives this?" Sherlock handed a footman a note he had quickly written, "Thank you. Good afternoon."

"What was that?" John asked.

"Lady Carmichael will sleep alone tonight, on the pretence of a violent headache. All the doors and windows of the house will be locked."

"Ah, you think the bride the Bride will attempt to lure Sir Eustace outside again?"

"Certainly. Why else the portentous threat? 'This night you will die.'"

"Well, he won't follow her, surely?"

"It's difficult to say quite what he'll do. Guilt is eating away at his soul."

"Guilt? About what?"

"Orange pips are a warning of avenging death, so whatever he feels guilty about, is related to that."

"Something to do with Emelia Ricoletti," John put together.

"I presume. We all have a past, Watson."

"Sir Eustace fears more than a ghost," (Y/n) stated as they stopped in the porch, he thinks he'll be dragged to Hell."

"That's a lot of nonsense, isn't it?"

"Of course, there's no ghost here. Did you bring your revolver?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Good, the game is afoot!"

~*~

Later that night the three were in a greenhouse on the grounds of the Carmichael house.

"Good lord this child is exhausting," (Y/n) muttered, hand on her stomach, "I can barely keep my eyes open."

"Would you like to go home?" Sherlock asked worriedly.

"Not a chance."

"Is the, er, lamp still burning?" John asked.

"Yes. There goes Sir Eustace. And Lady Carmichael. The house sleeps."

(Y/n) suddenly gasped, and the men around her tensed, bending down at her side. She grabbed Sherlock's hand and put it on her stomach. Everything was silent as John realized what was happening. The baby was simply kicking.

"Quite excitable," Sherlock muttered.

"They like solving crimes, just like their father," (Y/n) grinned.

Somewhere to the left, scrabbling claws and a dog whimpering could be heard.

"Redbeard?" Sherlock mumbled.

"Good god!"

John pointed near the house, where the Bride was floating slightly off of the ground.

"What are we to do?" John asked.

"Why don't we have a chat?"

Sherlock stood, expecting the other two to follow while he ran across the garden to the house.

"Pleasant night for the time of year, is it not?" Sherlock asked the Bride as they approached.

The Bride began to fade from view. At the same moment, a man could be heard screaming from inside the house. The group looked over and they heard glass being smashed. When they turned back, the Bride was gone. Sherlock ran to the front door and tried to open it.

"Locked, as per instruction."

Sherlock ran to the nearest window and smashed it with his elbow. He lit a lantern and turned to the two, "Stay here."

"What? No!"

"All the doors and windows are locked. This is their only way out," Sherlock turned to (Y/n), "I can't risk letting you, our child, get hurt."

The two nodded hesitantly as Sherlock entered the house. A few moments after he left the floor creaked. John took out his revolver, holding it up with the barrel pointing at the ceiling.

(Y/n) held a finger up to her mouth as they moved over the broken glass on the floor, entering the corridor.

""You're human," (Y/n) announced, "I've seen unhuman and you aren't."

(Y/n) picked up a box of matches on the nearest table. She lit a match and held it against the wick of the candle, lighting it.

A breeze quickly blew out the candle she had lit. (Y/n) calmly relit the candle. Her demeanor contrasting John's panicked state. The two looked down the nearest hall, searching for signs of life.

"Do not forget me," (Y/n) and John turned around, seeing the bride in front of them, "Do not forget me."

The Bride let out a half hiss half scream. (Y/n) dropped the candle in shock, flight or fight kicking in as John pulled her down the hallway and away from the woman. The two bumped into Sherlock as he was running down the stairs.

"She's there! She's down there!" John pointed in a panic.

"Don't tell me you abandoned your post," Sherlock sighed.

"What? Holmes, she's there! We saw her!"

Sherlock ran down the corridor to the broken window. He turned to the two angrily.

"Empty, thanks to you! Our bird is flown."

"I was making sure John didn't get himself killed," (Y/n) shrugged.

"Sir Eustace is dead."

~*~

After the police were contacted a photographer was taking photographs of the body, still lying where it was when Sherlock found it.

"You really mustn't blame yourself, you know," Lestrade stated.

"You're quite right. Watson is equally culpable, and my wife is pregnant. Between us, we've managed to botch this whole case. I gave an undertaking to protect that man; now he's lying there with a dagger in his breast."

"Anything you can tell us, Doctor?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, he's been stabbed with considerable force."

"It's a man, then."

(Y/n) flushed with anger, partly because of her hormones, partly because of course any time strength was shown the idea a woman could have done it was thrown out the window.

"Women are capable of strength too," she snapped at the Detective Inspector.

"There is only one suspect with motive and opportunity. They might as well have left a note. And then there's the matter of the other broken window."

"What other broken window?"

"Exactly. There isn't one. The only broken window in this establishment is the one that Watson and I entered through, yet prior to that we distinctly heard the sound of- What did you just say? A note?"

"I said the murderer did leave a note. There's a message tied to the dagger. You must have seen it!"

"There was no message when I found the body," Sherlock looked at the underside of the label attached to the dagger. Soon after Sherlock silently stood up and began to walk towards the stairs.

"Sherlock? What is it?" (Y/n) looked at the note for herself, her breath hitching, "Of course."

Written on the note was two simple words that struck the rare feeling of fear through the woman.

MISS ME?

~*~

(Y/n) took a sip of her tea, setting it down on the saucer after and smiling at mary.

"I feel as though we haven't spoken in a lifetime," she stated.

"Yes I feel that way as well," Mary agreed, "How are you doing?"

"Well, although something troubling as come up. At the crime scene there was a note that said 'miss me?' I believe Moriarty has returned."

"That is troubling," Mary nodded, "You must remember not to stress, and if you are troubled perhaps you should stay behind on this."

"We are in a world where women mean nothing. I'm going to prove we do mean something."

"Yes, as will I."

~*~

(Y/n) put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He was facing the fireplace, sitting in the middle of the floor. Newspapers lined the floor around him. He was in his mind palace, she knew that, so there was no chance of bringing him out of his trance unless he wanted to.

(Y/n) sat down next to him with a bit of difficulty, knowing she would need help to get back up. She observed the news reports, trying to piece everything together just as Sherlock was.

She heard the door open and turned, smiling at Lestrade and Mrs Hudson.

"Two days he's been like that," Mrs Hudson told Lestrade.

"Has he eaten?"

"I made tea and toast this morning, he ate that," (Y/n) stated.

"Press are having a ruddy field day. There's still reporters outside."

"They've been there all the time. I can't get rid of them. I've been rushed off my feet making tea. Not only are the murders riling up but now that (Y/n)'s showing they're always asking for an interview with her."

"The press are suffocating," (Y/n) sighed, "Pregnancies are supposed to be free of stress."

"He said there's only one suspect and then he just walks away, and now he won't explain. (Y/n) do you know who it is?"

"Yes," (Y/n) mumbled, though she gave no indication that she was going to tell.

"Well, wire me if you need me."

Mrs Hudson and Lestrade said their goodbyes and closed the door. (Y/n) moved a few of the newspapers and found a small case. She sighed, opening it to reveal a syringe.

Sherlock put his hand over hers and kissed her cheek, closing the case for her.

"I'm proud of you," she whispered. Knowing it took will to close the case instead of picking up the syringe.

Later that night, (Y/n) was sleeping in the bedroom, no chance of her waking up after she had a cup of tea Sherlock had made for her. He didn't want her awake for what was going to happen.

"Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

"And possibly my answer has crossed yours," Sherlock answered.

Sherlock stood and turned to Moriarty, reaching his hand into the pocket of his dressing gown.

"It's a dangerous habit, to finger loaded firearms in the pocket of one's dressing gown, especially with a pregnant wife."

"You'll forgive me for taking precautions."

"I'd be offended if you didn't."

Moriarty pulled out his own pistol, "Obviously I've returned the courtesy," Moriarty looked around the room, "I like your rooms. They smell so...homely."

"I'm aware of all six occasions you have visited these apartments during my absence," Sherlock stated as Moriarty walked towards the fireplace.

"I know you are," Moriarty raised his gun towards Sherlock, "D'you mind if I fire this, just to clean it out?"

Sherlock lifted his own gun. It seemed as though they were at a standstill. After a few moments they both simultaneously lowered their guns.

"Exactly. Let's stop playing. We don't need toys to kill each other. Where's the intimacy in that?"

"Sit down," Sherlock ordered.

"Why? What do you want?"

"You chose to come here," Sherlock growled.

"Not true," Moriarty sang, "What do you want, Sherlock?"

"The truth."

"Truth's boring. You didn't expect me to turn up at the scene of the crime, did you? Poor old Sir Eustace. He got what was coming to him."

"But you couldn't have killed him."

"Oh, so what? Does it matter? Stop it. Stop this. You don't care about Sir Eustace, or the Bride or any of it. There's only one thing in this whole business that you find interesting. The Bride put a gun in her mouth and shot the back of her head off, and then she came back."

The room began to rock. Sherlock closed his eyes and opened them as the disturbance stopped.

"But she did it, and you need to know how," the room shook again, "Don't you? It's tearing your world apart not knowing."

"You're trying to stop me to distract me, derail me."

"Because doesn't this remind you of another case? Hasn't this all happened before? There's nothing new under the sun," Moriarty smirked, "What was it? What was it? What was that case? Huh? D'you remember? It's on the tip of my tongue."

The room shook again before Sherlock spoke, "For the sake of Mrs Hudson's wallpaper, I must remind you that one false move with your finger and you will be dead."

"Dead...Is the new sexy."

In a quick movement, Moriarty raised the gun again and opened his mouth, pulling the trigger. He fell backwards and blood flew into the air. Sherlock winced, glancing at the bedroom door.

"Well, I'll tell you what: that rather blows the cobwebs away."

"How can you be alive?" Sherlock questioned.

"How do I look?" Moriarty turned, showing that the back of his head had been blown off, "You can be honest. Is it noticeable?"

"You blew your own brains out. How could you survive?"

"Maybe I could back-comb."

"I saw you die. Why aren't you dead?"

"Because it's not the fall that kills you, Sherlock. Of all people, you should know that. It's not the fall. It's never the fall. It's the landing."

Sherlock stumbled back into his chair. As he did so he was in a jet, his eyes closed. Suddenly, he was back in his seat on the jet. John, Mary, and (Y/n) stood in front of him. Mary was pregnant instead of (Y/n).

"No, no, no, not now, not now."

"Well, a somewhat shorter exile than we'd imagined, brother mine,although adequate given your levels of OCD," Mycroft entered the plane.

"I have to go back!" Sherlock shouted.

"I was- I was nearly there! I had it!"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Go back where? You didn't get very far," John stated.

"Ricoletti and his abominable wife! Don't you understand?"

"No, of course we don't. You're not making any sense, Sherlock," Mary said.

"It was a case, a famous one from a hundred years ago, lodged in my hard drive. She seemed to be dead but then she came back. She shot herself in the head, exactly like Moriarty," Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, "What progress have you made? What have you been doing?"

"Sherlock the proper question is what have you been doing?" (Y/n) asked.

"I've been in my Mind Palace, of course running an experiment: how would I have solved the crime if I'd been there in 1895?"

"Sherlock," (Y/n) sighed, "What did you take?"

"Did you make a list?" Mycroft added.

"You've put on weight. That waistcoat is clearly newer than the jacket," Sherlock looked at (Y/n), "You aren't pregnant."

"Of course I'm not Sherlock. Now stop avoiding it. Did you make a list?"

Sherlock pulled out a piece of paper and let it drop to the floor. John bent down and picked it up, his face filling with shock.

"We have an agreement, my brother and I, ever since that day. Wherever I find him whatever back alley or doss house, there will be a list."

"Sherlock I thought you were getting better," (Y/n) whispered. Sherlock looked up at her with sorrowful eyes.

"He couldn't have taken all of that in the last five minutes."

"He was high before he got on the plane," Mycroft huffed.

"You were high when we got married?" (Y/n) yelled, "It was already disorganized enough!"

"What are you doing?" Mycroft asked Mary, who was typing on her phone.

"Emelia Ricoletti, I'm looking her up. Unsolved, Sherlock is right."

"Could you all just shut up for five minutes?" Sherlock snapped, "I have to go back. I was nearly there before you stepped on and starting yapping away."

"Watch your tone," (Y/n) snapped back, making Sherlock shrink down, "Look, Sherlock I'm not mad, but you should have come to me. And you shouldn't have been high at our wedding."

Sherlock suddenly sat up, "What did you say?"

"That you shouldn't have been high at our wedding?"

"No, you said..."

Sherlock was back in Victorian London. (Y/n) and John were standing in front of him as he woke up.

"Morphine or cocaine? Which is it today?" John asked.

"Moriarty was here.I was on a jet."

"A what?"

"You two were there, and Mycroft."

"You haven't left these rooms, Holmes. You haven't moved. Now, tell me, morphine or cocaine?"

"Cocaine. A seven percent solution."

"Sherlock," (Y/n) grabbed Sherlock's hand, "I'm not mad, but you need to understand that I'm about to have a child. And what this child needs is a stable father."

"I should every bit of that and throw it out the window," John muttered.

"I should be inclined to stop you," Sherlock glanced at (y/n), "Or maybe not.

"If you try then you would be reminded which of us is a soldier and which of us a drug addict."

"You're not a soldier. You are a doctor."

"No, an Army doctor, which means I could break every bone in your body, while naming them."

(Y/n) smirked at the statement.

"Mr Holmes!" Billy ran into the room, "Mr Holmes! Telegram, Mr Holmes!"

Sherlock opened the telegram and read through it, "It's Mary. It's entirely possible she's in danger."

"Danger? What danger could Mary be in? I'm sure she's just visiting with friends."

"John, you must learn to know your wife better," (Y/n) stated, "She is truly more sneaky then you may think."

~*~

Later, the cab was racing through the countryside. (Y/n) looked read to jump out or throw up, leaning her head against the back and holding her stomach.

"I regret coming with you," she groaned.

John, dressed in modern day clothes, glared at Sherlock, "Sherlock, tell me where my bloody wife is, you pompous prick, or I'll punch your lights out!"

Sherlock looked up but John was back to time appropriate clothing, "She's at a desanctified church. She thinks she's found the solution, and for no better reason than that, she's put herself in the path of considerable danger. What an excellent choice of wife."

After the cab parked the trio ran out, finding Mary as she was hidden and waiting.

"I've found them," Mary pointed further into the building.

(Y/n) could hear chanting in the distance and her heart began to race at the ominous voices blending together.

"This is the heart of it all, the heart of the conspiracy."

The chanting was Latin, that's why it was so familiar. All of the people inside were wearing dark blue robes and had pointed conical hats on.

"It seemed obvious to me that this business could not be managed alone. My theory is that Mrs Ricoletti had help from her friends."

"Brilliant Mary," (Y/n) whispered.

"What's all this about? What do they want to accomplish?" Mary questioned.

"Why don't we go find out?"

Sherlock hurried away. He entered the main room full of the people. He picked up a large mallet and struck the gong that was near him.

"Sorry. I could never resist a gong. Or a touch of the dramatic."

"Never would have guessed," (Y/n) said sarcastically.

"Superlative theatre. I applaud the spectacle. Emelia Ricoletti shot herself, then apparently returned from the grave and killed her husband. So, how was it done? Let's take the events in order. Mrs Ricoletti gets everyone's attention. She places one of the revolvers in her mouth while actually firing the other into the ground. An accomplice sprays the curtains with blood and thus her apparent suicide is witnessed by the crowd below. A corpse bearing a strong resemblance to Mrs Ricoletti takes her place and is later transported to the morgue. A grubby little suicide of little interest to Scotland Yard. Meanwhile the real Mrs Ricoletti slips away. Now comes the really clever part. Mrs Ricoletti persuaded a cab driver – someone who knew her – to intercept her husband outside his favourite opium den. A perfect positive identification. The late Mrs Ricoletti has returned from the grave and with a little skilled makeup and you have nothing less than the wrath of a vengeful ghost. All that remained was to substitute the real Mrs Ricoletti for the corpse in the morgue. This time, should anyone attempt to identify her it would be positively, absolutely her."

"Every great cause has martyrs. Every war has suicide missions, and make no mistake, this is war. One half of the human race at war with the other," (Y/n) realized, "The people who are ignored, disregarded, not allowed so much as a vote, but who are just as powerful, if not more, than men."

One by one the women in the room pulled off their robes, revealing their faces.

"Sir Eustace knew her out in the States," that voice, it was from the morgue, though it was deeper earlier. It was Molly, "Promised her everything marriage, position, and then he had his way with her and threw her over, left her abandoned and penniless."

Janine stepped forward, "Emelia thought that she'd found happiness with Ricoletti, but he was a brute too. Emelia Ricoletti was our friend. You have no idea how that bastard treated her."

"But the Bride, we saw her."

"Yes, the sound of breaking glass. Wasn't a window. Just an old theatrical trick. It's called Pepper's Ghost. A simple reflection, in glass, of a living breathing person. Their only mistake was breaking the glass when they removed it. Look around you. This room is full of Brides. Once she had risen, anyone could be her. The avenging ghost, a legend to strike terror into the heart of any man with malicious intent; a spectre to stalk those unpunished brutes whose reckoning is long overdue. A league of furies awakened."

"All of the women men have lied to, betrayed, ignored. Once an idea like that is made it can't be killed," (Y/n) explained.

"This is the work of a single-minded person, someone who knew first-hand about Sir Eustace's mental cruelty. A dark secret, kept from all but her closest friends including Emelia Ricoletti the woman her husband wronged all those years before. If one disregards the ghost, there is only one suspect," Sherlock turned and faced the Bride that had come up behind him, "Isn't that right, Lady Carmichael? One small detail doesn't quite make sense to me, however. Why engage me to prevent a murder you intended to commit?"

"It doesn't quite make sense," Moriarty's mocking voice came from under the veil, "Of course it doesn't make sense. It's not real."

"No. No, not you. It can't be you," Sherlock muttered.

"I mean, come on, be serious. Costumes, the gong. Speaking as a criminal mastermind, we don't really have gongs, or special outfits. Is this silly enough for you yet? Gothic enough? Mad enough, even for you? It doesn't make sense, Sherlock, because it's not real. None of it. Not even the child you secretly want to have."

"What's he talking about?" John questioned.

"This is all in your mind. You're dreaming."

Sherlock opened his eyes and gasped. He was in a hospital room. John, mary, and (Y/n) were peering over him.

"I thought I would have to call Cas to bring you back," (Y/n) stated.

"Mrs Emelia Ricoletti. I need to know where she was buried," Sherlock said blearily.

"What, a hundred and twenty years ago? That would take weeks to find, if those records even exist. Even with my resources-"

"Got it," Mary announced, looking down at her phone.

~*~

Some time later, the group got out of a police car and followed Sherlock who had grabbed a shovel from the back of another police car.

"I don't get it. How is this relevant?" John questioned.

"I need to know I was right. My investigation was the fantasy. The crime happened exactly as I explained."

"The stone was erected by a group of her friends," Sherlock stopped in front of the woman's grave, "Mrs Ricoletti was buried here, but what happened to the other one, the corpse they substituted for her after the so-called suicide?"

"They moved it," (Y/n) stated.

"But where?"

"Not here!" John exclaimed.

"That's...That's exactly what they must have done. The conspirators had someone on the inside. They found a body, just like Molly Hooper found a body for me when I-"

John glared at Sherlock, making him stop talking abruptly.

"Yeah, well, we don't need to go into all that again, do we?"

Sherlock began to dig. John sighed angrily.

"When you're ready for a real case, the one with Moriarty, call me. I'm taking Mary home."

"You're what?"

"Mary's taking me home," John corrected.

The two walked away. (Y/n) looked at Sherlock, "I need to change, I'm still in a wedding dress. Call me when you have your answer."

~*~

Hours later, Sherlock, Lestrade, and Mycroft had reached the coffin. Sherlock opened it, seeing a body inside.

"No, no, no," Sherlock began to dig under the coffin, finding nothing.

"Bad luck, Sherlock," Lestrade stated.

Sherlock stepped back in shock as the arm on the skeletal corpse began to move. Suddenly, it leapt forward and Sherlock passed out.

He woke up on his side on a narrow rocky ledge. It was raining heavily. Or perhaps, it was spray from the massive waterfall plunging over the side of the mountain he was on. A few feet away, Moriarty stood looking at him.

"Congratulations. You'll be the first man in history to be buried in his own Mind Palace," Moriarty grinned.

"The setting's a shade melodramatic, don't you think?"

"For you and me? Not at all."

"What are you?" Sherlock yelled.

"You know what I am. I'm Moriarty. The Napoleon of crime," his eyes flashed black, "Recently made demon."

"Moriarty fled, he's gone."

"Not in your mind. I'll never be dead there. You once called your brain a hard drive. Well, say hello to the virus. This is how we end, you and I. Always here, always together."

Moriarty sprang forwards, beginning the fight of all fights with Sherlock, "Oh, you think you're so big and strong, Sherlock! Not with me! I am your weakness! Not John, not (Y/n). Me! Every time you stumble, every time you fail, when you're weak, I. Am. There!"

Moriarty punched Sherlock across the face and grabbed the edges of his coat, smirking as he tried to fight back.

"No, don't fight it. Lie back and lose!" Moriarty made Sherlock lean over the waterfall, "Shall we go over together? It has to be together, doesn't it? At the end, it's always just you and me."

Behind the two, a familiar voice spoke up.

"I think you left me out there."

John and (Y/n) stood side by side, both holding revolvers at the villain. Moriarty let Sherlock go and stepped back.

"That's not fair, there's three of you!"

"There's always three of us. Don't you read The Strand? On your knees and hands behind your head."

"Time you woke up, Sherlock," (Y/n) smiled when Sherlock looked at her in confusion, "I've been in different realities. I know when I'm in something of the sort."

"Of course. Of course you do, (Y/n)."

"What are we like, the other us?"

"John is smarter than he looks and you're even more lovely."

"We must be pretty damn good then."

"Pretty damn good," Sherlock confirmed.

"Urgh, why don't you just have that baby already," Moriarty groaned.

"This is for the ritual," (Y/n) kicked Moriarty in the back, sending him over the edge.

"So, how do you plan to wake up?"

"I should think like this," Sherlock stepped up to the edge.

"Are you sure?"

"Between you and me, I always survive a fall."

"How Sherlock?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson and wife."

Sherlock stepped backwards and grinned as he fell.

Sherlock jerked awake as the plane parked on the tarmac. He felt someone's hand on his cheek. Grinning, he looked up at (Y/n), "Miss me?"

"Sherlock? You alright?" John questioned.

"Yes, of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"'Cause you probably just OD'd. You should be in hospital," Mary stated.

"No time. I have to go to Baker Street now. Moriarty's back." Sherlock grabbed the list from Mycroft and ripped it up, "No use for that now."

Sherlock began to walk off the plane. Mary and John after him. As (Y/n) was leaving Mycroft spoke up.

"(Y/n), watch after him...Please?"

"You know I will."

"Good, you have to be interviewed, but after that, pick a place in the world, and have a good honeymoon."

"We will Mycroft."

(Y/n) walked out onto the tarmac towards Sherlock.

"Sherlock, hang on, so Moriarty is back then?"

"I never said he was back I said he's appeared."

"So he's not coming back."

"No, not right now, no question. But there's something even better, I know exactly what he's going to do next."

Sherlock opened the door and motioned for (Y/n) to get in. After she did he gave a grin to John before getting in and closing the door behind him.

~*~

"Flying machines; these, er, telephone contraptions. What sort of lunatic fantasy is that?"

"It was simply my conjecture of what a future world might look like, and how we might fit inside it," Sherlock stated, "From a drop of water, a logician should be able to infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara."

"Or a Reichenbach," (Y/n) added.

"You've written your account of this case haven't you?"

"Yes, still struggling with a name."

"'The Adventure of ... the Invisible Army.' 'The League of Furies' 'The Monstrous Regiment.'"

"I thought, 'The Abominable Bride'."

"Sherlock are you sure only a seven percent solution would help you create such a fantasy?" (Y/n) asked.

"Perhaps it was a bit more. In any case, I know I would be very much at home in such a world. But then I've always known I was a man out of his time."

"Yes," (Y/n) joined Sherlock in looking out the window, "I thought of a name for the child. Sherrinford."

Sherlock hummed in thought, "Sherrinford? The name does strike familiarity."

"Yes it did for me as well. Perhaps there's a Sherrinford in your little fantasy."

"Something along those lines."

(Y/n) looked out the window as the world below her changes. Customers were going into the sandwich cafe below. The streets was busy with cars. A black cab passed a number 11 bus as they drove past 221B where it was always 1895.