Hi guys, this was a totally unplanned epilogue. It's very light-hearted, contrary to the other chapters. Hope you like it. It's pretty long.

Also this is the end of the story. Can you believe it? I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I loved writing it. Also Thankyou to all the readers, favourited and followers. You literally encouraged me to keep writing.

And not to forget my wonderful reviewers,ellie.elle.elle, corynutz, Shadowvixen89 and Wonderwomon.

Wonderwomon since I can't PM you here's my reply : I'm really glad you loved the story and I'm touched that it brought you to tears. And thankyou for the wonderful idea for publishing the story. And for Holmes being brought to Mrs. Hudson's room, I admit I never thought of that. But I guess Holmes would be more comfortable in familiar surroundings. But thankyou for the tip. And thankyou again for that wonderful review.

Corynutz : Thankyou for your sweet review. I loved it.

Ellie and Shadowvixen : I know I PMed you but thankyou again anyway.

And for all the readers out there if there is anything you want me to write a story on, I'd love to take prompts.I can write Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock Holmes, Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, Avengers (MCU) fanfics.

Now on to the epilogue. Enjoy ...

Epilogue

(Brothers not in blood, but in bond)

It was just another normal day. Atleast as normal as it gets in the life of one John Watson.

Watson groaned and sat up in his bed, squinting at the time in the meagre light from the candle.

It was 2:18. In the morning.

He was going to kill Sherlock Holmes.

With another groan he flopped back onto his bed in an attempt to get back to sleep ... in vain.

It had been nearly two weeks since Holmes was stabbed and he was nearly back to normal.

That is if the crashes and bangs downstairs were any indication.

Muttering curses and profanities under his breath, Watson rolled off his bed and stomped down the stairs into his and Holmes' living room.

And there was the great Sherlock Holmes in all his glory.

Well, glory was a gross overstatement. He was wrapped up in his tattered dressing gown, his hair resembling one of the worst kinds of bird's nests, waddling through piles of newspapers, plates still full of stale food, letters, important evidences ("extracted" from crime scenes), tobacco ash and all types of clothes strewn about carelessly.

As Watson watched, mouth slightly agape, the detective, who was now resembling a mix of a child in search of its parent and an old man who has had too much to drink, slipped on a forgotten marble and landed with a thud on his arse.

This (unfortunately for Watson) gave him a view of the doctor standing in the doorway.

"Watson !!! What are you doing up so early? I didn't think you were an early riser. Come in and join me, old boy. I was just having a slight recap of all that I've missed in the past week. Utterly dull. It seems that the criminal network of London was officially on holiday for the past couple of weeks. And the one murder committed was so careless that even the Scotland Yard idiots have found out the criminal. Maybe the bed rest you absolutely insisted that I take had its uses after all. For now I am fit as a fiddle to go to some far off countries in search of crimes to solve."

Holmes would have gone on and on about his plans to desert London, if Watson had not interrupted him by throwing a crumpled ball of a month old newspaper which (what with Watson having been a soldier with a perfect aim) rebounded off Holmes' nose.

The expression on Holmes' face was quite comical and despite his annoyance at the detective, Watson's mouth curled into a smug and amused smirk.

Maneuvering around the mess as best as he could, he stood in front of the now scowling Holmes and crossing his arms, said "Holmes, do you know what the time is?"

Sighing at Holmes' confused stare, he said "It's 2:30 in the bloody morning. What the hell are you doing blundering about at this time and interrupting my first real sleep I've had in two weeks?"

And it was true. During the time of Holmes' healing the doctor had taken naps in the armchair so as to be near his friend if he was needed. And he was needed lots of times. For most of the days Holmes had been battling a fever and hallucinations brought on by it. Only the past three or four days had he well enough to get out of bed and loiter about.

A look of guilt flashed in Holmes' eyes and he looked at the floor.

"I'm sorry for being a burden, Watson" Holmes mumbled.

Watson sat down on the floor next to Holmes.

"Come now, Holmes. You know that I am not angry with you. I am just tired. But don't ever think that you are a burden. You are my best friend and you always will be."

Holmes smiled in relief and said, "So are you, my dear Watson."

They grinned at each other.

"Now then. You asked me what I was doing Watson. I was actually looking for the gift" said Holmes.

"Gift? What are you talking about, Holmes?" Watson asked him, confused.

"Aha! Here it is. This, dear boy, is a present to you, to appreciate all that you have done for me during the past weeks ... and before. You know, since you became my friend" Holmes declared, brandishing a plain black box.

Watson received the box carefully with trepidation and curiosity.

"Don't worry. There's nothing of harm in there. Open it, Watson."

"Holmes, your definition of harm and mine vary a lot."

But unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he popped open the lid.

WHAM.

Watson let out a (manly) shriek, his hands coming up to clasp his injured eye.

Watson stared at the previously innocent box which now had a rubber fist bobbing about attached to a spring.

Then slowly he turned to look at Holmes who was goggling at the box, his eyes wide.

With a gulp, the detective raised his eyes to meet Watson's.

"Watson, in my own defence ... " was as far as he got before the doctor pounced.

"A gift ... you ... said" PUNCH. SHATTER.

"I got ... the wrong ... box" THUD. SCREECH.

"I'm ... going ... to murder ... you" CLATTER. SMASH.

"I'm ... injured" PUNCH. BANG.

Breathing hard the two friends stood at the opposite ends of couch's armrest.

"That's why I aimed for your face and not your stomach" Watson smirked.

"Anyway ... I gave you the wrong box. The real gift is over there" said Holmes, pointing to the table. Seeing Watson's scowl, he added, "Alright, alright. I'll check it again."

Holmes stumbled to the table and opening the other black box, peered inside.

"There, see? It's harmless"

Watson accepted it and opening the box, he gasped.

For inside was a wooden carving of Holmes and Watson, hands clasped together, pointing a gun towards an imaginary criminal.

And at the bottom was scrawled 'Brothers not in blood, but in bond'.

Gently and with reverence, Watson took it out.

"Holmes, it's ... beautiful. It really is. Did you make it yourself?"

"Well, seeing as I had nothing else to do during the past couple of days ... "

He was interrupted by a hug. Silently they stood in each other's arms, enjoying the moment.

As they parted, footsteps echoed rapidly and Inspector Lestrade came in.

"Mr.Holmes, doctor Watson. There's been a murder, sirs. Two in fact. No sign of a break in. But it ain't suicide either. You've got to take the case." Lestrade said.

Grinning, Holmes turned to a likewise grinning Watson.

As one they said, "The game is on."

And they rushed out after the inspector, Watson a little behind, gathering his cane and his and Holmes' revolver.

And the carving stood on the mantelpiece, a symbol of their everlasting friendship.