The hair that Sherlock had collected from the brush proved to be a match to the hair collected at the crime scene. When Lestrade showed up with Donovan and a squad of officers to take Emmanuel Brown into custody, John still felt a feeling of minor betrayal. He and Sherlock stood in the hallway as they removed the man from his apartment and brought him in for questioning as a prime suspect. It was a shock to see a blonde man in cuffs and women's clothing, although he had no make-up on. Without the wig and contacts, he looked like a completely different person. They could now match him to the CCTV footage as both a man and a woman.
"Bloody good work," congratulated Lestrade. "Sometimes I don't know what we'd do without you!"
This comment had the effect of finger nails on a chalk board to Sergeant Donovan, who viewed every success of Sherlock's as a failure of her own. She merely pursed her lips together, and looked away as she walked passed Sherlock. He had the grace, this time, to remain silent.
Poor Mrs. Hudson was in a complete tizzy when she learned that she had let the flat to a killer, and that Emma was really a man.
"Oh, my!" she said, clutching her robe together in dismay. "You just never know about people these days! She seemed so nice, too! Oh, he. It's all so confusing! I'm going to have a tea...with brandy for the nerves."
Sherlock put his hand on her shoulder in a rare gesture of comfort. There were very few people that he actually showed concern for, and she was one of them.
"Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson. Nothing gets past John and I," he said.
She loved it when he was kind, because more often than not he was surly and distant. But it was moments like these that reminded her that she was special to him.
"Thank you, dear," she said, patting his hand.
John and Sherlock returned to their own flat and took their regular positions. John sat at his computer and began a new blog entry, while Sherlock paced about the room in search of his next distraction. He looked over John's shoulder as he typed the blog title: A Case of Identity.
"How tedious," he criticized. John rolled his eyes skyward and sighed.
"What would you call it then?" he challenged.
"She's The Man?" quipped Sherlock. They both began laughing.
"Good, that's actually very good," said John.
As the evening deepened, they both became absorbed in their own diversions, barely even speaking again before bedtime. And so, John Watson, displaced lonely army veteran, and Sherlock Holmes, lonely intellectual genius, continued life as flatmates, both enriched by their unlikely friendship.
