EPILOGUE

There is kissing. And like he is with everything, Sherlock is relentless. He seems as though someone abandoned on a desert island with no human contact for years. He stalks John around the apartment. And John lets him. He lets Sherlock do all sorts of things he never did before. And it's all more than fine.

Mrs Hudson is the first to find out. It goes rather naturally, even. She's been convinced of their courtship for years, after all. It doesn't take much more than John's arm snaked around a sleeping Sherlock on the couch to get a knowing look and an offer to lower the rent if she could reclaim the other bedroom as linen storage.

Molly gives John a hug. And it seems genuine. John doesn't tell her he's sorry even if he wants to. It's not like there was ever any real competition.

Lestrade and his ilk turn out to be more palatable in their reactions than John had expected. After all, it had been a running joke for years. The humour's sort of deflated now that it's actually true. And Sherlock seems so uncharacteristically happy that he doesn't even get annoyed with Anderson anymore. Lestrade looks as his smiling face and wonders out loud whether Holmes has finally, irrevocably lost it. He hasn't. It's quite the opposite.

On a Thursday morning, when John heads to the kitchen, Sherlock passes him a cup of tea. Half of it is spilled moments later when Sherlock refuses to let him pass until they've had a proper snog. Somewhere halfway through, John opens his eyes when he hears a distinct electronic shutter sound. "Sherlock, what-"

Sherlock has John's iPhone in hand and is straining his arms, admiring his handiwork.

John plonks the messy cup onto the kitchen table. "Sherlock Holmes, you did not just take a picture of us -"

He doesn't get a reply, as Sherlock is engrossed in typing something with the phone. John's phone. "What are you –" John tries to grab it but to no avail, damn Sherlock's height and his longer arms. He shoots Sherlock an unappreciative glance, tugging his robe tighter as it had sort of loosened during all the commotion. It always seemed to do that with Sherlock around. He gives up and sighs. "Who'd you text?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock replies matter-of-factly, and stomps back into the kitchen to grab some toast.

"Why?" He'd actually meant to ask if Sherlock really thought this was the most constructive way to inform Mycroft Holmes of their renegotiated terms of their flatshare arrangement.

"Because he needs to know that this time," Sherlock actually smirks at John, "Mycroft, the grand master of incessant meddling and pessimist advice was wrong."

John's couldn't agree more. And he could never get enough of the evidence.

- The End -

Notes:

It seems I've got a penchant for using women as a catalyst for John and Sherlock realizing certain home truths. I did that with Mary in a previous study and it's the sister's turn.

Part of the inspiration for this story came from a Steven Moffatt interview concerning "Sign of Three" where he stated that "[Sherlock would] really like to be a sociopath. But he's so fucking not." It seems evident that Sherlock is sometimes using his real of self-professed diagnoses as a crutch to avoid addressing certain things. Where all this comes from, I wanted to explore. Mycroft ended up being quite the villain but hopefully it shines through that I really like him as a character as well and he's a lot of fun to write.

The title comes from "A Scandal In Belgravia" – this is how Mycroft condescendingly describes Sherlock. Their mutual dynamic is fascinating: the acid way in which Sherlock addresses his older brother is much viler than the way in which Mycroft is treated in return.

I am most grateful for the help I received from the lovely A and the brilliant whitchry9. They pointed out how quilty John was feeling, graciously helped me look for Sherlock's pants and made me realize the punctuation mark rules of the English language often completely elude me.

The writing process was accompanied by these mood-setting songs:

I Could Be – Kyla La Grange (this is bound to be one of the most beautiful songs ever written about unrequited love)

Cut Your Teeth – Kyla La Grange

Catalyst – Kyla La Grange

Raise The Dead – Kyla La Grange

Cannibals – Kyla La Grange

Lyssa – Kyla La Grange

Heavy Stone – Kyla La Grange

Drumming Song – Florence & The Machine

Graceless – The National

Available – The National

This Is The Last Time – The National

Thirsty – The National