CHAPTER 12

EPILOGUE

In a self-interested hope, Holmes had given Mary Morstan an envelope with a sizeable amount of cash when she wed Dr. John Watson, hoping for it to have the effect of a one-time alimony payment as opposed to a wedding gift. She was also able to pawn both her wedding and engagement rings, as well as John's ring, which he sent to her in an well-padded envelope without any note attached. "I really should say something, like perhaps 'sorry'", Watson argued.

"No, you shouldn't. Apologizing admits liability. You don't have much in the way of assets and you don't want her getting half of that. After all, Gladstone had grown rather attached to me in your absence." Holmes smirked, waiting for Watson's response.

"I was only gone for a week, Holmes."

"He's sleeping in my room now."

"We all sleep in your room now." Holmes smirked in response.

Ten years after Watson's return to 221 Baker Street, in the midst of running down a particularly cunning murder, the doctour was shot. Luckily, Lestrade was just a few steps behind the duo, and the bullet was dislodged from Watson's side quickly, but Holmes had lost his usual cool composure. It was then that, for once, Lestrade was forced to carry Holmes through a tense, worrisome half hour until Watson was bandaged up.

"I would have thought that you'd have kept going after Jensen, knowing that we were right behind you, Holmes."

"Of course not! Without Watson, I am merely a fool running around, playing with chemicals and tracking the unsavory of our society. I am nothing. I am trivial. Not even the dog likes me best! In fact, John is the one person in this whole damned world who cares about me more than he cares about anyone else." Holmes had taken to dressing Watson's wound himself.

"I... suppose I never realised that," Lestrade replied, a bit shocked.

"Well then," Holmes said for the second time in his life, "it appears that you have a firm grasp of the obvious, at last."

Their bruises had healed shortly after they reunited. And, long after Dr. John Hamish Watson deserted his newly married wife, the only reminder of that day was a wet plate of the two men that had been moved from Sherlock's desk to rest upon their mantle.

To all of the outside world, the Army veteran doctour and the eccentric detective were merely bachelor roommates. To Mrs. Hudson, they were two friends who were inseparable to the point where maybe it had destroyed the older man's marriage. To Lestrade, they made up an indispensable duo that spent countless hours giving Scotland Yard free assistance. To Mary Morstan, they were bastards (she blamed Holmes for the quick dissolution of her marriage – after all, John had loved her so!). But, in reality, the two men were each other's life rafts – they had long had an easy daily relationship, and ordinarily with sex comes comfort, and with comfort, love. For the doctour and the detective, however, love had entered the picture long before either one of them decided to act on their sexual urges. While it took Watson longer to reciprocate Holmes' love due to the vestiges of his father's tirades, Holmes was completely, hopelessly in love with Watson for longer than he cared to admit. And while he refused to admit it to anyone else, he would make it his last declaration to tell Watson those exact words before he left this corporeal world.