For anyone who's interested, I made a pinterest board of things, images, and even recipes related to this fic (I'm shinysherlock on pinterest as well). Also, a note of greatest thanks to Armada for betawork, to Esterbrook and significanceofmoths for fancy pen advice, and to neverrwhere for what shop John might visit. I am a lucky writer indeed to have such knowledgeable and helpful folk around me.

Epilogue.

Weeks passed, and with the journal safely tucked away, John found his life filled with the sort of adventures he was used to-but also the sort he wasn't. Of course, there was the usual running across rooftops and researching all night, but now he found himself in the wonderful but curious situation of romancing an amorous Sherlock.

Perhaps 'romancing' wasn't quite the word for it; there weren't flowers or chocolates or declarations of emotion. No, their wooing was entirely physical, often without preamble, and though John was hardly complaining, a part of him did miss the way they'd communicated in the journal. A side effect of this was that he'd found his investment in writing his blog renewed tenfold, as well as his interest in Sherlock's reactions to his entries. But the blog was not exactly a sentimental endeavor.

When the solution occurred to him, his hand shot up to smack his own forehead.

Obvious.

He'd wandered into Marylebone High Street, still telling himself that he was just window shopping, but when he stepped inside the store it smelled of leather and fresh paper and he found himself standing at the counter with a new, blank journal in his hands. It was heavy, filled with thick, cream-colored pages, and the leather cover was a butter-soft nubuck, dyed a deep indigo. John couldn't keep his fingers from running over it.

"Excellent choice, sir."

Startled out of his reverie, John looked up at the saleswoman, an immaculately dressed older woman with dark brown skin, her greying black hair pulled back into a tidy chignon.

He could barely let the journal go long enough for her to ring it up.

"Will that be all for you today, sir?" she asked sweetly, and John almost said yes, of course, but then he glanced down and saw the pens.

Well. In for a penny, in for several hundred pounds.

An hour of testing later, John walked out with the indigo journal and a shiny black fountain pen tucked in a bag under his arm.

That afternoon, while Sherlock was off at St. Bart's Hospital, pestering Molly to let him use the chemistry lab, John sat at the desk in the sitting room of their flat and opened the journal to the first blank page.

He uncapped his ridiculously expensive new pen, ready to press the nib to paper . . . and instantly his mind went blank. He had thought he would come up with something clever, something poignant, but what he came up with was this.

My dear Sherlock,

I've bought this lovely journal (which lacks magical properties of any kind) and a very, very fancy pen to write in it with. Perhaps you can deduce which one from the way the ink flows onto the paper. I'll give you a prize, even.

I can't explain why I felt the need to spend an obscene amount of money on these items (oops, that's a clue, I suppose) but the act of writing to you again, in this way, is utterly worth it, even if it means eating beans on toast for a few weeks.

In these pages, I feel free to say the things I can't seem to tell you face-to-face. Perhaps because if I have these feelings when I'm near you, I want to express them physically, not verbally. In fact, we're pretty amazing at non-verbal communication, I'd say. In those moments, the only word that I can form is your name, over and over like a prayer.

I think you know I love you, but can there be any harm in telling you, in putting it down in black and white?

I love you.

Have for a long time, now. For all my complaining and sighing, you must know that there is nowhere I would rather be than by your side, and it is my greatest joy and privilege to do so.

Yours,

John

He wrapped the thin leather tie around the journal and left it on his side of the desk, sure that Sherlock would see it, sooner or later, and, sooner or later, read it. Walking over to the coat rack, John tucked the pen into the breast pocket of his shooting jacket and went about making dinner.

The next morning the journal was on the kitchen table between the microscope and five pieces of abandoned burst toast. John set down his black and white striped mug of coffee and untied the binding, his fingers sliding over the words he'd written, his eyes drawn to Sherlock's response.

I've loved you for ages.

And I know exactly what I'm prize I'm going to request from you. Something exquisite.

Something new.

The words sent a shiver over John's skin, a little shudder of anticipation and then the spreading warmth of a deep, resounding love. Below, Sherlock had written his first guess.

Parker Centennial.

John smiled and pulled out his pen.

No.

Waterman Exception.

Nope.

Montblanc Starwalker.

Try again.

Pelikan Souveran M600.

Time to collect your prize.

The light of the full moon spread into the dark spaces of John's room, highlighting the curves of their entwined bodies in shades of blue and black. Boneless and sated, John lay half on top of Sherlock, his hand resting on Sherlock's chest, tracking the rise and fall of his every breath as Sherlock dozed. He felt the heartbeat beneath his hand, calm and strong, and it seemed as though his own heart slowed its pace to match Sherlock's rhythm, a soft thump thump, like the comforting snick snick of the pocketwatch marking time.

Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading; this fic took almost a year to complete-real life requiring a four month hiatus in the middle there-and I appreciate all your patience and enthusiasm along the way. Hugs for everyone.