A/N: Guys. I cannot write kissing scenes. I can't. I have only known the basics from seeing it on TV and reading fanfiction. I'm going to be 18 in a few months and have not even kissed anyone besides those childhood bedtime kisses for my parents. I'm just putting this out there because there is a kissing scene and it's going to be all messed up with my naïve mind writing it.

I mean, I literally put in parenthesis when I wrote it out "(Work on this later because ew kissing scenes)." Pretty telling I'd say. I can't write it so if you guys want to, skip it.

With that said, I would like to thank every single one of you lovely readers for reading this terrible fanfiction. It has been a journey to write and a journey to see it flourish. I wasn't aiming for popularity at all, but the sight that a few people enjoyed it definitely spurred me forward. I mean, I made friends through this story and still have a few despite my antisocial tendencies to distance myself immediately before I get hurt or hurt them.

This will be the final chapter. As soon as you are reading this, you will see that it is completed. I have another story I want to add, but I want to finish another story if I can.

I'm a mixture of excited and sad that this story is finished. Honestly, this epilogue was the hardest thing for me to write. Partially because of the kissing scene that I have no idea what I was doing, but mostly because of the finality settling in.

My first Johnlock ending.

Well, thank you for joining me on this ride and have a lovely afternoon/evening/morning/or night.

Review/read/or favorite. Seeing as this is the final chapter, I guess following this story would be a little pointless, huh?

Ciao, darlings.


A Detective for a Muse

Chapter 29 – Epilogue

Sherlock POV

The bleached white tiles of the hospital met my eyes as well as the bland, tasteless walls. A few people resided in the chairs decorating the wall as they waited for whomever they cared for or for treatment for themselves.

I, however, was here for neither.

I was here strictly on a case. A rather tedious banter to be honest. A man and his son went to the lake, the son with a gun, and only the son came back with the father dead behind him. The son claimed to not have killed him, saying the murderer shot him as well, but with no evidence pointing to another individual being at the crime, the Yard was more than ready to claim the son as their culprit.

Rash fools who always went for the easiest prey.

That's why I was here at the hospital. Because of the wounds the son had achieved, I couldn't interrogate him at his home. In fact, he was the one who called for my help, however, the only way I was going to be able to speak to him was to appear here. I was hoping for answers more so than blubbering pleas of saving his name. Clearly if you complain to me about how life isn't fair it isn't going to get any better, is it?

After visiting the survivor, I planned to visit the estate at which he lived with his father's comrade and the daughter of said comrade for further questioning. If all went well, I will have all my information by noon and the case closed by evening.

Walking straight up to the desk, I waited impatiently as the clerk typed away with a bored expression on her face. It was only when I cleared my throat that she looked up.

I saw her gaze go up and down my form and wanted to scoff at her young naivety. Please. I could care less about sexual motivations. She'd have no luck in her advancements.

She straightened herself in her seat, changing her voice to sound soothing as she addressed me. "How can I help you, sir?"

She really was dense, wasn't she?

Shaking my head, I gave the name of the man with no added flirtations, much to her dismay. With a clipped reply with the room number, I turned and went on my way to find the room.

The cases recently had been rather dull. Lestrade has been trying to toss any case that he gets at me in hopes that I will move from this "mourning" stage I apparently have found myself in. My mood has been more irritable and less companionable in his opinion although if he would cease sending me quick, five-minute to solve cases then perhaps I would be in a better mood. Quick playthings like those only mock my curiosity not satiate it.

This case was not of his division, but with his added intimidation I managed to get myself to visit this survivor without too much trouble. It wasn't nearly enough to repay all those small cases, but it was a start.

I had yet to visit the actual crime scene, seeing as how the man who asked for my help was closer than the three-hour ride on the tube.

As expected, the room was guarded with two Yard men. As if a man who was shot in the leg could actually escape. Showing Lestrade's badge, I watched as they nodded before walking in, stuffing the thing back in my pocket for future use.

The male that was fixated on some show on the telly blinked as he saw me enter. It only took a moment before he recognized who I was. In the midst of what occurred to John and the sudden burst of fame I regrettably achieved, anyone could recognize me. This both made getting cases easier and difficult to the point I wished it never happened.

I pushed the thoughts away as the center focus of "a case" entered the forefront. That's all that mattered at this current moment, after all: my work.

Dragging the chair close to the gurney, I sat down and leaned onto my praying fingers.

"So, Mr. McCarthy," I began. "Why have you summoned me to help you on this case? It seems rather clear to the Yard that you have been the one who murdered your father." It was a jibe. Desperation allowed the tongue to loosen in hopes to prove me wrong.

"James," he corrected before looking me directly in the eye. "And I didn't kill my father. I didn't!"

"Two witnesses testified that they say you follow your father into the woods carrying a gun. Additionally, you have been seen arguing with your father at the spot of the crime and even raised your hand. Not ten minutes later you rush to the Moran's house to cry for help." I listed all the facts in order and watched as the young McCarthy's face fell at the evidence against him.

"You don't understand," he protested. "I went into the woods to hunt, not to follow my father. That's all. It was only when I heard my father call "Cooee" that I actually found my father. I will admit that we did argue, that much did happen, but I didn't kill him. When it seemed like we were getting nowhere, I was going to head back to the Hatherley Farm. On the way back I heard my father cry out and returned to find him…" his voice faltered before he cleared his throat. "He wasn't dead yet. I tried to save him but before I could do anything he died in my arms."

Mentally putting all this information away, I pressured further. "And what was it that the both of you argued about that caused such a dispute?"

"Nothing of importance," James replied quickly. "Oh, but if this is important, the last words I heard my father say was something about "a rat", but I don't really know the meaning. There was also a cloak, I swear I saw one, but I didn't bother grabbing it in my race to ask for help for my father."

While a little annoyed with his keeping information regarding the argument secret, I mulled over the other pieces of information and quickly put them aside for further investigation.

I was about to question further when a knock at the door interrupted my next question.

The clipped shoes tapped against the floor, but I didn't turn around to glare at the intruding presence as I wished to.

"Could you please come back in half an hour? At the current time I'm in greater need of your patient compared to your bothersome rambling of health."

Behind me, I heard the doctor still before quickly retreating out the room. Well, I didn't mean to scare him away, but if that got rid of him then so be it. I had a case to worry about, not the morals and ethics I seem to lack.

When I looked back at the patient, he was giving me an odd look.

"What is it?" I asked, annoyed that I seemed to have missed something.

"The doctor," he started slowly. "Looked as if he had seen a ghost. I swear he dropped ten shades and looked ready to faint on his feet. He was terrified, Mr. Holmes."

Frightened? Now there was a clue. While I'm sure the doctor means nothing in my case, the fact that he was quite morbidly afraid intrigued me.

"What did he look like?"

James pursed his lips in thought. "Sandy hair I guess? Maybe dirty blond? Brown eyes. He was kind of short and had a limp."

Everything fell into place and I froze just like that. My emotions and vessel seemed to pause in function, sputter as it tried to come to some rational understanding. It had hopes, suspicions, which I didn't want to believe. There was no way for it to be possible.

However, it wasn't exactly impossible.

"What's his name?" I asked breathless.

"What?" he exclaimed with a look of concern.

"His name!" I seethed and the patient blinked.

"I don't know? Something with a W in it. Waters? Whitman?"

"Watson?" I supplied and he snapped his fingers with a smile.

"Yeah! That's it! Watson. Nice enough fellow. Better doctor than most around here."

This couldn't be a coincidence. The odds of a short man with blonde hair and all of the accompanying features of John being named the same name was slim to none. There was only one acceptable reason and I was almost doubtful to believe it.

Almost.

With as little a farewell, and a slimmer promise of returning, I ran from the room. I went through each and every corridor, pausing in front of certain patient's rooms when I thought I heard his voice. I searched everywhere and yet it was like he disappeared from the face of the Earth again. If it hadn't been for the patient saying he saw him, I would have believed John to be a ghost.

Inside, my thoughts were in turmoil.

John. John Watson. He was alive. How? When?

Then a betraying thought entered my thoughts. Why didn't he came to see me? Did he blame me? What could have been so important as to keep away from me for two whole years?

I cursed mentally and almost ran into a nurse with my blind searching.

"Are you okay? May I help you?" she asked with worry in her eyes. I must have looked crazed in her opinion, racing through hallways in search of a man who may or may not be living.

"Do you know where Dr. Watson is? It's important that I see him right now."

She shook her head. "He left just now actually. He was rather quick about it. I remember him saying it was a family emergency. Did you want me to set an appointment for when he gets back? I'll just need a name and…"

"So you have an address?"

She leveled a glare at me. Her worry changed to suspicion and I wanted to groan at the sudden wall I was hitting. Of course there would be people here as protective as him as I was.

"I'm not allowed to give it to you," she stated slowly like I was a child she was trying to explain science to.

"And why is that?" I challenged, absolutely annoyed and frustrated at the same time with this determined woman.

"Because," she began. "You are not related to him. The only person on his records are his sister and her wife, not you, sir, as far as I know. I'm not going to reveal confidential information to a stranger." She huffed at the end as if putting our argument to a close.

"I am related to him," I said before I could think things through.

"Oh really?" she countered with a thin smile. "And how is that, dear? As far as I know, tall, dark, and pale don't run in his family."

"I'm…" I grasped at straws, finding something that wouldn't need to be checked or couldn't be checked. "I'm his fiancé. I have been trying to contact him for his sister, but I haven't been able to reach him. It's important that I do. Please."

The nurse narrowed her eyes at me in which I stared back with no hints of the lie I just told.

After a minute she sighed and motioned for me to follow her to the closest laptop.

Writing the address on a piece of paper, she handed it to me with a look that said "I will be asking John this later". Hopefully I will have found him by then so I could figure out where he had been in the last two years.

The cab ride was quick only because I told the driver I'd pay him double if he took any routes to get me there the quickest.

All but tossing the money in his general direction, I exited the cab and took a deep breath before observing the area I was in.

The house the cab stopped in front of was unfamiliar. It was a two story home in a neighborhood with homes that looked exactly the same. This must be Harry's home. John would have gone to her no doubt if he couldn't return home.

Knocking on the door, I waited as I heard footsteps and a child's laughter get closer.

When the door opened, it only took one look to see that the woman in front of me was Harry. It was all in the eyes and the way their faces were similar when determined or stubborn. A family trait. Another burst of giggles broke our stares as Harry adjusted the small child hanging on her hip. Her biological daughter? No. Adopted. Not nearly the same in facial features.

Harry seemed to know me as well from the looks of it. Good. That made introductions easier.

"Where is John Watson?"

Instantly, anger flared as she handed her daughter to another, shorter, blonde woman. Her hands were in fists by her side and tears in the corner of her eyes. Perhaps I had been wrong in my accusation? No, that had been John and this was the address.

"Where?" she repeated in a shrill pitch. "Six feet under! He is dead. Why are you here? To prod in my wounds? To put my entire family in mourning again? Is this some sick joke to you, Sherlock?"

I rolled my eyes at the knives that missed me. "He has to be here. The nurse told me so and you are his sister. You would be the first person he would go to."

"As an emergency contact," Harry clarified. "He isn't here. He hasn't been since I saw him last at my father's house years ago."

Flicking an annoyed glare at her, I took a step forward and watched her do the same. Definitely a Watson trait.

"I really don't have to time to…" I began but Harry interrupted me.

"Listen here, buddy," she growled.

It was quickly going to go downhill from there if someone didn't stop us. We were both equally stubborn people about the same person. Her acting was very good, but I knew that John was here. He had to be. I didn't care how much I had to withstand this woman's anger, I would find him.

"Harry."

A pause hung in the air and then Harry sighed and wiped the false tears from her eyes. Rotating her body, she revealed John.

And it was John. Army captain, doctor, guitarist, friend. John. It was him in the flesh. He looked the same if not healthier since the last time I saw him. His fingers were messing with the edges of his hospital scrubs as he nervously met my gaze. "Clara came and got me. It's… fine."

"John," Harry began but he shook his head.

"No, Harry. It's fine. I called him and he said it was inevitable for Sherlock to remain in the dark for too much longer anyways," John offered me a smile that was equal parts nervous and relieved. "You always could never be kept from information you pleased to have."

"Why…" I began but John shook his head as if to say 'not yet'.

Harry moved to the side begrudgingly, staring at me with a skeptic eye. I suppose Mycroft isn't the only older sibling protective of the younger. All the anger and frustration I felt in her direction dissolved when John spoke. I didn't have the need to fight her no longer anyways.

Placing his hand on the bannister, John began to ascend the stair case. "Come on Sherlock. Let's go to my room. That would be best to give you the answers you want."

I followed him silently, not sure what I felt. Emotions weren't my strong suit and with John's supposed death, anything his presence built fell away soon after. I wasn't sure if what I felt was anger, happiness, betrayal, or relief. There were no clear-cut decisions as to describe my clarity.

When I entered the room closest to the stairs, John closed the door behind me.

For a minute, none of us spoke. Silence reigned around us with John unsure what to say and I awaiting his answer.

Eventually, John sighed and leaned against the wall behind him, crossing his arms. "Look, Sherlock. I know you are angry…"

"Angry? You died, John. You were dead. I checked your pulse and respirations. As far as vitals went, you were deceased before I even found you."

John laughed. "Yeah, about that. It was a ruse."

"A ruse," I deadpanned and he nodded.

"To keep you alive," John began and I scoffed. At this he sent a scathing glare in my direction as if he was severely offended by my response. "No, Sherlock. Listen to me. That is the bloody truth and if you don't accept it then you are stupider than you thought you were. I was told that if I didn't do what I did, that you would be killed because of your attachment to me."

He took a shaky breath and his glare weakened. "I didn't want you to die, Sherlock. I didn't want you to go six feet under and not come back. I'm not sorry for that I did. I would do it again in a heartbeat if given the chance."

Anger bubbled inside me. I was angry at being deceived. Angry that he didn't come to find me. Angry that he waited two years and even then I had to find him. Anger was a part of me, but so was relief, as much as I hated to feel it, because John was alive.

I didn't know what compelled me to do so, but reaching out towards John, I grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and pulled him close. John's hands landed on my waist as one of my hands went up to his head and the other snaked around his waist. I could feel John shuddering against me and I let out a sigh of my own.

"You were gone. For two bloody years."

"I know."

"Why didn't you come to see me?"

"I was told to wait." I let out a laugh at this response but it hurt to do so. Not physically, but the burn that he couldn't see me because he was following idiotic orders emotionally did.

The hands around my hips tightened as John rested his forehead against my chest.

"I'm sorry," he spoke after a moment of silence.

A grimace crossed my features at the apology. "Sorry? I don't think sorry will work this time, John. You are two years late for that."

John backed up after I said that and I let my arms fall. I wished he didn't pull away now that he had, but with the numbness of the situation, I didn't have the audacity to protest such.

The doctor licked his lips and looked everywhere but at me. Judging by his closed face and retreating form, I could tell John was saddened by what I said.

"I'm not sorry I had to do that I did, Sherlock. I'm sorry that I ruined you and ruined what we had. That's what I am sorry for."

I was stunned at what he said. What we had? What exactly did we have? A supposed friendship I hoped. A potential romance perhaps. He didn't ruin them though. He had no part in ruining the status. He… It was ultimately my fault and the case that ruined the both of us and whatever we had, not him and his actions no matter how much they infuriated me so.

John, taking my silence in the wrong way, was about to turn away. Probably to get his bearings. To tell me that he was sorry yet again.

But I was through with his apologies.

Grasping at John's arm, I pulled him towards me and met his lips eagerly. I felt him gasp at the impact and we both winced as my impromptu kiss clashed our noses, but after a few clips with the teeth and a tilt from John's head, I felt his arms wrap around my shoulders instead of pushing me away.

My hands held his waist as I tried to get closer to him. Hands that roamed up and down his side and over his back as his own traveled through my locks.

Our kiss would break apart for only a second for breath before pressing against his own once more. Every ounce of anger. Every sense of betrayal and hurt I made known. I continued pressing forward, tilting his jaw upwards as his knees began to go weak. I couldn't tell if it was from the few tears I felt rather than saw go down his cheek or the heat of the moment.

It was as if all the emotions between us, around us, the ones that made us decided to flare at that moment and only motivated the other to continue despite the need to breathe or the unspoken words that wanted to be said.

"Two years," I growled as I nipped his bottom lip between my teeth. The gasp that resonated sent shudders along my spine as John's tongue battled against my own. Dominance ensued as we clashed, hands not knowing where to go, minds even more confused on what to do. I could hear John panting in front of me and knowing that I was doing that sent a spur of heat down to parts that made me groan at his growing confidence.

"I know," John replied in between kisses, moving his entangled hands to intertwine around my neck. Getting on his toes, his tongue gently traced the borders of my lips before he whispered. "And I'm sorry."

Hearing him apologize is what eventually broke our moment as much as it started it.

Because I didn't like hearing John apologize even though it was much needed. Even though his reason was what I wanted and I wished for nothing more than to understand why it was necessary to keep me away from him all this time, I didn't want to physically hear him apologize. It didn't make the pain better and it didn't help the situation between the both of us.

When I pulled away, John leaned into my shoulder, trying to catch his breath, not that I was any different.

"Two years," I repeated softly as John backed up to peer at my face. His hands remained comfortably balanced on my waist as he offered a bright smile.

It was the smile that made me realize John was a different man than two years ago. The genuine smile that I knew he had but had never seen before marked it. It was the John before the Army and before becoming my blogger. It was the John before the mission that ruined him. It was a happier John. If I had any opinion on the matter, I would say that he looked happier than I have ever seen him in a long time.

Grabbing one of his hands in my own, I intertwined the fingers. Without a thought, I brought the back of his hand to my lips and kissed it softly.

John was immediately flushed and all but sputtered, "What was that about?"

I tilted my head in thought before replying. "A promise."

"A promise?"

I nodded. "Between us both." After saying this, I watched as John's face went blank before growing slowly into apprehension and distress.

"Sherlock. I don't know if I can make a promise and…"

"John. I don't mean something as trivial and demanding as what you may be assuming," Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted one of the scars from his "demise" and kissed it softly. A noise came out of John's throat as he watched me that sent a knife through my heart. "I merely ask for your companionship again. Nothing more unless you wish."

"Besides," I perked up, smirking. "I have a case. A father was killed and the son is being accused of the murder since he was seen with the gun that shot his father. Witnesses saw them arguing, but they did not see who pulled the trigger. The Yard is quick to name the son as the culprit, but I doubt they are right."

John's distress nearly vanished in the light of his amused grin. "Of course it isn't that easy, now is it, Sherlock?"

I scoffed. "Obviously." Smiling at the small banter I had missed these two years, I continued. "I have a lead and I'm positive I can do it by myself.

"But," I interrupted whatever John was going to say. "I would be alone without my blogger."

Instead of an immediate answer, John took a step closer and used his other hand to tilt my chin so my lips would meet his. It was a chaste kiss in contrary to the hunger from before. An accepting exchange.

"Of course," he rolled his eyes when he backed away once more, smirking. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. As you say, the case is on."


A/N: Finally for those who read the books, like I do, I did reference one of the cases heavily with little touches to not make it completely copying it. Like, in the story the son didn't get shot and all that.

The case, for those who are wondering, was called the Boscombe Valley Mystery in the books. I'd read it. I mean, I found it fairly interesting, hence why I referenced it as heavily as I did. :)