An enormous thank you to all of you who read and reviewed or just read (and liked, hopefully).

There were moments when I really thought I wouldn't ever finish this story. In the end, it took me for ridiculous years, but here it is. The final part, the epilogue. And with that, this story is complete. And I really hope you'll like the conclusion.

Enjoy.

Never By Halves

18 – Epilogue

Two eyeballs were stewing in a saline-filled pot on the stove – an experiment to measure the density of the human conjunctiva post-death – when Sherlock's mobile pinged with an incoming text message.

With a sigh, he pulled back from his microscope – the eyeball experiment was the third in a row of six in total, with the results of the second one (tongue in saline) currently on the slide of the microscope – and reached for his phone.

One unread message, the screen informed him, from John Watson.

The baby's coming, the text read. St Mary's hospital. Now.

Sherlock stared at the screen for a few seconds. Baby. John and Mary's baby. Coming. About to be born. Of course. Of course. Mary's due date had been four days ago, so of course. Of course.

Of course.

For a moment, he debated typing a reply, but then decided against it. Congratulations, he assumed, were in order only after the child was born, and John would probably not appreciate that breach of custom. Sherlock pocketed his mobile and returned his attention to the microscope.

Unfortunately, the results on the slide didn't make sense. Or, more precisely, Sherlock's brain was not willing to focus on them.

Because, unfortunately, his thoughts kept wandering to John, to John and Mary and the child about to be born.

For all three of you, he had vowed on John and Mary's wedding day, and he had meant it. He meant it still, but he was also aware that the birth of John and Mary's baby would change everything.

You're my best friend, John had told him a few weeks ago, when he'd been recovering from a bout of pneumonia, and Sherlock believed him. John had spent quite a lot of time at 221B since then, and sometimes Mary had accompanied him, and as much as Sherlock appreciated it, he knew it couldn't last. He had known it at the day of their wedding – in spite of what John had told him, what John had said, in spite of the fact that John still, after everything that had happened, that Sherlock had done, seemed to, for whatever reason, consider Sherlock his best friend, they were hardly going to need him around any more, now that they were to be parents to a real baby.

John would make time for him, would try to, Sherlock knew that, because it was who John Watson was, but of course John's family would win out in the end, as they should. As they should.

Alone is what I have, his own voice mocked him, from years ago. Before he had hurt John, before he had caused John grief and pain. Alone protects me.

The truth was, John Watson protected him; John Watson kept him right. But John, the man who'd saved Sherlock, in more ways than Sherlock could count, the best man Sherlock had ever met, the man who honoured him by calling him his best friend, the man Sherlock would not hesitate to do anything for, deserved this. Deserved a chance at normal, at a normal, peaceful life, with his wife and his child.

And Sherlock would never find it in him to begrudge him that.

It was, he concluded, better this way. He presented a danger to those he loved, as he had tried to explain to John a few weeks ago, and John had been targeted because of his affiliation with Sherlock far too often already. He hadn't made any progress with the case, the most important case of them all, and if Moriarty was back, truly back, then he would represent a greater danger to John than ever.

It was better this way, for John. Sherlock would just be fine on his own.

He was still staring straight ahead, into nothing, when Mrs Hudson entered the kitchen, huffing and tutting under her breath.

"Sherlock!" she scolded, and he flinched, came back to reality. The eyeballs, he remembered, should be ready by now. "Why didn't you answer the door?"

He didn't look up at her. Busied himself – pretended to busy himself – with his microscope instead. "Working," he replied curtly.

"Now?" Mrs Hudson exclaimed. She wanted to say something else, probably, she always did, which was why he usually had her on semi-mute, but footsteps on the stairs, approaching his flat, his kitchen, stopped her.

A client, Sherlock mused. With a nice, challenging case. Of course, it wouldn't be the same without John, but he would have to make do.

But when he straightened and turned to stand, it wasn't a client, but John and Lestrade, barging into his kitchen.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed. "What the hell are you still doing here?"

Sherlock didn't understand. "I'm conducting an experiment on the density of the human conjectiva," he explained.

John rolled his eyes. "No, you idiot. Didn't you get my text?"

The text. Ah, yes. That had been fast, hadn't it? Childbirth was not his area of expertise, but he clearly remembered reading that the birth of the first child tended to take hours... Had hours passed already? "Oh," he said. "Congratulations."

John's eyes widened. Greg, next to John, broke into laughter.

Sherlock didn't understand. "What?" he asked. "Did I do something wrong? Isn't that what you're supposed to say?"

"Yes," Lestrade managed to say, in between his chuckling, "yes, you are, but after the child's been born."

After the child... after... Oh.

Oh. Of course.

Sherlock frowned. "Then why are you here?" he asked.

John was shaking his head. "Jesus," he muttered. "I'm here because my wife is having a baby and we want the godfather of our daughter to be there when she's born, and because I need my best friend with me because I'm bloody terrified, and because my dense best friend didn't get it when I sent him a text to tell him to come to the hospital now."

Because John needed his best friend with him, and because his dense best friend didn't get it when John sent him a text... Oh.

"Oh," Sherlock made.

John nodded. "Yes," he said. "So. You coming?"

Sherlock still didn't move. "You...," he began. "You want me there? In the hospital?"

John nodded again. "Yes, of course I want you there."

Sherlock blinked. "And... and Mary?"

John nodded again. "Yes, she too. She sent me to get you, actually."

Sherlock tried to process. "Oh," he made again. "And... he's the godfather?" He gestured towards Lestrade.

John and Lestrade exchanged a glance. "No, you moron," Lestrade said. "I'm the driver. Police car." He grinned. "Gets me everywhere, and fast."

"Sherlock," John said. "We want you to be her godfather." He faltered. "That is, if you want to."

Sherlock could only blink. Godfather... godfather. John's child. John's daughter. John wanted him there. Godfather. Godfather.

"Sherlock?" John's voice sounded far away, distant, and Sherlock snapped back to reality only when John's hand appeared on his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock tried to speak. "Yes," he managed finally. "Yes, of course."

John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were all staring him. Waiting for something, apparently.

Godfather...

He had never in his life considered to be chosen as a guardian, as a godfather, for any child, but he should have known that of course John Watson would surprise him once again. For a moment, panic washed over him, but then he looked at John, at the joy, the hopefulness on John's face, the trust, trust in him, Sherlock Holmes, and he found himself nodding. "I...," he croaked. His throat, he noticed, had narrowed considerably, and his voice was hoarse. "I would be honoured."

John grinned at him, and Sherlock had to smile, too.

"Good," John said. "Come on, then."

Sherlock remained where he was for a few more seconds, while his brain was trying to process what had happened, what was happening.

John and Lestrade were already at the stairs. "Coming?" John called.

John's voice startled Sherlock into movement. "Coming," he echoed, grabbed his coat from the hook at the door and followed John.

Thank you for reading.

...

I feel like I should do some kind of... acknowledgements, you know, to thank every single one of you who inspired me to keep writing this story, but if I did that, I'm afraid it'd be longer than the actual story. I also feel like thanking all of you who kept reading and stuck to this story until its very completion in a really poetic and meaningful way, but unfortunately, I can't think of anything beautifully poetic. (I also thought about quoting something, but the only thing that came to mind was "it was no bed of roses, it was no pleasure cruise... I thank you all!") So... I'll just add something in my own words: please, please know that I'll be eternally grateful for your support and your patience! Thank you, all of you, so much!

Love, Gwen