Epilogue

Sherlock took off his latex gloves and turned towards Donovan. "Wrong. It's one possible explanation of some of the facts." He moved around the victim's living room towards Anderson. "You've got a solution that you like, but you're choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."

"Like?" asked Anderson.

"The wound was on the right side of his head," said Sherlock.

"And?" said Anderson.

"Van Coon was left-handed." Sherlock went into an elaborate mime as he demonstrated his point, pretending to try and point a gun to his right temple with his left hand. "Requires quite a bit of contortion."

"Left-handed?"

"Oh, I'm amazed you didn't notice," said Sherlock sarcastically. "All you have to do is look around this flat." He pointed to the table beside the sofa. "Coffee table on the left-hand side; coffee mug handle pointing to the left. Power sockets; habitually used the ones on the left. Pen and paper on the left-hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down messages with his left. Do you want me to go on?"

"No, I think you've covered it," said John tiredly from his spot by the door.

"Oh, I might as well," said Sherlock. "I'm almost at the bottom of the list."

John nodded expectantly.

Sherlock pointed towards the kitchen. "There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left." He turned to Anderson with an impatient look on his face. "It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head. Conclusion: someone broke in here and murdered him. Only explanation of all the facts."

"But the gun," said Donovan. "Why—"

"He was waiting for the killer," Sherlock interrupted. "He fired a shot when his attacker came in."

"And the bullet?" asked Donovan.

"Went through the open window," explained Sherlock.

"Oh, come on!" said Anderson. "What are the chances of that?"

"Wait until you get the ballistics report," said Sherlock. "The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun. I guarantee it."

"But if his door was locked from this inside, how did the killer get in?" asked Donovan.

Sherlock nodded condescendingly. "Good! You're finally asking the right questions."

Donovan shook her head in disgust at his attitude.

Sherlock nodded at Greg. "Inspector." He turned towards the door, heading over to toss the examination gloves in the waste bin.

Donovan leaned towards Anderson, muttering loudly enough for the others to hear, namely one consulting detective. "I don't care if he is Sherlock Holmes. He's still a freak."

Sherlock turned back towards them, giving her an amused smile. "Oh, Donovan, you have no idea." He then pulled his deerstalker out of his coat pocket and tugged it on, striding out the flat's door.

John and Greg gave each other a smile before John followed Sherlock into the rest of the building.

John caught up to Sherlock at the head of the stairs. "You know, they probably think you're some kind of psychopath now."

"Who cares?" Sherlock brushed off, trotting down the stairs.

John chuckled as he followed behind, reaching the lobby as Sherlock came to a stop just before the front door. "What is it?"

Sherlock was peering through the small window next to the door. "They found me."

John sighed as he stepped up to the door to have a look. "Well, you did ask for it." He looked at his friend. "Ready?"

"Yes," said Sherlock.

John opened the door, and Sherlock swept out amid a multitude of camera flashes. John stepped out after him, and they pushed through the reporters to the street.

"Taxi!" Sherlock called, raising his hand.

A cab pulled up, and the two of them jumped inside.

"221B Baker Street," John told the cabbie.

The driver smiled in contained excitement at the sight of them. "Yes, sir." And he pulled away from the curb.

John relaxed into his seat. "You would think after almost two years, the press would've died down by now."

Sherlock shrugged as he typed away on his mobile. "Your own fault for making me so popular."

"Yeah, yeah," muttered John with a smile.

Sherlock paused in his typing to glance over at John with a frown. "What day was I helping you move your things out?"

"Friday," John answered.

"Ah, yes, that's right," said Sherlock, his expression clearing as he went back to his phone.

"And don't even think about scheduling some surprise case that day," John quickly told him.

"Wouldn't dream of it," replied Sherlock.

John glanced over at him, hesitating a moment. "Actually, while we're on that…"

Sherlock raised his chin and brows slightly to show he was listening, his eyes not leaving his phone.

"I'm gonna ask her to marry me," John told him.

Sherlock actually paused in his work and looked up at him, smiling. "Lovely! Congratulations, John!" He went back to his phone.

John blinked at his friend a moment, frustrated. "Sherlock, you're not listening to me."

"Yes, I am," Sherlock muttered quickly, punching a few last keys before deactivating the screen and slipping the phone into the inside pocket of his jacket. "You're getting engaged."

"I said I was going to ask her to marry me," John corrected.

"And she will most definitely say yes. Congratulations."

John laughed, shaking his head. "Well, don't tell anyone. I don't want Mary finding out we're engaged before I even ask."

Sherlock grimaced at being told to keep quiet about something. "And when can I break this vow of silence?"

"I'm asking her at dinner Saturday night."

Sherlock nodded. "Sunday. Deal."

The cab pulled up outside 221, and John and Sherlock got out to a thankfully empty doorstep. The reporters still followed them on cases every once in a while, but had abandoned Baker Street a while back. John paid the cabbie, as per usual, while Sherlock unlocked the door and swept inside.

John walked in as Sherlock carefully stuffed the deerstalker into the pocket of his Belstaff. Despite Sherlock's initial complaints that the hat was ridiculous ("It's got ear flaps. It's an ear hat, John!"), he had grown quite attached to it and had quickly begun wearing it while on his cases.

The boys made their way up the stairs towards their flat, Sherlock hanging up his coat and scarf on the back of the door.

"Oh, you're back!" said Mrs. Hudson, looking up from straightening some newspapers next to the sofa. "Solve another one, then?" She attempted to lift the pile of newspapers.

John darted forward immediately, taking them from her. "Please, Mrs. Hudson, let me."

"Oh, thank you, John," said Mrs. Hudson.

"You didn't touch my experiments, did you?" grumbled Sherlock, heading for the kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head fondly, looking back at John. "What will I do without you?"

"Don't worry," John assured her. "Molly will keep him in line."

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "It'll be so nice having another woman around."

"Brilliant!" Sherlock suddenly cried out from the kitchen.

John and Mrs. Hudson looked over to see Sherlock bent over one of his Petri dishes on the kitchen table, an excited gleam in his eyes and a smile on his face.

"Just the reaction I suspected!" exclaimed Sherlock, moving the Petri dish over towards the microscope. "Oh, it's Christmas!" He began scraping some of the residue from the dish onto a slide.

"So nice indeed…" muttered Mrs. Hudson.

John sat in his armchair, reading through his book. It was mid-afternoon, and they were expecting Molly from her shift at Bart's any moment. Sherlock was standing facing the window behind his armchair, playing Vivaldi's "Four Seasons" on his violin. It had taken about a month for him to pick it up—mostly due to his many years observing the world, musicians included—and before John knew it, Sherlock was an expert violinist.

"Listen, I was wondering if I might leave my armchair here," John spoke up, his eyes not leaving his book.

"Sure," Sherlock replied, his playing not diminishing in the slightest. "Give you something to come back for."

John abruptly looked up at him, frowning. "Come back for?"

"To," Sherlock immediately corrected himself, turning a little further away from John.

John lowered the book to his lap, reading into his friend's verbal slip. "This isn't going to change anything, you know. Just because I'm leaving Baker Street, it doesn't mean I'm gone."

The violin's notes drifted off as Sherlock slowly lowered the bow to his side.

"Mary knows I'm a package deal," John continued.

Sherlock lowered the violin as he turned towards John, a warm smile on his face.

John chuckled. "Besides, people would have to be mad to split up Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson."

Sherlock's smile widened as he gave a deep chuckle, turning back towards the window. He raised his violin and bow, starting the classical piece up again.

John went back to his book, enjoying the violin music. It had been a bit annoying at first when Sherlock would start up a concert at three in the morning. Over time, he had come to enjoy the music, especially once Sherlock learned which music would soothe him when he awoke from a nightmare. It had reached a point where John couldn't sleep restfully when Sherlock was away from the flat. He had downloaded violin music onto his phone and would play it when he woke in the middle of the night. It was one of Sherlock's quirks that he had grown fond of over the last two years.

John frowned after a while as the music changed, not recognizing the tune. Well, he didn't recognize a lot of the songs Sherlock played, but he tended to play the more popular classical pieces. And this one, John had never heard before. And it was…beautiful. He had never heard anything like it.

John looked up at Sherlock, who was facing out towards the sun as it crept lower in the sky. The brows over his closed eyes were drawn together in deep emotion, as though he were pouring his very soul into the violin. John eased his book closed as the music continued to sing to him. He watched Sherlock as the song continued, crescendoing to an even more emotional climax before tapering off. Sherlock came to a stop at the end, staring into the sunset.

"That was beautiful," John told him.

"Sunrise…" Sherlock muttered, still not lowering the instrument.

"Sorry?" asked John.

Sherlock was silent for a moment as he lowered the bow and violin. "That was the music I used to hear in the sunrise…" He stared forlornly into the sunset, lost in days long gone by.

John set his book on the end table next to him, not sure whether to be concerned about this nostalgic moment of his friend's. "Sherlock…" he paused, not sure how to phrase this so as not to offend him or give him the wrong impression, "if you could go back to…before…"

Sherlock turned towards him with parted lips, taken aback by the question.

"…would you?" asked John.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before opening his mouth to answer.

"Sherlock!" Molly called from downstairs.

Sherlock's gaze went to the door as a smile instantly lit up his face. "Not for all the halos in the world, John."

John smiled as Sherlock placed his violin and bow in his armchair and headed towards the door.

Molly stepped into the flat, smiling at him. "Hey!"

Sherlock smiled at her. "Hi." He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a kiss.

Molly hummed into the kiss. "I missed you."

"I missed you," said Sherlock. "You don't work tomorrow, do you?"

"It's moving day tomorrow, remember?" Molly reminded him.

"Ah, yes," said Sherlock, pulling her closer and muttering into her ear. "And then we'll have this place all to ourselves."

Molly giggled as his breath tickled her ear and then let out a squeal of laughter when Sherlock began fondling her backside.

"All right, that's enough, you two," John finally spoke up from his chair.

Sherlock turned to look at John, his arm still around Molly. "Now, now, John, you can't keep all the marital bliss to yourselves."

John's eyes widened slightly as he stared accusatorily at him.

Molly, meanwhile, had turned her head to frown at Sherlock. "Marital bliss?"

Sherlock looked at her and then back to John. "It is Sunday, yes?"

"No, it's Thursday," Molly replied, confused by the change in subject.

Sherlock looked over at her.

"Remember, Friday is moving day, which is tomorrow," Molly continued.

Sherlock looked back at John, whose wide-eyed glare had not receded.

"What did you mean, marital bliss?" Molly asked.

Sherlock thought quickly and looked back at Molly. "Oh, come on, you've seen them together. They're like one of those annoying happily married couples." He looked back at John to see the doctor giving him a grateful look.

"Oh, so, marriage is annoying, is it?" asked Molly, her curiosity abated by Sherlock's words.

Sensing a storm brewing, Sherlock quickly backed out of it. "I did not say that. I only meant the people in a married relationship are annoying."

"You mean people in a loving relationship?" said Molly archly, raising her brows as she crossed her arms at him. "Like two people about to move in together?"

Stunned at the rapid turn of events, Sherlock could only gape at her, at a loss for words. "No—I—it's…"

Molly turned on her heel and marched towards Sherlock's bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

A choked laugh sounded through the room, and Sherlock looked down at John to see him with his hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking in laughter.

"This isn't funny, John," Sherlock hissed at him.

John removed his hand. "It is a little bit."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes into a glare and then looked sadly towards the bedroom door.

John cut his laughter off as he stood. "Well, clearly…" he cleared his throat as he chuckled again, "you still have much to learn about women." He clapped a hand onto Sherlock's shoulder.

"Clearly," muttered Sherlock. He looked over at John. "What do I do?"

John removed his hand, raising them both and backing away. "Oh, no! You got yourself into this mess."

"Trying to help you," Sherlock pointed out.

"Nope, sorry." John sat back down in his armchair, picking his book up. "You're on your own on this one."

Sherlock sighed and then looked towards the door, trying to think his way through it. No, no, your brain is what got you into trouble. Use your heart.

With some slight difficulty, Sherlock was able to stop his mind thinking and trying to solve the problem and simply let himself feel. He stepped through the kitchen and down the hall, approaching the closed door. Instinct stopped him as he was about to open the door, and instead, he knocked softly on it.

"Molly?" Sherlock called quietly.

There was no response.

"Molly, may I come in?" he pleaded.

There was a pause before a stiff voice responded, "I suppose."

Sherlock slid the door open a little, finding Molly sitting on the edge of his bed, arms crossed as she stared at the floor. He stepped into the room, easing the door closed behind him. He stayed by the door a moment longer before something in him told him to move. He slowly headed for the bed, sitting down next to Molly.

"Molly…" Sherlock began.

"You know how I feel about this," Molly interrupted hotly. "My history with boyfriends—If you got bored with me—"

Sherlock immediately placed his hand on the side of her face, turning it towards him. "Hey. You could never bore me. I gave up eternity for you."

Tears fell down Molly's face as she clasped onto his hand.

"I love you," Sherlock told her. "I love you more than immortality, more than the music in the sunrise, more than flight, more than—"

Molly pushed forward and kissed him, wrapping her arms around him. Sherlock's hand reached into her hair, pulling her closer. The kiss grew from frantic to tender before Molly buried her face in Sherlock's chest, holding onto him.

"Would it please you to know that I have often imagined what our wedding would be like?" said Sherlock.

Molly looked up at him with a shocked look.

"Don't get me wrong," Sherlock quickly told her. "I'm not ready for that—I don't think either of us are…but I do think about it."

Molly stared at him in shock.

Sherlock blinked in confusion. "I'm sorry. I'm not very good at this." His eyes brightened. "Maybe I should get you a cup of tea." He began to get to his feet.

Molly stopped him with a laugh. "You did it just fine. I feel one hundred percent better."

Sherlock smiled as he brushed a hand over her cheek. "Tell you what, how about we go somewhere for dinner?"

Molly smiled. "Really?"

"Yes. After all, it is our anniversary."

Molly frowned. "It is?"

"Two years ago on this day, we first met," Sherlock told her.

Molly's frown fell as her eyes lit up and an amused smile appeared. "You…you remember?"

"Of course I remember," Sherlock assured her. "It was the day that changed my life."

Molly's smile grew, and she gave him a kiss. "So…" she leaned into Sherlock's chest as he put his arm around her, "what else have you imagined about us?"

"Well…" began Sherlock, wrapping his other arm around her, "of course, we have a charming little house in the country with three children and the family dog, whom we have named Hamish, much to John's displeasure."

Molly laughed, the sound rumbling through Sherlock's chest.

"But they are three of the most beautiful children I have ever seen," said Sherlock.

Molly looked up at him, adoration shining in her eyes.

A knock came at the door. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked towards the door. "You can come in."

John opened the door and stuck his head in. "Sorry to interrupt, but we have a client."

Sherlock looked down at Molly, who had deflated a little and looked away. He placed his hands on her shoulders, making sure he had her attention. "I am not canceling dinner. I will hear them out and will only investigate if it is a matter of life and death. Based on John's casual behavior, highly unlikely. Go on home to get ready. I'll pick you up at seven."

Molly smiled. "You would put off a case for me? That's so sweet."

John snorted. "Sherlock, sweet. Yeah." He turned and moved back into the living room.

Sherlock kissed Molly and then stood, trading his dressing gown for his suit jacket. "Well…" he buttoned the jacket, striding towards the door, "let's get this over with." He strode into the hallway and through the kitchen, Molly following.

The two of them emerged into the living room, finding a man sitting in a chair across from the fireplace.

Sherlock's eyes traveled over the man for a moment. "Oh, no, this shouldn't take long at all." He turned to Molly. "I'll see you tonight." He gave her a kiss.

"Have fun," Molly told him, turning and leaving.

Sherlock turned towards the client, looking at John in his armchair before turning to his own chair and sitting. John balanced a notebook on his knee, setting a pen to it.

"So…" began Sherlock, placing his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepling his fingers together under his chin, "start from the beginning."

THE END

Well, here we are. The final chapter. I will miss you all! But not for long, because I have chosen which of my ideas I want to write next. Hint: Sherlock and Star Trek!