Epilogue

It has been 8 months since Sherlock and John put the serial vivisectionists in jail. As predicted, Dr. Linley had not survived prison. She'd been scratched in a mild fight in the yard one gray afternoon, and died very rapidly thereafter from a painful, nasty case of septicemia. There was, of course, no suspicion that outside influence was to blame. Bernie Leekes disappeared during a prison transfer to a minimum security facility: no one ever looked too hard for him after that. John decided to keep his head down and ask no questions. After all, he didn't really want to know the answers.

Many, many cases have come and gone since then. He and Sherlock have a firmly established partnership, in which John's special talents come in handy more than once, to Mycroft's great concern. They keep it a well-guarded secret, though (unless you're Big Brother with CCTV cameras all over the city and an army of minions to monitor them). Even Lestrade hasn't seen the wings again, although he's asked a couple of times, after a few or more pints at the pub. John has let him play with a knife a time or two, though.

But now. Now Sherlock is being played by a genius psychopath, and the rules seem to have changed. John watches with increasing frustration and trepidation as challenge seems to escalate into deadly threat, and Sherlock's world begins to crumble around him. John sticks loyally by his side, defending him as Sally levels her accusation that Sherlock has set up everything for years; to satisfy his psychopathic desire for crime and to sham that he's a genius detective.

And now John and Sherlock are run to ground, hiding in the lab at Barts, waiting for the next salvo in Sherlock's downfall.

John won't give up. Of course he won't. He'll fight for Sherlock with everything he's got. He believes in the man; doesn't just love him. He will use every weapon at his disposal, and even challenge Sherlock himself when he seems to lose faith.

But this moment. This moment when John reports the call that says Mrs. Hudson has been shot, and Sherlock won't bestir himself to get off his lazy, self-absorbed arse and go to her. Mrs. Hudson! This is close to being the final straw. John is so angry, and it's so wrapped in anxiety for his landlady, that he can hardly see.

John is in the cab, headed for Mrs. Hudson and 221B Baker St. He holds his fingers stiffly out. His hands are like a desiccated starfish, in the effort not to pull forth his knives and go to battle. He is fuming at Sherlock, and his pathological, selfish behavior of isolating himself from emotions because he perceives them to be debilitating. "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me," my flaming arse. And alongside the fury is terror. Mrs. Hudson is more of a mother to him... to both of them... than his own ever was. The idea that she has been shot, may possibly die, because of this insanity with Moriarty, is dust in his throat.

He leans forward, pressing the floorboard hard with his feet, in a futile effort to will the taxi faster.

And then, Mrs. Hudson is fine, turning towards him in surprise, her expression vague and warm; and momentarily horribly, vacantly silly.

Now John knows this is some appalling cosmic joke. 'Alone is what I have' is echoing in his head. He abruptly recognizes that part of the rage and fear he has been feeling is not originating from himself, but is instead vibrating across the line that connects him to Sherlock.

"Oh, Christ. Oh, Jesus, Sherlock," he mutters in a panic, as he spins around and looks desperately for a cab. "What are you doing? What have you done?"

It takes five long minutes to find a taxi. As he throws himself inside, his phone rings. He checks it and swipes it angrily on.

"Sherlock! What are you up to?"

"John. You need to listen to me," Sherlock's voice is hollow, has nothing of it's usual velvet tone, and John hears it cracking.

Sherlock tries to explain that he is truly a fake. That he invented Moriarty. That John needs to believe that. That he needs to broadcast that.

John argues that he knows Sherlock is a genius. Of course he does. And, bizarrely, Sherlock denies it. Shops are moving sluggishly past the taxi window, and John thinks he could almost run as fast as the damn cab is driving. Urgency pulses through him. He is frantic. They are only a block away from Barts.

"Hurry. Hurry!" he shouts at the driver. The driver looks horrified, and John realizes he's brandishing his ka-bar knife in the hand not holding his phone. "Sorry," he mutters, tucking it back down by his thigh, flicking it out of this reality and clenching his hand into a fist.

The cab rounds the corner, and John quickly leaps out, throwing some pound notes at the driver.

"John," says Sherlock through the phone. John looks around him and starts for the double doors that mark the entrance to Barts.

"Stop there."

John is bewildered. "Sherlock?"

"Look up, I'm on the rooftop."

"Oh, God."

"This phone call. It's ...er, my note. That's what people do, don't they - leave a note?"

John stares frozen and aghast up at his friend. It can't possibly be... It can't. "No. Don't." The silhouette on the roof spreads its arms out to the side, in a grievous parody of wings. John feels the pressure of his own. "No! Sherlock!" The fear that resonates between them is overwhelming.

He begins to release his wings, takes a frantic step forward... And is flung head first to the pavement by a wobbling cyclist before he can initiate the transformation. Crack! His head bounces off the asphalt, and the world is dizzyingly gray and silent. John struggles to lift himself, irrelevant torrents of pain surging from his head. His vision clears, and he catches the last moment of Sherlock's fall. "Sher-" Flapping black coat. Down, down, down.

It is over.

He lurches to his feet, making blindly for the growing crowd gathered around the body.

A few minutes earlier, and he could have caught him. Seconds, even. Could have leaped off the ground, stretched out his wings, and risen to meet him. Brought him safely back and then beaten him silly for doing such a stupid thing.

No. No. Please, Sherlock. No. Don't be-.

But he knows. Before he even picks up the arm to check for a pulse. Sherlock is broken, disconnected in the way only a body which has entirely lost the tension of life can be.

But John knew before that. He knows because their bond, their connection, the string that has always stretched taut and alive between them. It is unmoored. It dangles uselessly, flapping, aimless and empty.

John hears low, broken moans. Choking, gasping cries. That's me he thinks, distantly. He can't let go. The still-warm wrist wrapped up in his fingers. They have to pry him away.

It's been 3 months. John is gray. Like his world. Mycroft stops by every once in a while. John's pension is enough to cover half the rent, no more. He suspects Mycroft has worked something out with Mrs. Hudson, but he can't be too arsed about it.

He desultorily looks for a job, but manages to sabotage any potential offers. Pain from phantom wounds, remembered from Afghanistan, stiffen his shoulder and impose a limp. John needs to purchase a cane.

He's fading away. All color is gone.

Another month oozes by. John fingers his knives. He's been throwing them at the smiley-face on the wall. There's a perfect circle of slits on the periphery now, and he's begun to outline the mouth.

There's dust on the violin case, and dust on the skull, and dust on the cold embers of his heart.

He rolls back the sleeve of his checkered shirt, and scrapes the razor-sharp blade of the knife thoughtfully up and down the tender skin of his forearm. He watches the steel dent the flesh. He's not contemplating death. Not really. Well. He's contemplating Sherlock's death. Not really his own. Not as such. Although he does recognize that his life is stalled, and he can't see the path forward. He still hasn't contacted Harry. He has no job. He's a wraith.

"Dr. Watson?" Mrs. Hudson sings up the stairs, voice high and chipper and grating as fuck. "John, dear? Could you do me a favor, duckie?"

John twists the point of his knife just so, and a thin daub of blood springs up. He squeezes the handle until his fingertips feel numb. And then he sighs, twists it away, and hauls his crippled self to his feet. Hot, familiar pain sears his thigh, and he automatically adjusts his weight onto his left leg, waiting until he thinks it will more or less support him. He grabs his new cane, hooked over the back of the chair, and limps to the door of the flat. It has gotten colder, but he doesn't bother with his cardigan.

Mrs. Hudson calls again. "Woo ooh! Dr. Watson? Are you there?"

She knows full well he is there, he thinks resentfully. He begins to clumsily hump himself down the stairs. His shoulder is aching so badly that he can't properly support his limp using the banister. He rounds the corner to the tiny landing eight steps down. His impulse is to snap at her, so he takes a deep breath and makes a conscious effort to smooth out his face before he speaks.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson? What can I do for you?" His voice is as flat as he feels, but it's the best he can manage. He needs to move out, he knows. Move out and move on. The stifling loneliness, the cramped and cluttered Sherlockness of the flat is slowly killing him. He rubs a thumb absently down his forearm, following the path his knife had traced. He tugs his sleeve back down over the little smear of blood.

"-need it for the knitting circle tonight. Could you do that, lovey?" Mrs. Hudson's worried, wrinkled face smiles encouragingly at him. She's trying hard, for his sake, he knows, which he finds warmly sweet and unutterably annoying. He replays what she's said, and finds that he still missed the important part.

He grimaces at her. It's the best simulacrum of a smile he can summon, and says, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I didn't catch that. Come again?"

Mrs. Hudson rubs her hands across the olive green apron she's wearing over her purple dress. "We're collecting blankets tonight for my knitting circle. To help the homeless, you know?" She peers at him as if he doesn't. As if he's going to bleat out, "The homeless? Why would you be giving them blankets?" John bites his tongue. "Do you need a blanket, then?" he asks.

She narrows her eyes at him. Uh oh. Now he feels like a naughty schoolboy. "John," she says with an air of forced patience. "There's a box of them in 221C. Could you carry it up for me?" She pats her hip, "It's having a bad day, you know."

John laughs bitterly to himself. As if his is any better. He nods his head, and continues to lurch down the stairs to meet her. She turns to unlock 221C and opens the door for him. "Just bring it to my kitchen when you've got it, alright?" She disappears back into her flat.

John sighs, looking down yet another flight of stairs. How the fuck does she think he's going to manage these while holding a box? With not only a bum leg, but also a stiff shoulder? He leans the cane against the door jamb. He'll have to rely on the railing.

He descends awkwardly into the gloom and mustiness of the long uninhabited basement flat. The sour sting of mildew is heavy in the air, and John coughs a little. There's no power; but enough light is filtering through filthy street-level windows near the ceiling to see. There is a collection of haphazardly positioned boxes and tubs across the room near the fireplace. A dusty stack of fashion magazines. A small artificial Christmas tree, festooned with spiderwebs. A little tray of pots and spades, still coated with long-dried mud.

And an egg.

John freezes where he stands. It isn't. It can't be. Perhaps it's an easter decoration? The easter version of an artificial tree?

He's vibrating. He's shaking apart, and paralyzed all at once, the inside of his body screaming and falling and racing around; but his skin is icy and stiff and holds the rest of it willfully in place. His mouth is hanging slightly open, and he can feel his lips drying out as he has his lapidifical crisis.

After what feels like forever, he finally breathes. Air whistles back into his lungs sharply, bitingly, and he realizes he's been holding his breath for a while. He takes a step forward, stirring the dust motes into little whirlwinds around his legs. The egg does not disappear. Another step, and another. He doesn't note that he's no longer limping.

He reaches the egg eventually, and bends to rest two fingers, hesitant and astonished, lightly against the shell. His upper chest is bruising with the seismic battering of his heart. The shell feels tepid under his fingertips; not sleekly smooth, but invisibly pitted. Textured. It is dark, looks like dark gray in the unreliable light of the flat. John sinks to his knees. Collapses, really. His strings have been cut. He falls to his knees like a supplicant, and his hands are shaking wildly as he grabs onto the gently rounded ends of the egg.

"Sh-. She-. Sherlock?" He croaks, and presses his hands flat against the curve of shell. "Sherlock?" His voice is tight and shaky, and when he bows his head to lay his cheek on the egg, he can feel warm tears sealing his skin to the shell. "Oh, god. Oh, Sherlock. Please be Sherlock. Please." And for the moment all he can do is lean against the egg, crying, wrapping his arms around it, and his primary emotion isn't relief, or surprise, but a deep and abiding dread that this isn't real. It's a dream. Perhaps he fell down the stairs and hit his head. It's too much. It's too much of a gift. It can't be real. And he wants it to be. So. Badly. Perhaps he's finally cracked (the pun does not escape him), and this is a hallucination. Mrs. Hudson will eventually find him crying on the floor of the basement flat, perhaps draped over a moldy box, claiming it's an egg.

So he shakes and cries, and gets tears and snot on the egg (which he knows Sherlock would hate, and he wonders if embryo-Sherlock is twitching and shuddering with distaste right now), until his knees ache. The light has become dimmer, the sun has moved, the dust motes vanish again until the right time tomorrow. John and the egg are in shadow. The monochromatic devastation which has crushed him for months has been purged, and in it's place is a tiny new hope.

He sits back on his heels, and cleans himself up a little with his shirttail. He wipes his forearm across the wet spot on the egg, too, in case it's bothering Sherlock. He grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes until the light behind his lids goes black, then white and then skating spots when he opens them again. Once that's settled down, he still sees the egg. It is something like three times wider than himself, lying on its side, and half a meter high. He smooths his hands over the blunt and more pointed ends at the same time. He can comfortably reach both ends at once, feels sure he can carry it if he finds the right balance. The shell feels fragile and precious under his hands. Like Sherlock: fine and elegant. He dips his head and presses a furtive kiss against the egg. Please. Please. Please let this be real.

He looks around and sees the box labeled, in shaky spikey handwriting, "Blankets" and remorselessly opens it up. The top blanket is a knitted atrocity in hideous shades of putrid and puce. John pities the homeless person who winds up with this beauty. But it will serve a higher purpose now. He very gently rolls the egg onto the spread blanket and then catches the corners up into a makeshift sling. The holes in the knitting are perfect for weaving his fingers into, and the blanket stretches slightly as he stands and then cautiously lifts the egg. Nothing slips or falls, and John sucks in a relieved gasp. He braces the bottom of the egg with his other arm, and holds it awkwardly just below his chin. Craning his neck so he can see the stairs, he slowly mounts them.

Mrs. Hudson calls something from her flat as he passes to the next flight of stairs, but he ignores her. He climbs 17 more steps, and does not limp at all. Once in 221B, he heads straight for Sherlock's bed. Their bed. He unwraps the egg carefully, like the best Christmas present he's ever gotten, and settles it in, tucking the afghan around it in a nest-like ring to prevent it from rolling away.

He flicks on the bedroom light and the bedside lamp as well, and then sits next to the egg, trailing his fingers across the china-like shell. It is a charcoal gray, and there are flecks and lines of deep purple, almost black aubergine puzzling throughout. This is Sherlock in a suit, John recognizes. Sleek and dark and on the verge of ostentatious. He leans his forehead breathlessly against the bow of shell. "Sherlock," he whispers. And then, with practicality, "I'm so glad you took notes."

John hurries to the dresser drawer where Sherlock stores his lab notebooks, and digs around until he pulls out the one labeled "Incubation Procedures for Optimum Egg Hatchability". He flicks on the kettle, runs downstairs to deliver Mrs. Hudson her box. ("Thank you, John. Would you like some tea?" "No, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I've got a project going." Mrs. Hudson gives a knowing smirk. "Of course you do. Carry on, dear." She doesn't comment that he's suddenly got flushed cheeks, a lighter step, bouncing carriage and a real smile.)

Upstairs again, having shut and locked the entry door, John sets his tea to steep, carrying it in to the bedside table. He curls up around the egg, sharing his warmth, heart beating a happy melody, chest buzzing with the stirrings of a renewed connection, and settles in to study Sherlock's hatching protocol.

Author's Notes

I believe there's a sequel brewing. Subscribe to me as an author, maybe, so you know when that happens?

I also invite you all to follow me on Tumblr ( mojoflower dot tumblr dot com), where you're likely to get snippets and previews, and lots of Johnlock (NSFW). I've got bits up there now from a story I'm working on where John finds an old lamp... and Sherlock is a genie, called Shatter the Darkness (Let the Light In). Like Murderous Imprint... it's not as far-out as it sounds ;-)

Writing this has been an amazing introduction to the world of fandom: I've made so many connections, and have been overwhelmed at the amount of support, encouragement and sheer enthusiasm I've been given. This includes my lovely betas MildredandBobbin, who has been a cheerleader all along, and Snogandagrope. And three artists have done work for this tale, which delights me beyond words! So thank you JustFoolinRound, KayJayKayMe and MindPalaceofVersailles (AbundanceOfVowels). If you want to see the art, you can check in at Tumblr, or my AO3 or LJ accounts (links on Profile page).

Also, I want to thank all of you, lovely readers, who left feedback, followed and favorited. You don't know how much I looked forward to each notification that someone out there liked what I wrote, and even wanted more. A lot of you have been with me from the beginning, and I feel like I know you. So here's a shout out, for leaving encouragement and suggestions, in no particular order, to: Old Ping Hai, WaffleNinja, Vyanni Krace, FugitiveSGA, Coral Eyes, SerpentsRose, Zonya, JFreak, innenlebenaussenwelt, nonimouse, 123-321, all the Guests, AnimeGirl1987, Morange, Arty Diane, and Mangled_Form, FeralChaos, Haven, Becca, Pinlie, Vid-Gamer-of-Hyrule. Thank you! I hope you stick around for more.