Epilogue

Sherlock Holmes was many things. He was a detective, a genius, a computer, at times - often called childish, often called naïve. He had been dead once, at least to the public eye - but then again, he had been a virgin once, too, and been forced to abruptly stop being both in the name of pleasing one Dr. John Hamish Watson. Sherlock was quite sure forced was the wrong word for it, as he had done it all quite purposefully, which is to say he wanted nothing more when he was away than to come back to John, and wanted nothing more when he'd returned than to be more intimate with John than their previous acquaintance.

But what puzzled Sherlock Holmes was what he was currently being, which was flustered and out of breath and completely uncoordinated. He sat behind his newspaper in a formal shirt and dress pants, his dressing gown draped about his shoulders, being utterly floored by John Watson.

And all John was doing was making tea.

Sherlock understood the chemistry of lust. He knew the body and the hormones it secreted to make the blood pump downwards, fill the soft tissues of other places than his brain, make him want to do terrible, nasty things to John in the bedroom, and against the counters, and in the shower. He knew what he wanted to do, and that they did it now, on a regular basis, when the detective wasn't too busy tracing possibilities of the man who had started this whole mess being alive. Sherlock had half-believed that was all it was - dispensing of tension and frustration so he could focus. Moriarty surviving was an important, very important priority, after all. The picture of the Clostridium botulinum strain Niles had sent them was clue enough to that end. And of course he'd want Sherlock back in London, rather than out in the world wreaking havoc on his criminal web. Sherlock had played into the plan, he realized that, but what bothered Sherlock was that he didn't care.

In fact, he cared much more that morning about the color of John's jumper, and how it matched the teapot in his hand marvelously.

Sherlock felt a flutter in his stomach and a beat in his chest, felt the pink in his cheeks and heard the words come tumbling out before the guards of his mind palace could catch them.

"I love you," he said, and he was glad he had his newspaper to cover his face. He heard a crash as John dropped the teapot.

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock remained silent. He heard the footsteps as John approached, looked away as the paper was ripped from his hands.

"What did you say?"

He hazarded a glance at John's face, brimming over with guarded excitement and the slightest bit of anxiety. He could tell John was afraid, afraid he'd misheard, afraid of getting his hopes dashed, afraid of committing to an idea that wouldn't be realized. Sherlock drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair as John stared down at him.

"I thought - I might've heard - "

"Yes."

"And - really?"

"What do you think, John?" he said, almost exasperated - mostly at his own inability to properly think. His mind failing was the last thing he ever wanted to happen - and yet John was quite capable of making it do so spectacularly.

"Well, I don't know - I mean, you're always so mysterious about - "

"John."

John looked at him for a moment before splitting into a grin.

"Well, I love you too," he said resolutely. And Sherlock held the nonchalance on his face for a moment longer before a giggle broke it like china vase. Then John was giggling too, and Sherlock didn't care a bit if Mycroft was watching through his cameras, or Moriarty's spies were watching through windows as they giggled like schoolgirls in the living room of Baker Street. The web would be taken care of in due time, Sherlock would see to that. But for now he was going to deal with the one man that could rearrange his priorities - the infuriating, endearing Dr. John Hamish Watson.

A/N: There, I'm done. I'm through. Good Lord, that was a long ride... thanks again, all of you. And please, let me know what you thought of it.

Cheers!