Epilogue

John watched as the world's only consulting detective was consulted by DI Lestrade of Scotland Yard, who had brought Sherlock a series of crime scene photographs to examine. This happened on a semi-regular basis when the police felt that they were 'missing something,' although Lestrade had learned not to invite Sherlock's acerbity by phrasing it quite that way. This particular case involved an apparent murder in which the victim, now missing, was nevertheless seen exiting her home the morning after the crime, perfectly healthy.

Sherlock was taking this particular consultation lying down. On the sofa. He wasn't dressed yet, it being just a little past noon, and had been stretched out there since he relocated from his bedroom an hour ago.

As usual his examination of the photos appeared cursory and thoughtless. John, watching from the living room table, and Lestrade, standing by the sofa, knew better.

Sherlock paused in his inspection long enough to give one picture a quarter turn and peer more closely at it, but otherwise he glanced through the stack in only the sketchiest fashion. Then he said, tossing the file folder onto the coffee table and losing all interest, "I suggest that you get the hairs on that brush tested, Inspector. You might find that not all of them are human."

Lestrade picked up the folder. "What brush?"

"The hairbrush." Lestrade leafed through the pictures, looking unenlightened. "John," Sherlock said, "toss me the red marker."

John reached for the mug of pens and markers. "What for?"

"So I can draw a great big red arrow that even Lestrade can't miss."

John dropped the marker back into the cup and Lestrade scowled. "I see the brush. What about it?"

"God," Sherlock groaned. "It's like trying to explain gas chromatography to a planarian. If you have to barge in here before breakfast, Lestrade, could you at least try to focus? The forensics team applied Luminol to the bedroom and found blood evidence everywhere, but mostly on the mattress. Therefore the murder took place in the bedroom-specifically, on the bed. None of the blood was visible to the naked eye. Therefore the murderer cleaned up the crime scene. A scene which is missing two important components: a fitted sheet and a victim. Yet after the crime took place the neighbor saw the missing woman leave her house dressed for work, perfectly fine, in exactly the same sort of skirt she invariably wore, yes?"

"Yeah."

"No. She saw the killer leave the house. He wrapped the victim's body in the fitted sheet and disposed of her somewhere, then returned to the house while it was still dark, cleaned the scene of visible blood, dressed up as the victim, right down to the hair, and walked out in broad daylight, to be seen by the neighbor."

"He was wearing a wig?"

"Yes, and if you ask me why he would brush a wig before using it to impersonate a freshly-groomed woman leaving her house for work I will have John throw you out that window. If you test the brush you may just find that one or more of the fibres are synthetic. Forensics might even be able to use the chemical composition of the dye used in the fibres to get you the manufacturer, seller, and the buyer of the wig."

"Amazing," Lestrade said with a broad grin, scribbling all this into his casebook. "Thanks, Sherlock. I mean it."

Sherlock barely worked up the energy for a dismissive grunt, but Lestrade was used to that. Still beaming, he turned to John. "That the Dover case you're writing up?"

Immediately John's expression morphed from pleased and admiring to guarded and wary. "Uh...No. I'm not. Writing it up, I mean. Just replying to a few comments on other posts." Puzzlement. "How'd you hear about Dover?"

"Oh, you know what they say about good news." John did not. "It travels fast?" Lestrade prompted. He was grinning like an idiot now. "I hear congratulations are in order."

John threw up his hands. "Dammit, I knew this was going to happen!" he cried. "You and your bloody jumper," he said to Sherlock. "Greg, I swear: If you say one word about this at the Met-It was for a case!-I will find a way to make you disappear that even he won't be able to unravel."

"Unlikely," Sherlock drawled.

"You stay out of it."

Lestrade regarded the threat with all the seriousness it deserved. "Come on, don't be like that. It's sweet. Seriously: It's about time you two made honest men of each other."

"Get bent."

Lestrade laughed so hard he had to brace himself with his hands on his knees, but he managed to straighten up long enough to say, "Listen, since you eloped there really wasn't any way to get a gift, but I'll mark the date on the office calendar so we won't miss your first anniversary. What's traditional for that? Leather?"

"Dammit, Greg."

"Paper, I think," said Sherlock from the sofa. Helpful.

"Shut up, Sherlock," John growled. "And you," he added to Lestrade.

"Hey, how'd you work out the name thing?" Lestrade asked. "Did you go with Watson-Holmes or Holmes-Watson?"

"Holmes-Watson, obviously," Sherlock said.

"Shut up!" John cried.

"Well, I'm off," Lestrade said, wiping his eyes. "Afternoon, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Holmes." John shied a paperback at his head and the book hit the doorframe.

The pinging of his phone with in incoming text made Lestrade pause and at least try to pull himself together. He glanced at the screen: Sherlock's number. He looked up, puzzled. Sherlock had just dropped his own phone back onto the coffee table. "What are you doing?"

"Obvious," Sherlock said.

Lestrade frowned at the phone. Sherlock had texted him a link. "What is this?" he asked suspiciously.

"Also obvious."

Lestrade clicked on the link, which opened on a MyLife page. Prominently depicted was an image taken by the photographer who chronicled John's wedding, shot directly following the church ceremony: a photo of John and Lestrade standing together in the arched doorway of the church, John with his top hat tucked under one arm and Lestrade in his good suit, both of them smiling broadly. The photo was labeled "Precious Moments."

"The hell...?" Lestrade looked up at Sherlock.

"Your friends in Dover might not realize it," Sherlock said pleasantly, "but you got to John before I did."

"Eh?" Lestrade said.

"Access to that page is currently set to 'private,' Sherlock continued, "but John can easily make it public. Think of it as his nuclear option."

Lestrade cleared his throat. "You. Bastard."

John burst out laughing.

"Thank you for stopping by, Inspector," Sherlock said amiably. "Now get out."

John set the last of the clean lunch plates in the rack to dry, wrapped up the remains of the gypsy tart Mrs. Hudson baked for them, and found a place for it in the fridge a safe distance from the plastic-covered bowl of spleens.

At the living room table Sherlock, dressed now, leafed through one of the last daily newspapers that still maintained a print edition, and nursed a cup of tea.

"Going for a walk," John told him. "Need anything?"

"Mm," Sherlock said when John repeated the question a third time.

John interpreted that as a "no" and he was shrugging into his jacket when there was a knock at the door.

The new interruption put Sherlock out at once. "What is this, Waterloo Station?" he complained.

John opened the door to find Abigail Soranzo on the other side, holding what looked like a photo album in her hands.

"Abigail," he said with a pleased smile.

"Hello, Dr. Watson," she said, just as happy to see him, then noticed his coat. "Oh-You're on your way out. I'm sorry, I should have called first. I'll go-"

"Yes, do," Sherlock said from behind the newspaper.

John gave him a wry look. "No, come in. Come in. It's been a slow day and I was just going for a walk. It can wait. Would you like to sit down? Can I get you something to drink? You look great, by the way."

She smiled up at him, and in fact she did look vastly improved compared to her last visit to Baker Street. Compared to the last time John saw her, in fact, which was at Wellspring. Her colour was normal, she was neither coughing or wheezing, and while she was still too thin she appeared to have gained several pounds.

"Thank you," she said, "but no. This won't take long. I just came by to thank you both in person." She glanced in Sherlock's direction, but he'd put the paper up like a barrier wall. "Poor Dr. Kickham is alive because of Mr. Holmes, and I'm alive because of you."

Fielding heartfelt compliments always made John feel awkward and this occasion was no exception, especially with Sherlock now eyeing him from across the top of the paper. He demurred at once. "No, I-"

"Oh, no. No trying to deny it, now," she scolded good-naturedly. "The doctors at Buckland explained everything, and Liz showed me the note you wrote to tell them what to check for. I still can't remember what it's called except by the letters-SBE, right?-but they said if it weren't for you...well, they said it's fatal if it's not treated. And I was so surprised: They said I'd had a heart valve defect all these years. I never even knew."

"That's actually pretty common," John told her, back on more comfortable ground. "Valve defects and other sorts of heart damage predispose people to SBE, so I'm not surprised they found that." He fixed her with his sternest Dr. Watson frown. "You're taking the antibiotics like they prescribed?"

"Well, I can't say that I'm very happy about it, but yes, I have been. My children are seeing to that. My daughter stops by each morning and my son at night, to see that I do." She sighed. "Just four more weeks of that. But it is good to see the kids more often."

John smiled. "I'm sure."

Abigail remembered the album she was clutching to herself. "Well, I said I wasn't going to keep you both, and look at me nattering on." She glanced at Sherlock again. "Mr. Holmes," she said to the classifieds, "I wanted to give you something you both could enjoy, so I'd like you to have this."

Sherlock braced himself, laid the paper down, and turned to face her.

"I should explain what it is, first," she said. "It belonged to my husband. He was born in Italy. In Venice, where his family still lives. They've had musicians in the family for generations, and this was passed down to him. He had one other, but this was his favorite, and mine. I want you to have it."

She held the album out to him and he stood to accept it like a man going to his death before a firing squad. He could lie his way through a brick wall, but faking sentiment over gifts was beyond him and he utterly dreaded these occasions. Not because it would hurt the giver's feelings, but because he hated doing things he wasn't good at. He knew that his voice would carry a note of falseness, but he screwed his face up into an equally unconvincing semblance of amiability-John had trained that much into him-and accepted the album. John himself was well aware of Sherlock's discomfiture: He'd seen it often enough, and he also had a pretty good idea of its source.

Sherlock opened the book to glance at the contents, and John watched in utter astonishment as his expression changed abruptly from strained agreeability to candid wonder. The formulaic, requisite "Thank you" died on his lips and he stared at the page in silence, looking as nearly slack-jawed as John had ever seen him.

John finally couldn't stand it any more. "What is it?" he asked.

Abigail had to reply; Sherlock was still mutely staring at the book in his hands. "It's Vivaldi's original manuscript of La Cetra Number One in C major," she said. "Opus Nine." Now it was John's turn to look blank. "It's a violin concerto. The allegro," she added, clarifying nothing for him.

Sherlock found his voice. Convincingly faking gratitude was the last thing on his mind now. "Mrs. Soranzo," he said. "This is-"

"Worth more to you than it is to me," she replied. "It does have sentimental value because it was my husband's, I admit. But if I keep it, it will just sit in a drawer. I can never value it for its real worth. Not the way a musician can. It should be played, and shared."

John edged over to see, and Sherlock carefully, almost reverently, laid the book on the table. The album was clearly purpose-made to preserve valuable documents from light, damp, and age, and the manuscript pages themselves were contained in acetate sleeves secured to a rigid backing to protect them from being bent, folded, touched, or breathed upon. The centuries-old pages were parchment, and the musical score had been laid down by hand in an ink now faded to a light coffee colour. It was still perfectly legible, though, and the dashing, elegant hand of the man who wrote the music reminded John of Sherlock's own.

The very evident age of the document impressed John first, but as Sherlock turned the pages gently over by the edges he soon noticed that on nearly every sheet the great musician had made corrections and even scribbled marginalia. "What does this say?" he asked, pointing to a line in the lower corner of the last page.

Sherlock peered at it, then read with what sounded to John like an impeccable Italian accent. "Se questo non piace non voglio più scrivere di musica."

"Do you know what it means?"

"'It says-'" Abigail began, but Sherlock interrupted.

"'If this won't do I will write no more music,'" he said.

John looked puzzled.

"Writing for a diva?" Sherlock suggested.

"That's what Arturo told me," Abigail agreed.

Sherlock cleared his throat, clasped his hands behind his back, and faced Abigail squarely. "Mrs. Soranzo," he said firmly. "You hired me to find the cause of two red lights and a ghost. The cause was a pair of torches and a fancy projector. I suspected as much before we left this flat and in any event I took your case pro bono. You are now proposing that I accept something with a value out of all proportion to the worth of my initial deduction and even to the fun of solving an unexpected murder."

She smiled warmly at him. "I'm not proposing it, Mr. Holmes. I'm insisting on it. I'm afraid my giving it to you is what they call a 'done deal.'"

"Just say 'thank you,'" John said.

Sherlock solemnly extended his hand to her. "Thank you, Mrs. Soranzo," he said as they shook, and this time the sound of his voice didn't annoy him.

"You're very welcome. Now," she added, turning to John, "this is just for you." She fished in her handbag and produced a CD, which she passed to him. "It's all twelve violin concerti of La Cetra," she said. "So you don't have to wait until an orchestra puts on a live performance. Besides, I imagine Mr. Holmes avoids concert halls." She glanced at her watch. "Ooh, I've got to be off. I've got an appointment with Dr. Kickham in an hour on the other side of town. If I don't leave now I'll be late."

John stared at her with a sinking feeling and the pleasure he'd been taking in her visit evaporated. "Brian Kickham?"

"Oh, yes. Sorry, didn't you know? But then, I guess I just thought you would have heard: He carried right on with his plans to open a new practice, even after everything that happened at Wellspring. He still has to testify against Terence and Felicity and that big doctors' group won't let him practice allopathic medicine any more, but I just think it's so courageous of him to put it all behind him the way he has. This will be my first appointment with him since I was discharged from Buckland." Big smile. "I'll tell him you said 'hello,' shall I?"

"Abigail," John said, "you haven't mentioned anything to him about the SBE, have you?"

"Well, of course," she said brightly. "How else would he know what to prescribe from the materia medica? Don't worry, though, Dr. Watson. I'll keep taking the antibiotics. My son and daughter will see to that." She gripped his unresisting hand and shook it. "Thank you again. Both of you."

She turned and trotted down the stairs. The front door opened and closed and still John stood there, staring after her. Sherlock finally broke the silence.

"Have you noticed how often that woman would die if it weren't for other people? It's no wonder her husband pre-deceased her. It must have been an inexpressible relief to him."

John was too dispirited to object to the sentiment. He went to his armchair and sat down, feeling defeated.

Sherlock eyed him briefly, then strode into the kitchen and opened the drawer where the biscuits were kept, although he clearly recalled eating the last one yesterday and in fact could see the discarded wrapper in the bin. "We're out of ginger nuts," he announced, looking down at the empty drawer. No answer.

"John."

"What?"

"I said we're out of biscuits."

"So?" John said. "Put it on the list. I'm going to the market Thursday."

"A good husband would go now," Sherlock informed him.

"A better one would stop his pie hole." John carried on sulking at the fireplace.

Right, then: Plan B. Sherlock wandered back into the living room and admired the manuscript. Turned few pages, then looked up. "Well?"

John eyed him. "Well, what?"

"You really didn't notice? That I let her go without giving her the benefit of my opinion of her? When did you get so self-centered? I'd like a bit of credit, you know."

"You want me to to give you credit for not calling her an idiot after she gifted you with a priceless piece of music."

"That's what I was going for, yes."

John just sighed and rubbed his forehead.

"You know, John," Sherlock said sagely, "people almost never thank you for undeceiving them."

"Voice of experience?"

"Of course. But it's also elementary human nature. No one likes being wrong."

"That a rainbow ruse?"

"Why, do you think you were wrong about something?"

"I didn't tell her I suspected SBE because I had an agenda about real medicine, you know. She was sick. She would have died. I couldn't stand there and let it happen without trying to do something about it."

"But?"

"But I thought, you know: If she did change her mind about real medicine, then so much the better."

"Hm. Yes, all very interesting, but I was talking about me."

John turned to look at him. "What, then?"

Now that he had John's attention, Sherlock was somewhat less self-assured than he'd been about trying to get it in the first place. "I thought she was terminal, the first time she came to the flat," he admitted.

"You were wrong and you don't like that."

"Correct."

"Well, I'd say you were singularly unobservant, but if it makes you feel any better that was my first impression, too."

"What's SBE?"

"Subacute bacterial endocarditis. Inflammation of the endocardium-the inner lining of the heart. It's usually caused by a form of streptococci bacteria; they're pretty much universally present in the mouth and throat."

"How did you know?"

"From spending a bit more time with her, close-to. At dinner. And then when she and her friends came to the maintenance shed to help out. I can see why she didn't get a diagnosis when she first presented-besides the fact that she left as soon as they said lung cancer was on the list of possibilities, I mean. SBE has a lot of symptoms in common with a million other pathologies. But while we were walking after dinner Wednesday I noticed her fingers, and I remembered that when you first saw her you said she'd had dental work done. That's a really common way for the bacteria to get from the mouth to the bloodstream to the heart. Then there was the cough, the night sweats, pain in her spleen, the weight loss...Add it all up and you've got a pretty good case for suspecting SBE."

"What about her fingers?"

"Oh. She had little red spots under the skin there. Uh, Osler's nodes, they're called. I imagine she developed them pretty recently, after she had that first appointment, or her doctor would have noticed."

Sherlock considered him thoughtfully. "Why didn't you say something?"

"Seriously?"

"What?"

"Why didn't I say something? The guy who never says anything is asking me that?"

Busted. "So she's not dying."

"Not any more."

"Hm," Sherlock said, signaling an end to his interest in the subject. He plucked the violin from the music stand and held it like a ukelele. "Do you know La Cetra?" he asked. "That's rhetorical, by the way."

"Why is it rhetorical?"

"Do you know it?"

"Not actually, no."

"You'll like it."

"Can you play it from that manuscript?"

"I could. Don't need it, though." He reached for the bow, held the violin properly, and rapidly played a scale starting with G3, the lowest note of which the instrument was capable, and vanishing at the high end of the range audible to bats. Lowered the violin again. "She mentioned an installment plan-"

"Shut up," John said affectionately, "and play."