Forget Me Not - Epilogue

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It took a decent amount of explaining to convince the police why Sherlock had a bullet hole in his foot. As the protocol was, two officers were alerted to the hospital like every time a gunshot victim was brought in, and once they started questioning Sherlock wad had happened, it turned out that placing the blame wasn't as easy as one might have thought. At first they assumed it had been John who had pulled the trigger and thought the incident to be a case of domestic violence and that Sherlock was merely trying to protect John out of fear; it was only when Sherlock called Lestrade and asked him to tell the eager officers that John did not, indeed, abuse him, that they bought his story of shooting himself. They left feeling rather embarrassed with themselves - something that wasn't exactly helped by the uncontrollable burst of laughter that escaped both John and Sherlock as the door closed behind the officers' backs.

Sherlock had shot himself neatly in a place where the damage wouldn't most likely be permanent; of course the wound would take some time to heal, and he would be limping for quite a while, but somehow that didn't really seem to matter. John, as absurd as he found Sherlock's behaviour to be, couldn't argue that it hadn't worked; and even if he tried to scold him for being so irresponsible, seeing Sherlock moving his legs made it quite difficult for him to keep a straight, stern face. Naturally Sherlock would have some physiotherapy ahead in addition to the recovery of the gunshot wound, and he wouldn't be jumping rooftops for a while, but the doctors said that they saw no reason why his recovery wouldn't be complete with time.

So all was well in the world, or at least better than it had been for a really long time; and at times John couldn't help feeling that it was just a dream. What if he was just sleeping, what if in the real world Sherlock had died in the Reichenbach warehouse fire and any moment now John would wake up? But then looked at Sherlock, or reached out to touch him, and he figured that if it was a dream he could just as well enjoy it while it lasted.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was of course relieved over the return of the mobility of his legs. He would never tell John how close he had came to killing himself during that long afternoon, after Irene had left and provided him with the means for it - John didn't need to know that he had had the barrel of the gun in his mouth and his finger on the trigger; that he had sat like that in the dimming light of the setting sun much longer than he now cared to think, every muscle in his body tense except for the one that would have ended his life.

During that afternoon Sherlock had thought about his life, how it had been and how it would be if he would never walk again. He had thought about what would happen if he would die, how it would affect John and Mrs. Hudson; and he had thought what, if any, reasons he might have to continue a life that was only halfhearted, a one he thought to be impossible to live to the fullest. Sherlock knew that Moriarty was still around, and he had wondered if it would be giving up if he would kill himself now, letting Moriarty win; but to his surprise he hadn't really cared about that. Sherlock wasn't the type of man who would have felt he owed something to the world; he felt no responsibility in terms of fighting the good fight. It merely satisfied him - well, more than that, it fulfilled a need in him; but he had never felt obliged towards solving mysteries, and Sherlock knew that in some other dimension he could have just as well been on the other side of the line. So as much as he wanted to beat Moriarty and rid the world of him, it simply wasn't enough of a reason; he would have to find another one or pull the trigger.

For a few seconds the latter option had seemed obvious; but something had still stopped him from making the final move. It wasn't that he would have been afraid to die, but on that moment, coming face to face with the decisive second and not having a single valid reason not to pull the trigger, Sherlock had realized very clearly and very decisively that he simply didn't want to die. There was no specific reason and there were a million reasons; there was this flat, there were all the crimes to be solved, there was London, there was the skull on the mantelpiece and that stranger walking their dog on the street; and of course there was John.

As Sherlock had slowly pulled the gun out from his mouth and put it back to the table next to him, he had realized that probably for the first time in his adult life he felt he had something that mattered; something that remained even if everything else would fall. He had something he could lean on, trust on, give his life for; something that would hold him together in a way nothing else ever had. Sherlock had realized that for the first time ever he was content, at least as much as he ever could be; and he couldn't let that go to waste by taking his own life.

So maybe he wouldn't walk again; at least he was alive. At least he had all this, and it was more than he ever thought he could have.

At least he wanted to live.

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Later, when Sherlock was discharged from the hospital - again - and they were back at Baker Street, John found him to be considerably more cooperative a patient than the first time around. Sherlock didn't complain when he had to have John to help him up the stairs - even if he was walking, he wasn't completely recovered yet. On the contrary, Sherlock seemed to be happy to accept his help. John figured it to be a passing phase caused by the relief brought about the start of his recovery, but something seemed to be a bit different in Sherlock as a whole. As days passed, the change, whatever it was, didn't; there was definitely something in Sherlock that had altered.

In most ways the consulting detective was as before - he was still easily irritated, impatient, lacked social skills and insisted on the last word - in fact, nobody else probably saw any change in him. But there were times when John caught a glimpse at him when Sherlock didn't see him looking; and that subtle difference, visible only to the eyes of the man who loved him, was that there was a sense of calm in his demeanor. Like a spring inside Sherlock would have been loosened, just a little bit - just enough for his shoulders to relax or the frown between his eyes to soften. John saw it, and it made him smile.

On one evening, about two weeks after the incident with the gun, as they were lying naked on the floor of the living room after what can only be categorized as damn good shag, John asked him the question which had been circling in his mind for a good while.

"Why didn't you?" John was lying on his back as was Sherlock, their still somewhat sweaty bodies side to side, touching each other in the most pleasant way.

Sherlock yawned. "Why didn't I what?"

John lifted his upper body and, leaning on his elbow, turned his face to his lover. "Shoot yourself."

Sherlock lifted his eyebrow in an exaggerated manner. "Would you have preferred me to?"

John sneered. "Don't be a twat. I'm interested, what kept you from blowing your brains off?"

Sherlock was about to say something but then closed his mouth with a snap. It was probably the first time John had ever seen that to happen, Sherlock hesitating to say something. He stayed silent for a while, first looking at John hovering above him and then turning his eyes to the ceiling.

After a while he looked back at John, the expression on his face impossible to read. "Would you mind if I rather not say?" Sherlock's voice was almost gentle.

John looked surprised; this was very unlike of Sherlock. "Oh, well, sure." He lay back down. "I was just interested." He tried not to sound taken aback; and he almost succeeded in it.

Almost.

Sherlock's face appeared in John's field of vision as he in turn lifted his upper body from the floor. "John, it's not like that." His pale, clear eyes looked serious as they observed John´s face from a close distance.

John stared at him for a while, trying to figure out how it was, then. Soon he found that to be quite impossible a task to accomplish, so he just slightly shrugged his shoulders. "OK." If Sherlock didn't want to say, fine.

With the grace and speed of a cat Sherlock maneuvered his naked, warm body on top of John's and pinned his head between his hands. His face very close to John's and his eyes fixed into his he said, "You know why I didn't. But I can't say it, it becomes real. And real things can break." His voice was quiet and deep; John felt his breath on his skin when he spoke.

John didn't resist his hold on him; merely lay under Sherlock's weight, never letting his eyes leave Sherlock's. John studied his eyes, the expression on his face; felt his skin against his own and his steady heartbeat resonating with his own pulse. And wasn't it so, wasn't it right what Sherlock said? Hadn't he himself been afraid that it was all just a dream and that it might be taken away any second? What he saw on the face of the man holding him was what he knew to be true in himself as well; but he didn't dare to have the words for it either. When you give something a name it becomes that, when you give a definition; and what is once defined cannot remain pure because it is always compared to what it was.

And what did it matter really, the reason for Sherlock not to take his own life or John to see the new ease in him; what difference did it make if it all was indeed a dream?

It didn't matter; it wouldn't have changed anything. Because everything was as it needed to be; and that was something neither one of them would forget.

-FIN-

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Thank you all who stayed with me throughout the story, I would love to hear your thoughts on it.