I am honestly sorry for the ridiculously long wait, but I have been... well, distracted, probably.

Now, finally, here's the final part for you.

Just a bit of crack.

The Curious Incident of the Detective on the Stairs

Epilogue

The Case of the Consultant and the Black Eye

John had finally allowed him to go to a crime scene again - after he had missed two interesting cases of murder and two less fascinating private ones while being cooped up in bed. In his own bed, thankfully, after one more night in hospital. Concussion monitoring, John had informed him. His bed had felt a lot more comfortable, but still… it was a bed, meant for resting. Doctor's orders, John had told him in his soldierly voice, and after Sherlock's first journey to the toilet on his own, causing him to crash against the tub and receive a second plaster to the chin, he was inclined to listen to John. Had been inclined, in fact, at least for a while.

The time of utter boredom he had survived partly in his bed, partly on the sofa, was disrupted by questions from John and Lestrade, determined to find out who was responsible, had pressed him about how the men had looked, about what he had deduced about them, about what he remembered. Not much, in fact, everything was… strangely and inconveniently blurry and hazy, but in the end - surprisingly enough - Lestrade managed to catch two of them - while house-breaking in the area the third one lived, the area Sherlock had deduced - and remembered. John was relieved, Sherlock could tell by the way his tea tasted less strong, and Sherlock simply had returned to being bored.

And now a case. Murder, apparently, but no definite cause of death nor any hint on a murder weapon. Interesting.

Interesting enough to cope with Lestrade and John's looks, directed at him. As if they assumed he was going to faint and die any moment. As if he was made of glass.

Sherlock did his best to ignore them, but it was difficult to examine a corpse for more than a minute if John asked him every thirty seconds if he was alright, if he was feeling dizzy, if… Sherlock decided to stop listening after the second question.

Lestrade wasn't any better, wanting to know if he really 'felt up to it', if he was 'fit' enough to work yet again.

Up to. Fit. Disgusting.

Sherlock didn't bother with a reply, instead simply asked for the details and for what Lestrade's team - still imbeciles, really - had disturbed already, making it impossible to deduce anything from parts of the evidence now.

"Oi, the freak," a voice startled him while he was bending down over the dead woman's body. "Haven't been around here for a while. Been busy otherwhere, haven't you?"

"Sally," he addressed her, without looking up. "John!" he then called out loud. First, John was fussing over him like a mother-hen, and when there was work to do for the former army doctor, he was nowhere to be seen. "John!" he shouted again, lifting his gaze from the corpse.

He heard Sally hiss. "Oh, freak, got a black eye? What happened to you, then? Somebody came and simply punched you for one of your 'deductions'?"

John was approaching, unfortunately with Anderson in tow. "Ah, our favourite psychopath again," Anderson greeted him.

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "Anderson, if your insults are limited on repeating the same expressions over and over, I suggest you give up on them anyway and rather think about how to persuade your wife not to move out."

"Sherlock, you okay?" John asked him as soon as he had finished.

This time, Sherlock frowned. "OK? What? Yeah. The corpse, John. Find any track marks on her?"

John kneeled down beside the dead woman.

"Your black eye," Anderson addressed Sherlock again. "Plus the fact that you haven't been around for blessed and quiet two weeks… both facts suggest that you've been busy, haven't you?"

Sherlock barely bit back a grin. "Oh, deducing now, Anderson, are we? Very well. Go on. I am very keen on hearing what you have to say."

Anderson smiled triumphantly. "Two weeks, freak, and now the doctor here's asking you if you're OK. Bit odd question, I think. So… what have you been up to?"

For one moment, Sherlock absolutely did not know what to say, did not know, for a second, without John, if Anderson was being sarcastic or serious.

Serious, obviously, he decided as soon as the man went on: "I bet you're no longer just 'colleagues', but… more. I'd say you've spent the past two weeks… in bed-" - Sherlock was about to nod, just to mock Anderson, but the thought of John's exasperated face crossed his mind - "shag… intercoursing, and I've won a bet. And the black eye… went a little too wild, didn't you?"

On the floor, John burst out laughing. "Brilliant," he muttered once he had caught his breath. "Brilliant, Anderson, really, I'm fascinated."

For another second, Sherlock was utterly bewildered. John, laughing? About Anderson? His thinking might still be more incapacitated than he had assumed, he decided, if he could not foresee John's reaction. But then, John Watson tended to surprise him.

"Truly," he replied dryly, pocketing his looking glass. "I see, Anderson, you have mastered the Science of Deduction. So, it's up to you to solve this case. There you go. Come on, John."

Lestrade shot him a confused look when he pulled his gloves off. "Leaving already?" he wanted to know before his expression turned serious. "It was too early, wasn't it? Oh god, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called you…"

"I'm fine," Sherlock interrupted him quickly. "It's…"

"It's Anderson," John went on, still grinning. "I'm afraid he might suffer from a bout of hubris. Tried to deduce Sherlock and his black eye."

Lestrade's expression remained perplexed for a second. "Really?" he then wanted to know.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, we're just telling you to make your day more joyful. Of course he tried to. Need to examine something in the lab. I'll call you once I've got news."

Naturally, Sherlock did not miss the glance John and Lestrade were exchanging. "Come on, John," he called, walking away swiftly. Track marks…

"Shagging," John repeated as soon as he had caught up with Sherlock. "Jesus. What does he think we're doing at home?"

"I don't know," Sherlock muttered darkly, entirely focused on the case now. "Maybe that's what he and Sally are doing usually."

John burst into another fit of hysterical giggle. "Oh, that's brilliant," he mumbled, still chuckling. "Too hilarious." Seconds later, he grew serious again. "Although… if you ever do something like you did two weeks ago, I might have to punch you," he explained.

Smiling slightly, Sherlock accelerated his pace. "Wouldn't dare to think about it. It inhibits my abilities of deduction. Though… I'm still better than Anderson, I hope?"

John giggled again. "Oh yes, you are. You definitely are."

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the final part (took me a while until I was at least half-pleased, so...)

Let me please know, one final time, what you think.

Oh, and I'm sorry for being a bit rude to Anderson. Really. He just... served my purposes.